Chapter 741: Rain in Gotham Tonight (Part 1) (Patreon)

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The cold rain of Gotham's nights always makes this modern metropolis seem on the verge of collapse, with every night here teetering in the storm.

In the lush steel jungle, pairs of eyes remind one of the ferocious beasts in the rainforest, with guns as their sharp fangs, and ambition as their Talon.

In the dark alley, the arc of the distant headlights gropes forward along the moist walls. The massive headlights of the truck blaze like fire, like ghostly eyes, forcing the owner of the repair shop to shield his eyes with his arm.

"Damn it! Is that Vincent, the pauper?" The skinny and greasy repair shop owner, covered in engine oil, throws down his wrench and stands up, cursing a string of obscenities. He shouts, "Those paupers should just die in the sewer, not come begging here, a bunch of dirty, disgusting bugs!"

But when the Truck approaches, the repair shop owner squints his eyes. He sees a pale face in the driver's seat, with bright red lips split into a terrifying smile.

The repair shop owner quickly steps back, panicking, and runs inside.

The wrench he just dropped trips him, making him fall flat on his face. Even on the ground, he scrambles away from the door as if chased by evil spirits.

"Joker Truck! The legend is true!!!" The repair shop owner screams: "There really is a Joker killer driving a Truck!!!"

"No... No!!! Don’t kill me, I haven’t wronged you, I have no enemies, I have a wife and children, no!! Don’t do this!!"

"Beep, beep, beep..."

A regular beeping sound is heard as the repair shop owner scrambles towards the back door in terror. But just as he nears the door, the entire repair shop explodes.

Everything living inside the shop couldn't withstand the impact of the massive explosion and is instantly turned to ash.

The fire engulfs half the street, burning more fiercely in the rainy night. Nature’s force is no match for human destructive desires. Such an absurd sight only appears in this dark City.

Fire dances in Batman's eyes, illuminating his dark combat suit.

His mask and cape take on two distinctly different colors; the light part isn't light enough because he arrived too late, unable to save anyone from this violent explosion. But the dark part isn't dark enough because behind him are the lights of thousands of homes in Gotham.

Batman jumps down, pursuing the perpetrator of this heinous crime, the urban legend of a Joker killer.

As his cape passes the windows of buildings, shadows cover Copperpot's face, then disappear quickly.

Watching the chaos across the street, Copperpot, expressionless, lowers his head, holding a bottle of medicine. After opening it, he takes out a pill and swallows it.

"Do we not need to do something, boss?" A slightly older but still youthful-looking postman, standing not far from Copperpot, asks. His attire suggests he's a mail carrier.

Copperpot doesn't answer. He looks at his hand that opened the bottle.

The hand is slender, skin stretched tight over bone, yet when clenched, it exhibits a sense of strength.

"Do you know? About a year ago, I couldn't even open this bottle cap. I often felt weak and powerless. It’s not surprising, given that I rarely ate hot meals or enough food."

Copperpot chuckles dryly, his countenance gloomy, making his laughter somewhat eerie.

But his subordinate is used to this. He says, "Yes, me too. Who wouldn't be thin if they didn't have enough to eat?"

"No... it's a joke. You should laugh... Because a year ago, I couldn’t have afforded this Bottle. The price of this medicine is enough to feed me well for a month."

Perhaps sharing the common sense of humor of Gotham's youth, the young postman actually laughs, saying, "Right, I almost forgot. How could Gotham's children afford such medicine? Mental illness? We only get mentally ill because we're too poor!"

"So, now you have too much money, and that’s why you have this unnecessary sympathy?" Copperpot slightly turns his head, looking out the window at the still-burning street.

In the firelight, a dark figure is trying to extinguish the fire.

Batman’s cape catches fire, and he has to roll on the ground to put it out. The charred wood and ashes on the ground stick to his expensive armor, dulling its luxurious sheen.

"If you were as rich as Wayne, you could be as sympathetic as him. But the question is, will we ever be richer than him?" Copperpot says, watching Batman's figure: "The money he spends on repairing his suit could feed all the children in the city."

"That's why many in this City dislike Batman. They think he has too much. If they had as much as him, they would do more," Copperpot says, pressing his finger against the window glass.

The firelight warms his pale finger, but it can't bring him warmth, for the fire is too far away, and the light here has no heat.

"But in reality, they wouldn't do that. If they had what Wayne has, they would be even more rotten. That's why this City doesn't need saving."

"I think I have enough now," the young postman sighs. "So it doesn’t matter whether he’s here or not."

"Don’t you want to be as rich as Wayne?" Copperpot asks.

"Of course, everyone does. But we all know it's impossible. However, if I were as rich as him, I wouldn’t donate money to others. I’d keep all the money for myself, not giving a cent to anyone else."

"Yes, we all think that way," Copperpot replies, then looks again at Batman: "But this billionaire thinks we are the selfish bad guys, and he is the good one."

"Don't joke!" The young postman sneers: "Forget being as rich as Wayne, even if I had a hundred dollars now, I would hide it where no one could find it, for my use only. No one would take it from me!"

"Have you ever had a hundred dollars?" Copperpot asks.

"Of course not." The young postman rolls his eyes: "I have two younger brothers and a sister. They would eat everything in sight. I make enough money, but it's all consumed by them. I don’t even have ten cents on me now."

