In The DC World With Marvel Chat Group - Chapter 468: Is Schiller Crazy?

In the midst of winter, on the dry branches of trees, a group of small sparrows lined up, preening their feathers. One of them spread its wings and flew down to the ground, hopping and skipping in the snow, searching for possible food.

A hand scattered some breadcrumbs, and many sparrows gathered around. The bakery owner, wearing a cotton cap and apron, straightened up and brushed off the remaining breadcrumbs from his hand. “Screech!” The sound of bicycle brakes came, and the bundled-up paperboy took off his gloves and used his finger to tap the bike bell.

The bakery owner, donning thick cotton boots, stepped over the snow on the ground, causing the startled sparrows to take flight in flocks. He strode across the sidewalk to the street and took the newspaper from the paperboy’s hand. “You clever little rascal again! You must know that the gentlemen around here speak well, and you always manage to grab this job,” said the paperboy. He was a freckled little boy, just like most children in Gotham – lively, wild, and full of rebellious spirit.

These children roamed the streets of Gotham fearlessly, always brimming with energy, just like the sparrows foraging through the streets in winter, making them the most vibrant scenery in this city of sin.

The bakery owner handed the paperboy a small piece of toasted black bread and asked, “Any gossip lately?” Taking a bite of the bread, the paperboy winced from the heat, inhaling sharply as he spoke intermittently, “Things are not bad.”

“I heard that the charity banquet in Metropolis was very successful. Those wealthy rich folks donated a lot of money to address the transportation problems caused by the snow disaster.”

“I heard that after our mayor received the donations, he bought several large snowplows. Now the Central Roundabout and the Pier in the East District have been cleared. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have been able to resume traffic today.”

The paperboy took another bite of the scalding black bread, his nose turning red from the cold. He wiped his nose with his hand and took a couple of cold breaths before continuing, “Gotham University is resuming classes today. Just look at those pampered teachers and professors, all driving to work. It means good times are coming.”

“Thank goodness!” The bakery owner sneezed and rubbed his nose, saying in a muffled voice, “With the traffic paralyzed these past few days, I couldn’t sell my bread. If it weren’t for you kids helping me deliver goods to my old customers, I’m afraid I would have closed down long ago.”

“Oh, by the way!” The bakery owner suddenly remembered something. He extended a hand, shaking his finger, and then patted his forehead. He turned around in a hurry and walked back into the shop, causing many sparrows to take flight again. After a while, he came out with a leather bag and said, “Rodriguez Professor’s housekeeper called last night and ordered some freshly baked bread for this morning. Help me deliver it, and at noon today, I’ll treat you to black rice cakes and sausages…”

The paperboy snapped his fingers to signal his agreement. He took the leather bag and tucked it into his arms, leaned forward, grasped the handlebars of his bicycle, and stomped hard on the pedals. The bicycle shot forward swiftly.

As he watched him vanish into the streets, the bakery owner shook his head and walked back to his shop. While checking the order records at the counter, he murmured to himself, “How strange. Didn’t that Professor always prefer eating bagels? Why did he switch to buying buttered toast?” The rustling sound of flipping through the order form made the bakery owner shake his head and say softly, “… Probably a guest’s order.”

“Ding, ding, ding, ding…” The Manor’s clock chimed, and Schiller, standing by the first-floor French window, stretched lazily and yawned. He then walked to the dining table and picked up the glass of water on it. Holding the glass, he wandered around the grand hall on the ground floor, somewhat lost, pondering a question — if he wanted to drink water, where should he go to find it?

In Marvel’s Sanatorium, Schiller’s residence was the former bank manager’s rest area, transformed into a one-bedroom apartment with a bedroom and a living room. There was an electric kettle on the bedroom’s desk, and a water dispenser in the living room, providing readily accessible water within ten steps every morning.

Schiller knew that it was 1988 now, and he had also experienced this era before his time travel, but back then, he had never owned a Manor like this one. Standing in the 600-square-meter entrance hall of the Manor, Schiller was somewhat puzzled, wondering if this was what aristocratic life was like.

Just as Schiller stood there, holding his cup and hesitating whether to go upstairs to find the kitchen, Merkel rushed down the stairs. It was evident that he was quite anxious; his suit’s buttons were not done up properly, the tie was loose, and even his hair was only roughly combed, with two strands sticking out.

“Sorry, sir, why are you up so early today?”

“Early?” Schiller glanced at his watch; it was 5:30 in the morning. Then he turned his head to look out the window, and the sky outside was still dark.

Merkel rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to wake himself up, but his thoughts still felt fuzzy. He was deeply astonished by Schiller’s ever-changing schedule. Before coming here, he learned from the butler college that a butler should adapt to the employer’s schedule as much as possible to provide timely service. So, after starting to work at the Rodriguez Manor, Merkel had diligently adjusted his schedule to match Schiller’s. However, Schiller’s schedule had been bizarre; in this era without many electronic devices, he often stayed up until two or three in the morning, and when he had classes, he would get up at 9:00 in the morning, while on days without classes, he usually got up around noon and only had brunch.

