It Works (Part 2)

The old bank converted into Arkham Asylum was located in the southern financial district of Lower Manhattan. It was not on Wall Street, but on the eastern corner of an intersection on 14th Street.

It had been built in the 1930s by a British businessman who had come here to invest. Its appearance was somewhat like Gringotts Bank from Harry Potter, with white walls and elaborate window decorations.

Just as Nick Fury had said, the building had been very well maintained, both outside and within.

Most of its interior furnishings were wooden. Thanks to the many floor-to-ceiling windows in the lobby, the lighting was excellent.

The revolving door, steeped in the style of the last century, had also been preserved. Beyond the entrance stood the main reception desk, while two enormous staircases flanked it. A Crystal Chandelier hung overhead, and the wooden floor beneath their feet was a rich honey color, bearing traces of history without looking worn down.

The building as a whole was asymmetrical. The east side housed the main structure, so most of the treatment rooms were there, while the west side contained outpatient and functional facilities.

Because the old bank was not on Wall Street, the land had been relatively cheap to purchase and offered plenty of room. The building had seven floors, with around sixty usable rooms on the east side and more than thirty on the west. Behind the second floor on the west side was also an aerial garden located on the third floor.

The man who had built the bank had spared no expense. Its interior was lavish, luxurious, and comfortable. It was a building that perfectly suited the old-money aesthetic of that era, so it required little alteration to meet both the beauty and practicality required of an asylum.

Strange walked through the corridor on the third floor. Behind him, a nurse flipped through her notebook and said, "Mr. Eisen on the second floor wants specially formulated drinking water. Mrs. Harris on the third floor hopes we can prescribe eye drops containing the Immortality Factor…"

"I’m going to a meeting with the dean now. We’ll discuss those matters after I’m done."

Strange went upstairs, turned left, and arrived at the Dean’s office at the far eastern end of the fourth floor. When he entered, Schiller was opening champagne. Strange said irritably, "You’re opening champagne already? Isn’t that a little early? There’s a huge mess waiting for someone to clean it up."

He tossed a stack of documents onto the desk in front of Schiller and said, "You’ve been so busy accepting all these appointments that the asylum’s administrative system still isn’t complete. Fifty or sixty patients flooded in at once, and the doctors and nurses are practically being worked to death."

"Don’t rush." Schiller slowly took two glasses from the cabinet, then pointed to a chair, signaling Strange to sit down. He poured himself a glass first, then filled one for Strange. "The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are already being trained. We should be able to receive a batch this afternoon."

"Agents? The emergency medical staff you told me about this morning were agents???"

"Of course. Not only do I not have to pay them, Nick is paying me."

Strange opened his mouth. He was not stupid; of course he knew what the agents were here for. "You’re selling the patients’ private information to an intelligence agency???"

"Stephen, look up. Where are the patients here? They consume the most expensive health products in the world. Even if they merely scrape their skin, the best private doctors will come treat them."

One hand in his pocket, Schiller lifted his glass with the other and took a sip. "They didn’t come here to be treated either."

"Of course I know that. They came for that Immortality Factor theory you made up, hoping it’ll let them live forever." Strange snorted.

Schiller shook his head, set down his glass, and said, "That’s only one aspect. Have you heard of Noah’s Ark?"

"God wanted to use a flood to destroy the world, so he built an ark. The ark could only hold a limited number of people, and only a tiny fraction could survive."

"When things reach this point, what happens after they board the ship is no longer important. What matters is that they are willing to pay a fortune for a ticket, to prove before all humanity that they are God’s favored children."

"If you were the captain of Noah’s Ark, then no matter how well you sailed it, God wouldn’t let a vampire like you through the door." Strange picked up his glass and took a sip as well.

"How many medical staff do you need?"

Strange thought for a moment, then said, "At least fifty or sixty. There’s almost no one providing care on the third and fourth floors, and every one of them is demanding a private nurse."

"I didn’t ask for the minimum. What’s the maximum?"

"The maximum? How many people can a seven-story asylum hold? I’m afraid it would be packed with a thousand medical staff."

"You don’t get a share of the money for placing agents in the asylum. That’s my compensation. But you can take five percent of the reimbursement share from inflating the numbers."

"It absolutely can’t be fewer than five thousand." Strange said decisively, "The patients paid a fortune. Each person needs at least a two-hundred-member medical team providing round-the-clock care."

"Is there room to increase that?"

Strange propped his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on his hands. "That depends on whether you can secure accreditation for a medical or pharmaceutical research institute. There’s no upper limit on personnel at such institutions. I could report twenty thousand people if I wanted."

"Twenty thousand? Two researchers and nineteen thousand nine hundred ninety-eight assistants?"

"Internship slots." Strange emphasized the words. "How many people does Columbia University have? What about New York University? We can approve internship slots for them. Forget twenty thousand—if New York had a few more universities, even one hundred thousand would be perfectly reasonable."

