"Alright then. Cheers to Bruce Wayne."
As Chen Mo uttered those words, he was still gripping the temporary student ID card in his hand, which was so flimsy it felt like a bootleg membership card. The plastic edges scraped against his fingertips, smarting a little. It was a very real sort of pain, though--to think something like this could actually breach his defenses spoke volumes about how cheaply made it was.
East End Seventh Public High School.
Chen Mo stared at the name of the school on the card for three seconds. His first thought wasn't I finally get to go to school, but rather that the name sounded like a designated sector in some prison.
In America, the word "public" never sounded like a good thing.
As it turned out, Chen Mo's intuition was always spot on.
...
When the registration bus--acting as a makeshift cosplay school bus--dropped them off at the school gates, Chen Mo looked up at the dingy gray school building. His very first impression was that the place perfectly embodied the spirit of Gotham.
The iron bars were more prominent than the school gates themselves, and the walls were covered in thick layers of graffiti. Old gang tags were covered by fresh spray paint, which in turn had been gouged with scratches from knives.
A banner hung right next to the school gates.
Welcoming All Children Back to the Classroom.
Right beneath the banner, two security guards were pulling a boy down from the iron fence as he tried to climb over it to ditch class. The boy's pant leg was snagged on an iron spike, leaving him hanging upside down in midair, cursing with a great deal of cultural diversity.
Taking in the scene, Chen Mo looked down at the student ID pinned to his chest.
Excellent. A very warm welcome indeed.
It really didn't look like a school; it looked more like a re-education center for low-risk offenders where they hadn't gotten around to removing the barbed wire after a recent renovation.
The only difference was that low-risk offenders might actually have more discipline, whereas this place clearly prioritized survival of the fittest.
The kids from the registration bus began getting off one after another.
Some clutched secondhand backpacks, some just carried plastic bags, and others still carried the smell of stale alcohol from the adults at home and the damp stench of the sewers.
Chen Mo walked in the middle of the line with a bright expression and a relaxed gait, looking every bit the ordinary freshman full of hope for the future.
That is, if one ignored how he was using his peripheral vision to calculate every spot on each person where a knife might be hidden.
Guns? He wasn't factoring those in for now. No one present should be able to afford one.
A temporary security checkpoint had been set up at the school gates.
Calling it security was a stretch. It consisted of a broken metal detector gate, two handheld wands running low on battery, and a piece of paper that read: "Please do not bring firearms, drugs, or controlled knives onto campus."
On the paper, the words "do not" had been crossed out with a black pen and changed to "try not to."
Chen Mo almost lost his composure when he saw it.
A tall boy walked through the detector gate, causing the machine to emit a piercing beep. The guard stretched out a hand expressionlessly, and the boy, equally expressionless, pulled a folding knife from his waistband.
The guard took the knife and tossed it into a plastic bin nearby.
The boy asked, "Can I get it back after school?"
The guard replied, "Depends on your behavior today. Hurry up and get to class, kid."
When it was Chen Mo's turn, he cooperated fully by raising his hands and flashing a docile smile.
The handheld detector swept over his front without making a sound. His suit was packed at the very bottom of his backpack, and his web-shooters were disguised as cheap wrist braces, made of materials that wouldn't trigger a standard metal detector.
The guard glanced at him, his gaze lingering for half a second on a face that was far too clean.
"You're new too?"
"Evidently, sir," Chen Mo said. "Otherwise, I'd already know which cafeteria window serves the free breakfast that's least likely to get stolen from you."
The guard went silent for a moment, then actually pointed toward the cafeteria quite seriously.
"The second one on the left."
Chen Mo was instantly filled with deep respect.
What a good man.
He would absolutely avoid the second window on the left. After being in Gotham for so long, Chen Mo had at least made that much progress.
He followed the crowd toward the school building.
The hallway looked like it had just hosted a low-budget gang war.
Some locker doors were dented inward, some had their locks pried off, and others had cigarette butts, crumpled paper, and homework from unknown classes stuffed into their cracks.
A new notice from the Wayne Foundation was posted on the wall.
All students are entitled to free breakfast, lunch, basic medical screenings, and temporary mailing address services.
Below the notice, someone had written a line in red marker.
Wayne treats, gangs foot the bill.
Chen Mo stood before that line of text for two seconds, feeling a subtle shift in his mood.
The words were crude, but in a way, highly accurate.
The Wayne Enterprises poured money into this city. Before it hit the ground, it was charity; once it landed, it was quickly broken down by Gotham's local ecosystem.
It was broken down into subsidies, into under-the-table kickbacks, into community quotas, and into gang watchlists.
Only a tiny fraction, like a fish slipping through a net, would finally land in the hands of those who truly needed it.
Chen Mo reached out and smoothed down the curled edge of the notice.
Not out of respect, but simply because the curled paper was an eyesore.
