In the Name of the Father

When Gordon woke up, only a small bedside lamp was lit in the dim hospital room. Schiller was dozing in the chair beside him. Hearing Gordon stir, he woke, took off his glasses, and said, "I told you you’d wake up while I was looking after you…"

Gordon still couldn’t speak. He was wearing a respirator. Schiller said, "You were badly injured—too badly. They spent over twenty hours resuscitating you and barely managed to save your life. Whether you’ll fully recover is still unknown."

This psychologist’s voice always carried a calming power.

Gordon blinked. There was indeed nothing more he could do. Schiller yawned and said, "Thank your partner. He got there in time and saved your life."

"Still, I feel somewhat sorry. The people hunting you seemed to have originally been after me."

Gordon shook his head slightly. He knew those people were merely hired Assassins. Even if Maroney had not hired them, he would have hired someone else.

Just as Schiller was about to continue, the door opened, and Harvey walked in. "He’s awake?"

Schiller nodded and rose from his chair. Harvey said, "Let me take over. Go get some rest."

Before leaving, Schiller glanced at Gordon. The detective, usually so energetic, now looked utterly haggard. The double torment of body and mind had left him somewhat dazed.

The corridors of Central Hospital were pitch-black in the dead of night, with only the crisp echo of Schiller’s leather shoes.

When he reached the ground floor, a car was waiting at the hospital entrance. A tall man in a suit stepped out and opened the door for Schiller. Once inside, Schiller said, "Put on some jazz."

Soon, lively jazz began playing, bringing a breath of fresh air into the stifling atmosphere inside the car. Outside, the passing lights still flickered.

Schiller closed his eyes as drowsiness overtook him. The person in the passenger seat clearly had not expected Schiller to simply fall asleep. This professor really is unlike anyone else, he thought.

By the time the car arrived, Schiller still had not shaken off his groggy sleep. That brief nap had only made him even sleepier.

Climbing the wooden stairs, Schiller entered the room to find Falcone seated behind the desk in a suit as usual, while Evans, also dressed in a suit, stood behind his father.

Schiller sat opposite the Godfather, made the sign of the cross over his chest, and said, "Good evening, Godfather."

Falcone waved first, and the tall man in a suit approached. Falcone took out a box of cigars from beneath the desk. His assistant cut one, and just as Schiller was about to refuse, Falcone said, "I heard you enjoy cigars. I happen to enjoy them too, so have one."

Schiller adjusted his posture and leaned fully back against the chair. He made no effort to hide his fatigue, but he still accepted the cigar. Evans walked over and bent down to light it for him.

Holding the cigar, Schiller glanced at him and said, "I’ve never seen you in formal wear before. Plenty of girls will be chasing you at the ball."

Evans gave a modest smile, said nothing, and stepped back behind Falcone.

"You’ve changed a great deal. I can see it," Falcone said. Even while smoking a cigar, the Godfather remained exceptionally elegant. He took only a light puff, waited for the smoke to disperse completely, then spoke again.

"When I first met you, I knew you weren’t from Gotham. But now, things are much better. That is good."

"When you are full of wariness toward this place, you will find everyone opposing you. But when you truly treat it as your own home, you will discover that anyone can find kindred spirits here."

"Perhaps because everyone is a potential criminal," Schiller said.

"What surprises me is that you never questioned why I did not deal with Maroney."

"Maroney is not important," Schiller said in a low voice.

"You always strike me as unbelievable. I have seen too many people in my life, too many geniuses. They are often full of themselves. Even if they appear humble on the surface, I know their respect is only fear of my guns."

"But I happen to know that what makes everyone fear and respect the Godfather is not guns."

"You have shown me the charm of psychology. You always seem able to give me the answer I want," Falcone said, simply letting the cigar in his hand burn slowly.

"I hope Evans can learn the essence of this discipline, but unfortunately, I know he does not have the talent for it."

"His grades are quite good." Schiller flicked off some ash. "He works hard too. He is a good student."

"But that is all, isn’t it?"

Schiller paid no attention to Evans’s somewhat disappointed expression. "That is a good thing, Godfather. Studying psychology leads only to ruin."

