Chapter 6241: Chicago Memories (11)

A prominent feature of the University of Chicago’s architecture is the abundance of plants clinging to its walls, primarily climbing vines. During the summer, these plants weave a thick green tapestry, a sight that is quite refreshing. However, come autumn and winter, they wither away, sticking to the walls, resembling ghostly claws extending from the shadows. The dormitory walls of the Brotherhood are adorned with many such vines, so despite the bright and lively decoration at the entrance, it still looks eerie from afar.

Bruce didn’t walk over immediately; instead, he stood in the shadow of the opposite building, observing the bustling scene at the entrance. Everyone was exchanging pleasantries in small groups, and he quickly spotted a familiar figure in the crowd—Eric. He had changed into a suit, looking more appropriate than before, but still stood behind someone, constantly wearing a smile.

Bruce walked out, maintaining his disguise as a small-town boy and started by greeting people on the periphery. His eyes shone brightly in dim light, the blue resembling the surface of Lake Michigan under a clear sky, calm yet remarkably vivid.

Thanks to his handsome appearance, those who didn’t know him were generally friendly towards him. However, Bruce sharply noticed several gazes fixed on him, some from the surrounding crowd, others from the windows above. He was particularly sensitive to this kind of attention, one that wasn’t appreciative but carried an aggressive and invasive meaning.

Bruce remained composed as he exchanged pleasantries with others. American chitchat follows a fixed process: it must start with “Wow,” followed by the person’s name, and then an exclamatory phrase like “What brings you here?” to express your surprise at seeing them. Then, put on a standard, enthusiastic American smile, point out a detail about the person, and say, “By the way, your xxx is surprisingly good today.”

Responding to this kind of chitchat also follows a fixed process; it must start with “Oh,” pretend to be surprised by the compliment, glance at the complimented part, and immediately redirect the conversation to compliment the other person on something—for instance, “You too, your xxx is the best I’ve seen.” Finally, end with a false smile.

This process can be used with anyone; the actual content is not important. The key is to exude enthusiasm throughout, wearing a false smile—not a restrained smile—one that shows your teeth, with exaggerated gestures and expressions, so people feel you fit in.

Bruce truly couldn’t smile as perfectly as Clark, who looked like he was straight out of a toothpaste commercial. Even when he was genuinely happy, managing just a slight crack in his lips was the best he could do, which already made him like a world-class gentleman among the Batman crowd. If Battleworld was reluctant to categorize him with the Joker, it must be because his smile wasn’t radiant enough.

Bruce was already feeling agitated, and seeing all the floating white teeth around him stirred unpleasant memories. Just as he was trying to find an excuse to check the venue decorations or lend a hand, escaping this dull social scene, he suddenly felt someone put their arm around his shoulder.

Bruce’s elbow almost reflexively struck Eric’s ribs; he gritted his teeth to resist, but then a more annoying voice reached his ears.

“Isn’t this our Wayne baby? I heard Dali went to your dorm; did he spend the night there? Did you entertain him warmly?”

Bruce’s stiff elbow suddenly relaxed; he wasn’t even angry. Sadness surged before anger. He understood Eric’s reason too well—Eric needed a sacrificial offering.

Eric embarrassed himself during the interview but desperately wanted to join the group. The best way was to be a sycophant, entertaining wealthier and more powerful people by tormenting others and being a villain.

Moreover, he likely resented Bruce because Bruce passed the selection while he didn’t. He might feel Bruce stole his thunder, so he targeted Bruce as his victim.

Bruce didn’t even bother to speak. Not being Batman didn’t mean he lacked the essence of Batman in his bones. After all, for most Batmen, Bruce Wayne is the mask, while Batman is their inherent character trait, and Bruce is no exception. He had to admit he was never a sunny, cheerful person, even if he seemed livelier than other Batmen. It didn’t change the fact that he was inherently contemplative and deeply empathetic.

He began contemplating the structural oppression of society, the human weaknesses hidden beneath obscene unity, his thoughts not even focusing a bit on the current happenings. To others, he appeared frozen due to embarrassment.

“See, I wasn’t wrong, haha.” Eric laughed, still holding his shoulder, “He’s probably just shy; after all, his old home is full of those rednecks shouting ‘Christ the Savior,’ and we’re showing him the right path, or else he would deal with smelly mud all his life.”

Bruce heard bits and pieces, and luckily, he didn’t hear it all; otherwise, his portrayal of “Clark Kent” might have jumped up and hit them with a punch.