His first class was a mixed second-year homeroom on the third floor.
When Chen Mo pushed the door open, the classroom was already in a state of chaos, resembling a bucket of slop that had been kicked over.
Two boys in the front row were pulling each other's hair over a seat. In the back row, someone was passing a small item wrapped in aluminum foil under the desks. By the window, a girl lay facedown asleep, her sleeves pulled up to reveal a large patch of needle tracks.
A young female teacher stood on the podium, her face pale as she clutched the roll-call sheet like an intern handler who had accidentally wandered into a hyena den.
Written on the blackboard was today's topic: Civic Responsibility and Campus Rules.
Chen Mo almost thought this was a live demonstration of Gotham-style dark humor.
He found a seat by the window and sat down.
This spot offered a good field of vision. His back was against the wall, the window was to his left, and he could see the classroom door from his right. If a shooting broke out, he could jump out immediately.
Guns are school supplies, as everyone knows.
As a newly enrolled model student, Chen Mo felt his seating logic was perfectly sound.
Just as he sat down, a dull thud echoed from the back row.
A heavy-set boy was pinned to a desk, his face pressed against a textbook. Blood gushed from his nose, staining half of the words "Civic Responsibility" red.
The attacker was a tall teenager in a black jacket, his wrist wrapped in a dark green cloth band. Chen Mo recognized that color--it was the low-level indicator for a small gang in the East End.
One of the perks of doing so many night patrols was recognizing the symbols of various gangs.
The teacher finally summoned the courage to yell, "Stop it!"
The tall teenager turned his head and flashed a smile at her.
"We're just bonding, ma'am."
An eruption of laughter burst through the classroom.
Watching that smile, Chen Mo drew a comparison between his imagined battlefields and this school.
Yeah, this school might actually be worse.
At least a battlefield had friend-or-foe identification; this place had none.
Everyone here looked like a student, yet anyone could pull something out of their backpack the next second that would send the school nurse home early, retire the teacher prematurely, and dismiss the students ahead of schedule.
The tall teenager let go of the heavy-set boy and swept his gaze across the new students.
His eyes lingered on Chen Mo's face.
Chen Mo: "..."
It was the look a street broker gave to new merchandise.
Assessing age, physique, background, whether there was a guardian, whether they could be intimidated, whether they could be used.
Chen Mo looked up and smiled at him.
The smile was clean and bright, carrying a hint of innocence that looked like it had just been touched by mandatory education.
The tall teenager frowned, looking as if he had just spotted a piece of candy that was wrapped too beautifully to tell if it was poisoned.
Right then, the classroom door was pushed open again.
A red-haired girl walked in.
She carried a clean backpack, wore no gang colors, and lacked that numb expression of someone chewed up by the streets.
Upon entering, she checked the podium first, then the escape route, and finally looked at the seats.
The sequence made Chen Mo raise an eyebrow.
Interesting.
Normal students entering a classroom would look for friends first; problem students would look for rivals; those afraid of trouble would look for a corner.
Checking the teacher and the exit first meant someone at home had taught her how to stay alive in a dangerous environment.
The red-haired girl walked over and took the empty seat directly in front of Chen Mo.
Before sitting down, she cast a glance back at him.
Her eyes were exceptionally clear, not clouded over early with a layer of gray like most kids in Gotham.
She noticed Chen Mo's hands resting on the edge of the desk, noting how his fingertips remained at an angle that allowed him to instantly leverage his strength at any moment.
She also caught the vigilance in his posture.
Chen Mo blinked at her and whispered, "Morning, classmate. Do they hand out bulletproof plates for this class?"
The red-haired girl blanked for a moment.
Then she replied in a low voice, "No, but the desks in the third row are thicker."
Chen Mo was instantly filled with deep respect.
Knowledge is power--in the literal, physical sense.
Before turning back around, she added in a whisper, "Barbara Gordon."
"Chen Mo," Chen Mo lowered his voice. "Temporary student, permanent pauper, freshly captured by the education system today."
The corner of Barbara's mouth twitched as if she wanted to laugh, but she held it back.
The teacher on the podium finally began roll call.
With each name called, some answered, some remained silent, some called out "here" for others, and some straight-up shouted a fake name.
The teacher paused slightly when she reached "Chen Mo." Clearly, the name stood out as a complete misfit among a bunch of local Gotham names.
"Present."
Chen Mo raised his hand, his voice clear and his expression so proper he looked like a poster child for a public service announcement about dropouts returning to school.
The classroom fell silent for a brief moment.
It wasn't because he answered well, but because the act of saying "present" itself was far too proper.
Being earnest with a teacher here was practically equivalent to pasting a sign on your forehead that read, "I'm an easy target."
Sure enough, someone in the back row whistled.
"Aren't we well-behaved, new kid?"
Chen Mo turned his head to look over, his smile remaining unchanged.