After much effort, Merkel managed to synchronize his normal schedule with Schiller’s peculiar one. However, since Schiller returned from Metropolis, his schedule had returned to normal, even a bit too regular, with him sleeping between 8:00 and 9:00 at night and waking up between 5:00 and 6:00 in the morning.

Merkel stood on the stairs, holding the armrest of a chair for support, feeling dizzy, but he tried to perk up. He took the water glass from Schiller’s hand and asked, “I apologize, sir, but I didn’t arrange for someone to boil water this morning. I’ll do it now. Would you like to have breakfast?” …

“Of course, didn’t you help me order some bagels last night?”

“Uh, but the paperboy from West District won’t come until 7:30 at the earliest, and both the newspaper office and the bakery won’t be open at this time.”

Looking out through the right-side French window, Schiller glanced at the street outside, which was still dark and devoid of any figures. Although Gotham was considered an international metropolis, it was still around the 1990s, and life wasn’t as fast-paced as it is now. Besides, West District was an old area where only old-fashioned wealthy people lived, and very few would wake up this early.

Sighing, Schiller said, “Alright, let me know when breakfast is ready.” After saying that, he went upstairs and returned to his bedroom.

From the staircase, Merkel watched Schiller’s figure going upstairs and became more and more puzzled. Normally, if such a situation occurred, Schiller would crack a sarcastic joke with him, like, “I hope your speed in ordering bagels by phone is faster than that group of sparrows outside the bakery next time,” and then he would skip breakfast and drive to Gotham University for classes.

Of course, Merkel hadn’t forgotten the strange dream he had. At that time, while Schiller was away, he tried to find some clues in the Manor but found that all the important room doors were locked, and a series of puzzles had been set up. After a great deal of effort, he solved the puzzles and accidentally triggered a dream of Schiller’s while touching a bottle of wine on a shelf.

At that time, Merkel had no choice but to ask Schiller for help in protecting the mysterious East Coast Agent and safeguarding the list. Schiller didn’t give a direct answer, and Merkel had no way of knowing what happened at the banquet that day. For him, the enigmatic Agent was still nowhere to be found, and the list’s whereabouts remained unknown.

The only silver lining was that he was certain his employer didn’t mind that he was, in fact, a Soviet Agent, as long as he performed his duties well. Perhaps it could be a stable cover identity. However, now his biggest trouble was that ever since Schiller returned from the charity banquet in Metropolis, he seemed like a different person entirely. From his daily routines, habits, to the way he spoke, everything had changed completely.

From the first day Merkel arrived here, he had wanted to gather enough information about his employer. Not only would it help him work more smoothly, but it was also part of his Agent work. After spending some time with Schiller, Merkel felt he had grasped his employer’s temperament. But now, all his efforts seemed to have been in vain.

The boiling kettle emitted a sharp whistle, and Merkel hurriedly walked through the corridor to remove the kettle from the stove. He took a towel from the nearby wall hook, wrapped it around the kettle’s handle, and then carried it to the front hall of the Manor. After filling it with water, he carried the tray upstairs. In the bedroom, Schiller was leaning against the headboard, reading a book. Merkel placed the water on the bedside table and hesitated for a moment.

Schiller put down the book and looked up, asking, “What’s the matter? Is breakfast not going well?”

“Um, not at all, sir. I just wanted to say… it’s just that… you’ve been a bit… um…”

“Oh, my anxiety acting up. So my behavior might be a little different from before. Don’t mind it; maybe it’ll get better soon.”

“Anxiety?” Merkel muttered in confusion but recalling Schiller’s peculiar temper before, he felt this explanation could barely make sense. Just as he was about to inquire further, suddenly, the sound of the mailbox bell downstairs rang.

Merkel turned to look at the clock hanging on the wall; it was just 6 o’clock. He quickly left the room, set the tray down, put on his coat, and walked out of the Manor’s door. As expected, the paperboy was standing outside the mailbox, waving at him.

“Why are you up so early today?” Merkel greeted him warmly. He was familiar with most of the paperboys in West District, and today’s visitor was one of the ones he knew best. The freckles on his face made him easily recognizable.

“Didn’t you know that the traffic in East District Pier has completely resumed? I’m off to grab some work after delivering papers here.”

“Pier’s traffic is back?” Merkel took the newspaper and a bag of bread from the paperboy. Then he took out some coins from his pocket and put them in the boy’s hand.

The freckled paperboy raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask, Merkel said, “You came too early today. The bread isn’t baked yet, and cold bread is too hard, might hurt your teeth. Just buy something to eat on your own.”

The paperboy extended his hand, putting the coins into his pocket, and smiled with mischief and cuteness, saying, “Give my regards to Professor Rodriguez! He’s a really nice person, always has been!”

[Read atwww.patreon.com/shanefreak, without ads and support the work.]