"Wait." Strange suddenly realized that Schiller seemed to have led him astray. "Even if you’re collecting money from multiple sides, isn’t this going too far?"

"You took the clients’ money and fobbed them off with health products of questionable effectiveness. Now you’re even taking money from an intelligence agency and letting them send people in to gather information?? You…"

Strange did not even know how to describe Schiller. Calling him a vampire would make vampires weep in humiliation. If vampires had even half his viciousness, they would not have ended up as ingredients in health products.

As Strange was thinking, someone knocked on the Dean’s office door. A person wearing a trench coat and hood entered. Schiller took another glass from the wine cabinet and poured a glass of champagne. The person removed his hood, revealing himself to be Blade.

"I didn’t understand any of that long explanation you gave me over the phone." Blade said doubtfully. "But are you sure this will work?"

"Of course, of course." Schiller brought him a chair and gestured for him to sit. After Blade sat down, Schiller said, "What evidence could be more convincing than a vampire stepping forward personally to prove that the Immortality Factor in vampire bodies works?"

"But I’m not a vampire. I’ve never even been bitten. It’s just that my mother…"

"That’s exactly the point. When you tell the story later, be sure to emphasize that after your mother was bitten, she gave birth to you, and you became a vampire. What does that prove?"

Schiller looked at Strange. Strange was also a little bewildered. "What does it prove? That vampires are vicious enough to bite pregnant women?"

"No! It proves that a certain substance in vampire blood can be transmitted from mother to child. That will be very popular with the high-end maternal and infant market."

"Next question, Erik. How old are you this year?"

"Uh, I forgot, but I should be in my thirties?"

"No, no, no. You’re around two hundred and thirty years old, about as old as the United States itself. You were born alongside the Federation."

"But I’m not that old…"

"That isn’t called old. Among vampires, you’re in the prime of youth. There should be plenty of three-thousand- and four-thousand-year-old elders in your clan, right?"

"As far as I know, aside from Dracula, there don’t seem to be any…"

"Right, Dracula. Is he the oldest? Do you have his contact information?"

"What are you trying to do?" Blade looked at Schiller.

"If he is willing to record a promotional video for us, he can name his price."

"You want a vampire to promote medicine made from vampires? What are you thinking? How could he possibly agree?"

"But didn’t you come?"

"My situation is special. I hate those rats. They’re my enemies. I wish humanity would kill every last one of them."

"And how do you know you’re the only special case?"

Schiller said with great sincerity, "Erik, you need to understand that your strength alone is not enough."

"I heard that you’re in contact with your clan. You can ask those moderates how they plan to deal with the radicals next. If they don’t mind, I can discuss a business deal with them."

"A business deal? What kind of deal?"

"Hand their political enemies over to me. I can give them twenty percent of the revenue from turning them into medicine and selling it. That’s already very generous. Nick can only take thirty percent."

Blade opened his mouth, paused, then said, "That’s absurd, but…" Blade sounded rather puzzled. "It is strange, though. Humanity is publicly promoting medicine made from vampires. I thought those moderates would already be taking turns protesting."

"Perhaps you never considered that the vampires capable of making their voices heard do not care whether their own kind are turned into medicine, so long as they are not the ones being made into medicine."

"And if the ones being made into medicine are their enemies, that would be even better."

"And if the entire process does not even require them to act, if they only need to provide humanity with a little trivial intelligence and information to thoroughly strike at their political opponents, leaving their enemies overwhelmed or even wiping them out entirely, then why wouldn’t they do it?"

"If, in the process, they not only need to give up nothing but can also gain considerable money and resources, then why wouldn’t they be tempted?"

"In the end…" Schiller reached his conclusion. "The moderate vampires are simply greedy for pleasure. To enjoy themselves in human society, they need status and money. They want those things, so we provide them—by trading in their enemies among their own kind."

"Once they grow accustomed to this luxurious life, and the radicals have all been eliminated, they will voluntarily select some people from their own group and hand them over to us, in exchange for the capital needed to maintain their lavish lifestyle."

"Under the rule of pure-blood ideology, their society will gradually be sacrificed to humanity from the bottom up."

"Perhaps…" Schiller sighed. "In this world, there will be only one vampire at the beginning and at the end: the immortal Dracula."

Strange and Blade both fell silent. After a while, Strange said, "I don’t care about these grand matters. I’m just an ordinary Doctor. I want to know what benefits this will bring me."

"You’ve already become the attending physician of this asylum. No matter how things are divided up afterward, you won’t be left without a share. This is the profit an entire race can bring."

"What you need to think about now is how large a villa you want to lie in while counting money, so you can be comfortable."

Strange swallowed. He could barely imagine such a life, but he still said reservedly, "I’m not that fond of money. I’m a man with aspirations."

Blade shook his head. "Money?… Money really is a terrifying thing."

"But it works." Schiller raised his glass. The golden liquid reflected off his lenses, making it impossible to see his eyes clearly.

"It works very well, and it will always work."