"Thank you. I always strive to be a polite person. You should try it too, though judging by your vibe, you might need to start over from kindergarten."
The classroom fell silent again.
The next second, a few people burst out laughing.
The boy who had whistled darkened, his hand sliding into his desk drawer.
Suddenly, a faint prickle struck the back of Chen Mo's head.
It was his Spider-Sense.
The sensation felt like a drop of ice water sliding down his spine, alerting him that something was being gripped--metal, cold, not highly lethal, but enough to send an ordinary student to the hospital.
Chen Mo's finger tapped lightly against the desktop.
Once, twice, three times.
From his peripheral vision, he saw Barbara tilt her head slightly too. She didn't turn around, but her shoulders tensed up.
Alright, she noticed it too.
What on earth was Gordon thinking, throwing his own kid into a public school?
The teacher was still calling names, completely oblivious to what was happening inside the drawer in the back row.
Chen Mo sighed.
On his first day of school, he couldn't beat anyone up, couldn't expose himself, couldn't let a teacher get threatened with a knife by a student, and still had to maintain the image of a positive, upright minor.
The difficulty spike on this was way higher than a night patrol.
Should he...
Chinese Kung Fu?
Forget it. It was his first day, and his mood wasn't particularly terrible yet. He could save that rather venting method of education for later.
Chen Mo looked down and picked up the pencil provided in the registration packet from his desk.
The pencil was short and of terrible quality; the wood was splintered and the lead was crooked.
But under the precise control of eight tons of strength, it could still serve as a highly civilized educational aid.
Chen Mo flicked his wrist slightly.
The pencil flew out. It cut a nearly invisible arc through the air, hitting the edge of the boy's drawer in the back row with a sharp clack.
The knife inside the drawer jolted, sliding halfway out before the boy frantically pressed it back down.
At that exact instant, the teacher finally looked up and caught sight of the exposed hilt.
Her face drained of color.
The classroom froze for half a second.
Security was quickly called in, and the boy was escorted out. Before leaving, he glared daggers at Chen Mo, his eyes filled with venomous malice.
Chen Mo blinked, his expression completely innocent.
"Maybe he just wanted to sharpen his pencil," Chen Mo said with utmost sincerity. "Though personally, I'd recommend owning a pencil first."
Barbara couldn't help herself this time, ducking her head to let out a small laugh.
But she quickly checked herself and looked back at the blackboard as if nothing had happened.
Chen Mo, however, didn't keep joking around.
Because he noticed that the boy who had been taken away wasn't acting on pure, mindless impulse.
Aside from the knife, there was a folded slip of paper inside his drawer. When the knife had slid out earlier, a corner of the paper had been exposed, revealing three letters and a number.
M-17.
Chen Mo didn't recognize the code, but he recognized the way the paper was folded.
It was a common folding method used by street runners to pass contraband. The outer layer looked like scrap paper, while the inner layer held locations, numbers, and target names--meant to be swallowed whole in an emergency.
His gaze swept across the classroom.
The tall teenager in the black jacket was watching the teacher.
The small foil packet had already traveled from the back row to the window side.
The girl sleeping by the window woke up, her fingers tapping out a rhythm beneath the desk--three short, one long--like some sort of confirmation signal.
Out in the hallway by the door, a teenager wearing a gray cap pretended to walk past, though he actually peeked into the classroom every ten seconds.
Chen Mo suddenly understood.
This wasn't just ordinary school chaos.
This was a net that had just been cast.
The Wayne Foundation had scooped up homeless kids, dropouts, and illegal immigrants alike, bringing them all into the school. With so many kids gathered, the school became a new distribution hub.
Whose kid lacked a guardian, who owed drug money, who could run errands, who was daring enough, and who had no way out.
The gangs had started their roll call long before the teachers did.
Gotham truly managed to bring career planning right into the stage of compulsory education.
By the end of the third period in the morning, the first large-scale brawl broke out in the hallway.
The trigger was minor.
A boy had knocked over someone else's lunch tray.
Yet thirty seconds later, seven people were dragged into the fray, two knives appeared, and a small-caliber handgun slipped out of a locker, sliding half a meter across the floor.
The moment the gun dropped out, the entire hallway fell dead silent.
That silence was terrifying.
It wasn't born of fear; it was everyone calculating who would be the first to reach for it.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, Chen Mo felt a sudden buzzing in his head.
Holy crap, someone could actually afford a gun?!
Or had he underestimated how easy it was to buy firearms in Gotham?
The sense of danger wasn't intense, but it spread rapidly, like a damp, cold net crawling up from the hallway floor to wrap around everyone's ankles.
The tall teenager in the black jacket was there.
The teenager in the gray cap was there too.
Standing diagonally behind Chen Mo, Barbara had already slipped her hand toward the side pocket of her backpack.
It might not be a weapon, but it was bound to be something she could use for self-defense.