Bruce never imagined his internship would go like this.
But then again, no one warned him what happened when you dropped a calm, precise sociopath into Gotham's sewage system—
and watched him build a better pipe.
The source of his unease?
Of course, it was Schiller.
This man didn't seem like someone who'd arrived in Gotham months ago.
He acted like he'd been carved from its bedrock.
Like the city had grown around him, not the other way around.
Even most natives couldn't operate at this level.
But Schiller?
Within weeks, he hadn't just learned Gotham's rules.
He'd rewritten them.
Bruce once heard Gordon say Gotham was a swamp.
Step in, and you sink slowly, quietly, until you forget you were ever dry.
But Schiller?
He sprinted in wearing lead boots.
Didn't flounder.
Didn't hesitate.
Just plunged into the muck—and surfaced with a business plan.
He didn't adapt to the filth.
He became filthier than the filth.
From gang firefights—troop counts, terrain advantages, protection rackets at diners and bars—to underground casino odds, arms smuggling routes, bulk narcotics logistics…
There wasn't a single layer of organized crime that Schiller hadn't dissected, optimized, and monetized.
Falcone listened to his suggestions like gospel.
Nodded along.
Then said, "If you'd come thirty years ago, the Twelve Families would've made room for a Rodriguez seat."
Bruce didn't know whether to arrest him or take notes.
Was Schiller doing well?
By what standard?
His methods weren't just unethical.
They were competitive.
He wasn't fighting corruption.
He was out-criminaling the criminals.
But if he was evil… why did things keep getting better?
Not cleaner.
Not noble.
But more stable.
When Gordon told Bruce that crime had dropped 23% in two weeks,
Bruce almost laughed.
It was absurd that it was working.
In Schiller's model, the GCPD wasn't just backed by Falcone.
It was Falcone's enforcement arm.
The commissioner gets weapons.
Guns. Ammo. RPGs.
Cops get paid per psych hold—2% cut of hospitalization fees.
Suddenly, field duty wasn't punishment.
It was a profit.
Officers fought over raids.
The laziest desk jockeys were begging to join task forces.
One guy brought his own body armor to work.
Gordon was losing his mind.
"Since when do cops volunteer for overtime?"
He stared at the reports.
"They used to fake being sick. Now they're faking injuries so they can collect disability and their bonus."
It wasn't justice.
It was capitalism with a badge.
And greed, it turned out, was a better motivator than virtue.
At first, Falcone had to send the Black Glove to stir up trouble.
But soon, the gangs started fighting on their own.
Hyena and the Captain ambushed the Cutters.
The Loco gang jumped in.
Elizabeth Street's triad bosses tried to mediate—then took sides.
Maroni, fresh off devouring the Red Crows, joined just for fun.
East Side erupted.
Then the police rolled in—armored trucks, machine guns, rocket launchers screaming overhead.
Gangsters froze mid-shootout.
"Wait—are we the bad guys now?"
Too late.
Half died in the crossfire.
The rest got dragged to Arkham.
No trials.
No hearings.
Just paperwork signed by Schiller: "Patient exhibits acute antisocial behavior. Recommend long-term observation."
Gordon's unit became legendary.
Whispers spread:
Drive in. Shields up. Spray fire. Lob grenades. Leave nothing standing.
The loudest gangs vanished.
The survivors kept quiet.
Even the rats stayed indoors.
And it all traced back to one man—
An ordinary professor with a pen, a phone, and zero moral objections.
Bruce thought:
Schiller wasn't just a black sheep.
He was the alpha wolf among black sheep.
To the mob? A partner.
To the law? A necessary evil.
To Batman?
A mirror.
And mirrors don't lie.
Yet somewhere in the madness, Bruce saw something else.
Possibility.
He'd always believed in overwhelming force.
Smash evil flat.
Burn the roots.
Make sure it never grows back.
But Schiller didn't kill weeds.
He farmed them.
Let one grow just enough to choke the others.
Then harvest it.
Replant.
Repeat.
He didn't end the violence.
He managed it.
Like pruning a toxic garden into symmetry.