“Dali is already dead.” A voice came from outside the crowd. Bruce suddenly snapped alert, turned his head, and saw a black-haired young man being celebrated by the crowd and walking out. He spoke in a teasing tone, “If he were alive, I’d make sure he writes a will, and all his inheritance would be mine.”

As he finished, he directly reached out to grab Bruce, who stepped back to avoid his touch. The person didn’t get angry and said, “Brian Patsey, you’re Bruce Wayne, right?”

What caught Bruce’s attention was that the person also had black hair and blue eyes, with a physique similar to his own. Was this guy Dali’s master? The one truly seeking a scapegoat?

Bruce took a deep breath, first containing all his emotions. He shook hands with Brian and said, “Yes, I am Wayne. When does the party start?”

“No rush.” Brian smiled, “You’re still on your probation period, right? They need someone to blow up balloons over there, go and help out, you’re surely good at that.”

After speaking, he turned around and walked away, and everyone around looked at Bruce with a knowing smile. Bruce couldn’t help but recall Stark telling him about the Brotherhood’s past history while eating lunch.

Actually, the full name of the Brotherhood or the origin of such organizations is Greece. In Ancient Greece, men would form various groups, usually called living societies or reading societies, which were considered one of the earliest forms of association. Western culture is deeply influenced by Ancient Greek culture, so these organizations have been preserved until today.

The Greek living society was not just for exchanging knowledge. The seniors in the organization would play the role of father, teaching young boys various life skills, imparting life experiences, introducing them to upper social circles, and often becoming those boys’ lovers.

So it’s conceivable, the various Western associations that evolved from these organizations, what kind of absurd things might happen. In the Western world, this is considered an ancestral law, especially apparent in the Brotherhood.

Many American university Brotherhoods have similar scandals, especially those embracing white supremacy, led by elites and even the upper class, who take pride rather than shame. Many truly believe that not participating in such gatherings means being a bumpkin, and only by joining them in chaos can one be considered civilized.

Bruce’s Batman brain never veered in this direction, regardless of the hidden humiliation in the other’s words—it couldn’t pierce through the philosophical torrent. The vast and endless sympathy roared past, the beastly desires like river sand, buried in an instant.

Bruce walked to the table with balloons and found some girls there, though the two women he met during the day were absent, perhaps already aware of the danger and had avoided it early.

The girls were fairly friendly to him and found him a pump. Bruce glanced at the peculiar-looking set of glasses next to him: a large glass nested into a medium one, and the medium into a small one, the glasses able to hook onto each other and flip over.

“This will be used for games later.” A girl with slightly tanned skin picked up a glass and tapped it, saying, “This layer is for champagne, this one is whiskey, and this one is vodka…”

Alright, alright, you might as well stack eighteen layers for the occasion. Bruce could barely hold back his urge to comment, thinking even Madam Curie wouldn’t need so many layers to distill radium, you’re pouring alcohol into these without fear the coffin will glow.

“What’s that?” Bruce pointed his chin at a nearby roulette, seemingly with words on it, though long exposure to the sun made the text barely readable. The girl immediately smiled: “Drinking needs a bit of excitement to be interesting. Later we’ll play with the roulette; whatever it lands on, you must do, or you’ll drink if you fail.”

Bruce could imagine the kind of unsavory words written on that roulette. He glanced over to find a set of amusement park costumes—a pink rabbit. “What’s this for?” he asked.

“That’s for the party baby to wear.” The girl shrugged, “We’ll vote for the party baby tonight; they must wear the costume to liven up the atmosphere, popping champagne, pouring drinks, spinning the roulette—that’s all their job.”

“Why must they wear this?” Bruce was puzzled; the costume seemed old-fashioned, with the headpiece separate from the body, likely heavy.

The girl snorted, “You think the party baby is really a baby? You know ancient kings would invite the Joker to the court for entertainment, right?”

Bruce rolled his eyes, knowing these people hold one banquet a year and of course, they’d pull all the humiliating tricks, else how could they drive several people mad each year?

“Alright, just wander around.” Another girl said, “I guess you don’t need to wear that costume, don’t be too interested in it.”

Bruce didn’t refuse, put down the pump, and headed toward the reception room. But before he reached the door, someone blocked his path.

“You can’t enter here.” the person said, “The items inside are invaluable; if you break them, selling you wouldn’t cover it, so move along.”

Great, Bruce thought to himself, time to release a new DLC for his game, using the Brotherhood dorm as a map, littered with NPCs cracking lewd jokes and merciless roadblocks, while the player spends the night blowing balloons.