Falcone looked at him. Schiller took another puff from the cigar and said, "This is not some strange metaphor. When you study this discipline to the end, there are only two outcomes: either you go mad, or you die."

"Then it seems you chose neither."

"Perhaps I chose both?"

Schiller grew increasingly sleepy. The sweet, cloying scent of tobacco sent wave after wave of drowsiness over him. He narrowed his eyes, and all the light in the world blurred into a wash of white.

"I know Evans is still far from ready. He takes after his mother. He is neither capable of being an absolute good man nor an absolute bad man. That is the most frightening thing."

"What kind of person do you want him to become?"

Before Falcone could answer, Schiller said, "Or rather, do you want him to become the Godfather?"

Falcone fell silent.

Clearly, he had an answer in his heart, yet he was unwilling to admit it.

Was becoming the Godfather a good thing?

Falcone, who had been the Godfather for so many years, could not even give an answer.

"How is that policeman?" he asked.

Schiller shook his head. "He was badly hurt. It may take a long time before he recovers."

"You could easily let him side with Maroney. I would not blame him," Falcone said. "I know these people have no choice: cooperate or die. In truth, the fact that he has held on until now has already earned my respect."

"Perhaps this is offensive, but his persistence is not because of you, Godfather."

"Then what is it because of? If not because he fears me, why would he resist Maroney’s offer of cooperation?"

"Because Maroney stopped him from going out and fighting crime."

"So?"

"He is a police officer. He believes it is only natural for police officers to arrest criminals."

"A very naive idea, isn’t it? It even seems rather absurd in this city."

"Good people never live long, especially in Gotham," Falcone said with a hint of a sigh.

"That is why I will be your longest-lived tutor."

Falcone closed his eyes. After a while, he said, "Evans, go kill Maroney. Kill him with your own hands."

Evans pursed his lips, then said in a low voice, "Yes, Father."

"As for those people from Metropolis, I will deal with them."

"There is no need to trouble you."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I have made a great deal of money lately, and a very expensive super mercenary happens to be quite interested in the price I offered."

"I will pay for it," Falcone said.

"In your name. God bless Gotham."

It seemed this Godfather truly had grown old, and he genuinely loved his son. Schiller believed that in all the decades of the Godfather’s life, he had never shown goodwill toward anyone like this before.

Indeed, during the Godfather’s glorious years, he had never needed to make such a declaration to anyone, and no one would have dared demand it of him. Yet today, he had invited Schiller here and shown him goodwill in such a manner. It meant that he truly had grown old.

As Schiller thought this, his drowsiness deepened. Falcone watched the person across from him gradually close his eyes. The Godfather sighed and said to Evans, "Send your teacher back to rest."

Evans acknowledged him. The Godfather rose and looked out the window. Beyond it lay Gotham’s quiet night. From Falcone Estate, only the lighthouse along the coast flickered with faint light.

Forty years had passed, he thought. The Godfather’s friends and enemies had all vanished with time. His life and years were drawing to an end along with Gotham’s previous era. Only this lighthouse still shone through the night without rest, witnessing alongside him the city’s storms and seasons, the rise and fall of history.

Evans watched his father from behind. Falcone showed no sign of age; he still stood perfectly straight. A suit always fit him impeccably.

At last, the Godfather extinguished the cigar in his hand and said, "I only hope he truly will be your longest-lived tutor."

At the docks in Gotham’s East End, the sea reflected the lighthouse’s glow. The waves surged like schools of golden fish, while a cargo ship slipped out of the harbor beneath the cover of night.

The smell of blood had yet to fade from the deck. The crewmen’s corpses had been thrown into the freezing sea. A burly man standing at the bow spat onto the ground and said, "We really took a loss this time. Lost several men and didn’t make a cent."

"Forget it. At least we got out," another person beside him said.

Suddenly, before they had sailed very far from the harbor, a heavy bell tolled from Gotham City. The bell, trembling with a distinct vibration, rang seven times. The leader at the bow asked in confusion, "Why are they ringing bells in the middle of the night?"

"Who knows? Maybe they’re seeing us off." The person beside him shrugged.

A faint sound came from above. Then, a black and yellow figure appeared atop the mast.

"They are indeed seeing you off… Deathstroke."