So one night, Bruce asked:
"Are you really just an ordinary man? Or do you have some power I can't see?"
Schiller spun a pen between his fingers.
Tapped the desk.
Motioned for Bruce to sit.
"I told you," he said. "I'm ordinary."
A pause.
"But that's not the point."
He stood. Walked to the window.
The white coat hung straight. The doctor's uniform softened his edges—like the city hadn't yet ruined him.
Or maybe it already had.
"The question isn't whether I'm special," Schiller said.
"It's the same lesson I gave you in class:
Your suit. Your gadgets. Your money.
None of that makes you Batman."
He turned.
"The answers aren't in your tools.
They're here."
He tapped his temple.
"In the one thing every human has—this."
He let it hang.
"Violence alone won't save this city.
It won't bring you peace.
Won't give you revenge.
That path? It's a dead end."
Another pause.
"But if you don't want to die on it…
You'll learn to walk sideways.
To find the cracks.
To turn collapse into control."
Bruce leaned forward.
"Isn't strength, intelligence, and willpower enough?"
Schiller shook his head.
"Not without Gotham."
Bruce exhaled.
"When will I learn, Gotham?"
"Maybe at your death," Schiller said.
"Because Gotham isn't a book with an ending.
It's one with no last page."
Bruce frowned.
Schiller added:
"I'm a professor. My job is to underline the text.
To mark what matters."
He looked at Bruce.
"The exam? That's yours to write."
"So… strategy? Balance? Foresight?" Bruce asked.
"Those are the key lessons?"
"No," Schiller said.
"As I tell my students—
Every word is highlighted."
Silence.
Bruce didn't know if he was being mocked or taught.
But something clicked.
If brute force could never fix Gotham—
If even Batman's wealth and tech couldn't drain the swamp—
Then maybe wisdom could shape it.
Not to destroy.
Not to dominate.
But to manipulate.
Violence opened the door.
Schiller showed him what lay beyond:
Not blood, not chaos—but fog.
Roots.
Networks.
Power hidden in plain sight.
When Batman followed those threads down—past the spectacle, beneath the surface—he saw Gotham as it truly was.
And it wasn't despair.
It was ecstasy.
His mind raced faster than ever.
He mapped connections in seconds.
Predicted moves before they happened.
He wasn't just keeping up with Schiller anymore.
He was learning to think like him.
And that thrill—of untangling a city-sized knot with nothing but logic—
It was stronger than any punch.
Deeper than any victory.
Perhaps this was the answer.
Perhaps this was who he really was.
Not a hero.
Not a savior.
A creature wired to thrive in impossible complexity.
A mind that finds joy in the labyrinth.
Obsessive.
Ruthless.
More insane than the madmen he hunted.
A bat.
Not flying through the night.
But building it.
Footnote
• Black Gloves: An elite enforcement crew loyal to Carmine Falcone, often used for covert muscle work or to stoke rivalries among other gangs. Their name suggests both "cleaning up" and "getting their hands dirty" at the same time.
• Hyena: A vicious street boss known for chaotic, cruel tactics; his crew thrives on fear and unpredictability, much like their namesake animal.
• The Captain: A self-styled ex-military figure who commands a dockside smuggling outfit. His "rank" is more a nickname than a real commission, but he runs his crew with a semblance of military order.
• The Cutters: A gang of brutal thieves and extortionists, named for their knife-wielding methods and penchant for "cutting" into rival operations.
• Locomotive: A heavyset gang leader who took his name from both his build and his operations near Gotham's rail lines. His gang specializes in smuggling and rail-side rackets.
• Elizabeth Street Bosses: A loose coalition of smaller crews controlling rackets along Elizabeth Street. Though not as powerful individually, they often try to sway larger turf wars by backing one side.
• Maroni: Sal Maroni, one of Gotham's classic mob bosses and Falcone's chief rival in many Batman stories. Brutal and ambitious, he's infamous in canon as the man who scarred Harvey Dent with acid, creating Two-Face.
• Red Crows: A smaller but old Gotham gang (sometimes rendered as "Red Ravens" in fan or apocryphal texts), here depicted as a crew Maroni recently dismantled and absorbed.