"I'll teach you a way to make a hundred dollars quickly. Do you want to try?" Copperpot asks again.

"Of course! Boss, tell me. I’ve always known, following your advice will make money. You're the smartest among us!" The young postman says eagerly.

"Now, go down there and get some black ash from the pile of burned wood. Smear it on your face and body, then sit there crying. Soon, you'll see money floating towards you. That rich person won’t be stingy with such a small amount of money," Copperpot said with a cold laugh.

But suddenly, the young postman hesitated. He stood still, twisting and turning for dozens of seconds without moving. Copperpot turned his head to look at him and asked, "Why aren't you going?"

"I don’t want to beg," the postman's face showed a trace of fear. "Only those born with disabilities or those too young go for such work. It's terrifying."

"But I’ve dealt with those 'parents' who abused the children. What are you still afraid of?" Copperpot asked.

"No, it’s not about that," the young postman shook his head. "Unless there’s absolutely no other way, children in Gotham don’t want to beg."

"Once you kneel down and ask others for money, they'll understand that you're a ripe and juicy drumstick."

"They'll know you're desperate. Anything they do, you can't resist. Just kneeling by the roadside asking for money is like telling everyone 'I'm easy to bully.'"

"That will drag you into hell," the postman's voice began to tremble. He swallowed and continued, "I’ve seen… seen them being… I can't do that. Nobody wants that. Anyone in Gotham showing weakness will be devoured by the devil."

"When we’re strong, we are part of the devil, beating up the weaker kids in the postman gang, even making them 'eat lead.' But we all know, once we become weak, we'll be the ones getting beaten. So, we must make ourselves fierce. Once you kneel to anyone, you're done for."

The postman swallowed again, somewhat hesitant, but Copperpot said, "What do you want to say? Tell me."

The postman, looking somewhat fearful despite being taller than Copperpot, lowered his head and muttered, "Actually, when you got rid of those who exploited the begging kids, their parents, we all knew they were probably finished."

"Those parents, not only did they bully and abuse them, but they were also protecting them. For the sake of the parents, others wouldn’t go too far, at least not killing them. But without the leaders, even if they don’t get killed, they’ll starve to death."

"Where are they now?" Copperpot asked.

"I don't know. They're too young to hang out with us," the young postman said, glancing at Copperpot with some fear. "But they should be alive; I haven’t seen their corpses in garbage trucks or trucks heading out of the city."

"Your ignorance doesn’t matter; I know."

Copperpot finally turned his head to look across the street, where the fire was almost extinguished. Batman's expensive gear was indeed powerful, but at that moment, it was worn and hardly recognizable.

Copperpot left the building, entering a dark underground passage through a side door of the underground parking lot. The postman shivered a bit as they passed through the pitch-black tunnel. He wasn’t afraid of people, but he was afraid of ghosts.

After passing through the tunnel, they arrived at another underground parking lot and exited through a narrow, dark alley, eventually descending into a cellar and winding their way to an abandoned basement.

"Looks like Old Robert's bar, right? Is this the bar's cellar?" the postman, with a good sense of direction due to his job, asked.

"Correct, it's here. Do you smell the alcohol?" Copperpot looked up at the ceiling, where some rainwater was seeping through. "Old man stopped using it because of the leak."

As soon as they opened the basement door, the young postman saw many children much younger than him.

Most of them were only about six or seven years old, all thin and small, with rough, dark skin from being exposed to the elements and malnourished.

At that moment, they were gobbling up large pieces of bread. Despite eating hurriedly, there was a semblance of order. A black man in a red jacket, about the same age as Copperpot, stood at the front distributing the bread.

"Oh, Copperpot, you're here. The bread's all gone for today. Want a piece?" the black man came over and smiled.

Copperpot shook his head and looked up at him, "Red Truck? Why are you here? Where’s Tire?"

"He’s helping his mom with work, so I'm here today," Red Truck said, then turned to look back at the children.

All of them were engrossed in eating, the room filled only with the sound of their ravenous consumption. These children barely made any noise, perhaps lacking even the energy to speak loudly.

Years of hunger had left many of these children severely malnourished, with scars from abuse visible on some. Others were even disabled, missing fingers and toes, and some had difficulty walking.

"Alright, finished eating? Someone will come to give you medical attention soon. Sit tight, now I'll give you names to avoid confusion for the doctor later..."

"Those with names, go to that side. Those without, line up here. Remember the pronunciation I tell you. Later, if anyone can’t say their name, they won’t get bread next time."

After Red Truck finished speaking, all the children silently divided into two lines, quietly and obediently following instructions.

After a while, the basement door clanged twice, causing many children to start trembling.

The first thing to enter was a black umbrella. The tip of the umbrella pushed open the door, rainwater flowing from its tip onto the door, then silently dripping to the ground.

Black shoes stepped on the damp cement floor, making a "tap tap" sound. Just as all the children’s hearts were in their throats, a Professor in a black suit appeared at the door.

He cleared his throat, about to speak, then suddenly turned his head and asked someone behind him, "Why do you smell of burning? What did you just do, Batman?"

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Next Chapter>>Chapter 742: Rain in Gotham Tonight (Part 2)