A brand-new bronze plaque stood at the entrance of the public high school Chen Mo had been assigned to.
The bronze plaque was polished so bright that it looked entirely out of place next to the grey wall beside it, which was sprayed with three layers of profanity, two layers of gang tags, and a line reading "Principal Drop Dead."
Written on it was:
Wayne Foundation Educational Equality Pilot Project.
Chen Mo slung the backpack he had fished out of a trash can yesterday over his shoulder and followed the crowd inside.
Although the system would still beep a few times whenever he rummaged through a dumpster, he just let it beep. It wasn't a big deal since it didn't actually deduct his abilities or luck, and saving money was what truly mattered.
Even though a shooting had almost broken out just yesterday, the two security guards at the school gate today were still doing the same thing--one smoking a cigarette and the other looking down, scrolling through his phone. The metal detector gate stood beside them, emitting a half-dead electrical hum.
On average, it went off every three people.
A boy wearing a black hoodie walked through the gate, and the detector beeped rapidly, sounding like it was having a heart attack.
The guard lifted his eyelids.
The boy pulled a folding knife from his pocket and expertly tossed it into a plastic bin nearby.
Lying inside the bin already were three knives, two lighters, an unopened box of needles, and a car antenna that looked like it had been ripped off from God knows where.
The guard said, "Pick it up after school."
The boy replied, "Last time someone swapped my knife."
The guard blew out a puff of smoke. "Then get here earlier today."
Chen Mo: "..."
Wonderful.
Extremely orderly.
He had only taken two steps forward when someone bumped into him from behind.
A tall, skinny boy squeezed past him, clutching a stack of books in his arms. The edges of the pages were yellowed, and several different names were written on the covers.
They had probably been recycled so many times they were on the verge of becoming historical artifacts.
The skinny boy muttered a low curse, "Watch where you're going, Asian kid."
Chen Mo glanced at him.
The boy's gaze was fierce, but it was a fierce born of exhaustion.
Like a stray dog that had been guarding a bone by a trash can for three days--he didn't actually want to bite anyone, he just knew that if he didn't look fierce, he would be bitten to death by other dogs.
Chen Mo decided to be magnanimous.
He, Gotham's Little Spider-Man, loved all mankind just that much.
"Good morning, friend. May knowledge illuminate your life."
The skinny boy paused in his tracks and turned to look at him.
His gaze shifted from fierce to bewildered, and then from bewildered to a kind of pity that suggested, Did this guy's brain get educated by Gotham before he even enrolled?
"Are you sick?"
Chen Mo nodded. "Not officially diagnosed yet."
The skinny boy fell silent for two seconds, then clutched his books and walked away quickly.
Chen Mo felt like he had won.
At least in the department of mental pollution, Spider-Man would never be defeated.
Not that he wanted to play a duet with the Joker right now, nor did he mean to provoke anyone--for his own mental health, Chen Mo really didn't want to go fight the Joker.
The main hall of the school building was even noisier than outside.
The sound of students doing morning reading.
A constant stream of words starting with B and F filled the ears.
The sound of cursing, locker doors being kicked open, bodies slamming into lockers as people fought at the end of the hallway, and the principal's forced-calm voice coming over the PA system.
"Students, please maintain order. Today is the second day of the new semester, and also the second day since the Wayne Foundation's Educational Equality Pilot Project officially launched. We believe that every child possesses the right to a future..."
Before the words could even finish drifting down, a trash can at the end of the hallway was kicked over.
Milk cartons, crumpled exam papers, cigarette butts, and half a moldy hamburger rolled all over the floor.
A heavy-set boy flipped off the PA speaker.
"The right to a future? I don't even fucking have lunch money for the cafeteria."
Someone nearby laughed.
They laughed because the words were too real--so real that if they didn't laugh, they would have to cry.
Just like the school entrance, a fresh welcome poster was pasted by the classroom door, printed in color with the Wayne Foundation logo in the corner.
Every child is Gotham's tomorrow.
Below the poster, someone had added a line with a black marker:
Then who's feeding us today?
Chen Mo stared at that line of words for a moment.
The handwriting was crooked and truly ugly.
But then he figured that the fact this kid was literate and could write already made them a straight-A student by these standards, which was already pretty good.
Chen Mo pushed the door open and went in.
The classroom was already mostly full.
The dividing line between the rich students and the poor students was as clear as if someone had measured it with a ruler.
Along the row by the window, several students in clean jackets gathered together, brand-new tablets resting on their desks. Their headphones were all the same brand, and their shoes were unreasonably clean.
They didn't speak loudly, and when they laughed, they would cover their mouths slightly with their hands, as if even their laughter had been trained by a private tutor.
Over by the door, the students sat sparsely. Their clothes were old, their backpacks were old, and their eyes looked old, too.
Some lay flat on their desks, catching up on sleep.
Some broke a breakfast cracker into four pieces and ate it slowly, like defusing a time bomb.
Some placed an empty water bottle on the corner of their desk, filled with water from the restroom tap.
Just as Chen Mo found an empty seat and sat down, he heard two boys in the front row arguing.
A Black boy slammed his lunch card onto the desk.
"I clearly still have three dollars and twenty cents on my card."
Another white boy sneered, "What is three-twenty enough to buy? Half a screw on the bathroom doorknob of Master Wayne's yacht?"
"Shut up, Danny."
"Am I wrong? That female host from the Wayne Foundation on TV yesterday said they increased their educational investment. Invested where? Invested in your mom? What I ate yesterday was cold mashed potatoes, and there were still ice crystals in it."
"You're lucky to even have cold mashed potatoes."
A girl wearing a beanie in the corner suddenly spoke up.
Her voice was very hoarse, as if her throat had been ground down by years of smoke and cold air.
"My little brother's school handed out 'replacement meals' yesterday."
Danny turned around. "Replacement for what?"
The girl was expressionless. "A replacement lunch. A shopping voucher you can't even redeem anywhere. Fuck them, trying to fool us with a piece of scrap paper."
The classroom fell silent for a second.
Then someone let out a laugh.
The laughter was short and sharp.
"A replacement lunch? How fucking sophisticated. Then can I apply for a replacement life? I want Bruce Wayne's life."
"Go ahead and apply then, write it to Bruce Wayne. Doesn't he love saving Gotham the most? A billionaire standing high and mighty, loving to flaunt his charity--who the fuck needs his pity?"
"Stop talking, the man is busy saving models at galas."
"Or maybe he's busy replacing champagne towers."
"Or fixing bronze plaques for us. Did you guys see that plaque at the entrance? It's as bright as a fucking tombstone."
As soon as these words came out, the laughter in the classroom grew even louder.
Some banged on their desks.
Some whistled.
Some threw their pens at the Wayne Foundation promotional poster newly pasted on the classroom wall.
The tip of a pen struck the smiling face of Bruce Wayne on the poster, leaving a small black dot right at the corner of his eye.
Like a tear.