Chapter 817: Red Hood (Part Eleven) (Patreon)

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The relentless downpour showed no signs of abating as the truck raced through the inky darkness of the rainy night, moving like a thunderbolt.

"Where are you going?!" Jason asked anxiously.

"I'll get you out of here! Find a safe place!" Bruce shouted, spinning the steering wheel.

"Stop!" Jason yelled at the top of his lungs. The rain outside grew louder, and they had to exert all their strength and shout to hear each other over the torrential downpour.

"You're getting us killed, you're going to get all of us killed!" Jason's voice trembled incessantly as he continued, "You and I can break free from these rules anytime; we can leave. But these children can't!"

"Bruce, please, stop!" Jason's hand gripped the backrest tightly, and Bruce wasn't sure if he detected a hint of tears in Jason's tone, but there was no doubt that Jason was incredibly fragile right now.

"I should never have fixed this truck," Bruce's voice oozed with deep guilt. He said, "It's going to get us all killed."

"We should never have had this truck, and we should definitely not have let it run on the roads of Gotham when everyone was hiding inside," Jason argued.

"Why can't you drive on Gotham's roads?" Bruce asked loudly. He continued, "Anyone can drive, including you."

"No, you don't understand," Jason replied with a deep sense of fear in his voice. His breaths began to irregularize, and he said, "The gangs go easy on us because we have so little, we pose no threat to them. But once we have enough, our days are numbered!"

Bruce was certain he heard deep fear in Jason's voice. Jason's breathing was becoming erratic, and he said, "If we can steal a truck, it means that someday we'll steal guns, rocket launchers, and then we'll fight for territory with them."

"All the children, they're just parasites on the gangs. We have to remain weak, non-threatening to survive. It's our way of survival, and it must not be broken," Jason pleaded.

Bruce felt a bone-chilling sensation creeping over him. Jason's tone reminded him of the little girl who had died that night at Wayne Manor.

Now, he finally understood why she had died.

This society, everyone in this society, used extreme violence to convey the message: "You can't have anything; you must remain weak, or we'll take more, including your life."

So, she had imprinted this cruel way of survival on her skin, engraved it into her bones and heart.

Bruce had given her food, shelter, and medicine, but to make her accept those, he would have had to strip her of her skin, break her bones, and extract her heart.

"This is our mask," Jason said. "This society forced this mask onto us."

"We know this mask makes us suffer, endure hunger, but we still have to do everything we can to protect it."

"Because with the mask, we can survive in this society. And as long as we can survive in this society, there are some cracks where we can find food, build shelters, rather than die under endless chaos and gunfire."

"So, Bruce, I beg you," Jason's temperature began to rise, and his thoughts were becoming unclear. He said, "Don't take off the mask. I can do it, but I can't..."

Bruce's face grew colder, and his hand gripping the steering wheel bulged with veins. How does one remove their own mask when they're trying to survive in society?

At that moment, he thought of the Joker, and he thought of himself.

The raging fire had consumed the only means of survival the Joker had left; society had left him with no choice but to burn away the mask it had imposed on him.

And he, Batman, had come to realize that to save this society from suffering, he had to stop living so seriously, just like any ordinary person. When he smiled, the fake playboy mask dissolved into the chemical vat.

And now, these children, even someone as smart, sharp, and brave as Jason, who clearly understood that everything was wrong, still had to go with the flow, become followers of these cruel rules, to stop Bruce from bringing change, praying for their own survival.

In this desperate situation, in this old, rickety truck on a stormy night, where should they go to find a way out?

Bruce kept asking himself this question as the city had already hit rock bottom in the darkness.

He heard Jason's cries, but they had become less distinct because more cries were coming from inside the truck's cabin. These children couldn't change the horrifying situation they were in. They didn't want to cry, they didn't want to show weakness, but they had no other choice.

Amidst the cries, Bruce felt a long-forgotten sadness and anger welling up inside him. His hands trembled on the steering wheel before gradually regaining composure, as if he had already made a decision.

"A long time ago, I read an analysis of class conflicts. At that time, I didn't fully understand the part about non-antagonistic and antagonistic contradictions, but I remembered one sentence..." Bruce wrote in his notebook at Wayne Manor.

"Class conflicts are irreconcilable, and the means of resistance... is violence."

A soft "click" and the light turned on. Alfred, carrying a cup of hot milk, walked over to Bruce and gently placed the cup down. He said, "Master, you should turn on the overhead light. The desk lamp's light isn't sufficient for your late-night studies."

"Oh, I was engrossed in my writing and didn't notice how dark it had become," Bruce put down his pen and looked up at Alfred. He said, "I've finished writing this part of the narrative; all that's left is the commentary."

With a brief pause, he looked at Alfred and asked, "Alfred, do you think adding some theoretical references in this section would affect the overall score?"

"Master, I studied mathematics in college," Alfred shook his head. He continued, "I've hardly ever written any decent essays in my life. If you have doubts in this area, it might be better to consult Mr. Dan."

"You're being too modest," Bruce turned back to his desk and said, "I remember when I was a child, you taught me grammar."

"Yes, Master, but that was very basic. If you need any materials, I can help you find books."

Bruce hesitated as his hand rested on the desktop. He didn't know if Alfred was intentionally avoiding certain topics or if he genuinely didn't want to discuss them. If it was the former, Bruce felt he shouldn't keep pushing him. If it was the latter, did he really appear so obtuse and unteachable in Alfred's eyes?

In response, Bruce looked at Alfred and said, "Alfred, I'll read this part aloud to you. Can you help me check for any grammatical errors?"

"Of course, I'd be happy to assist, Master," Alfred replied.

"The truck was aimlessly driving through the streets, and I tried to accommodate every pleading child. We kept moving forward without a clear destination until Jason began to ask..."

The truck continued to roll forward, jolting with each bump in the road. Jason asked, "Where are you going? Where are you taking us?"

Hearing his weak inquiry, an inexplicable emotion welled up within Bruce's heart. Amidst the rumbling of the truck, he said, "I'm heading to the North District."

Jason, in painful contemplation, closed his eyes and replied, "There's no one there who needs saving, and the truck can't fit any more people."

Bruce glanced back at the crowded cargo area, where children were huddled together, shivering. Fortunately, due to the tight quarters, heat dissipated slowly. While most had pallid faces, none had yet succumbed to hypothermia.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel and paused, saying, "You're right, there's no one I need to save there. But I must go. I want to know who created these rules."

The ones who created these rules... Jason, lying on his seat, pondered. Who was responsible for shaping Gotham's current state? Many would say it was the Godfather, and perhaps Bruce believed that too, but Jason felt it went far beyond that.

This city was a microcosm of something larger, where every form of evil found its manifestation. These evils weren't solely created by the Godfather; before his arrival in this city, it was even more chaotic and wicked.

Jason loathed the cruel rules, yet he was also one of their adherents. He knew that once these rules collapsed, the weaklings would only suffer more. But if it wasn't the Gang's rules causing the evil, then what was it?

As the truck roared onto the North District's bridge, the entire Gotham North District seemed to come alive, lights flickering on one by one, and the cacophony of voices filled the air.

In the haze, Jason saw Wayne Manor's lights up close, yet their fate remained uncertain as they continued towards the unknown.

[Read at www.patreon.com/shanefreak, and thanks for the invaluable support!]

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