Chapter 107: Joker Video, Dreamscape Erupts [83k]
The Hellcat’s engine roar was particularly striking on Metropolis’s streets.
Who wouldn’t like an exaggeratedly styled muscle car? Especially when a handsome boy is sitting on its roof, it could attract quite a few gazes.
Ian wasn’t proud of this; he was intently watching a teaching video on his mobile phone. Of course, watching the video didn’t prevent him from keeping an eye out for opportunities to do good deeds in Metropolis.
One eye watching the video.
One eye watching all directions.
Any normal person who knows how to manage their organs can do it. Ian’s sharp right eye quickly caught a “daily task”; he saw a shy couple gazing deeply into each other’s eyes.
The kind that wants to kiss but is too shy.
Not daring to break that final window paper feeling.
“This is the moment when a superhero is needed.” Ian threw a donut at the boy’s back of the head; that was originally a gift he prepared for Dr. Hannibal.
For gourmet food lovers who eat a lot of meat.
Vegetarian food is absolutely the most thoughtful gift.
“Splat~”
This time.
Ian’s throwing skill remained stable. He failed to help the boy and girl; instead, he scared the boy and girl, but his donut wasn’t thrown in vain after all.
This was ultimately a case of unintended consequences.
The donut hit two shopping good brothers, making the boy whose clothes were hit think he was shot, so he instinctively hid in his good brother’s arms.
“Cameron, I’m scared, quickly check if I was hit by a bullet, I see red.” The skinnier boy was really trembling in fear.
After all, this is Free America.
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid, Mitchell, it’s just some prankster throwing cow dung—no, this seems like a donut, and it’s a high-end donut bought from 【John’s Kitchen】.”
The chubby good brother’s expression went from shock to astonishment, then to relief; he only took two seconds to react before hugging the boy in his arms and whispering comfort.
“You even dare to taste it, you’re too brave.”
The bearded man called Mitchell expressed genuine admiration.
The two thoroughly hugged each other.
Obviously.
They broke through the shackles of morality and prejudice. Boys and boys can also produce girls through adoption, so how isn’t this Master Ian doing a good deed? This is the time management a superhero should have—doing good deeds on the way to see a psychiatrist.
“Anyway, I win again, merit +1.” Ian sat on the roof continuing to watch the horseback riding teaching video. He chose to sit on the roof for a reason, of course. This was all for the sake of the world; if Ian didn’t sit on the roof, how would the world know he was riding a divine machine wondrous device, thundering along at lightning speed under his butt?
A little car that kills on its own and runs away on its own.
Not everyone has one.
Occasionally showing off is very beneficial for mental and physical health.
Besides.
The Hellcat is also a cat.
Cats are animals.
So the Hellcat should be called a mount. It was by grasping this simple reason that Ian realized he shouldn’t sit inside the car, but on the roof.
If there weren’t only videos of being eaten by cats online instead of riding cats, Ian definitely wouldn’t have chosen to watch horseback riding tutorials; the horse riding instructor’s butt loaded with massive silicone was too distracting.
“Riding horses and riding cats have something in common, which is sitting in the area where I am now…” Ian adjusted his position, and the Hellcat continued driving forward.
He knew he was in the right position because the traffic police acquaintance he ran into no longer stopped him; this traffic police he met for the third time turned his spear on the truly illegal driver.
He was issuing a ticket to a sedan suspected of dangerous driving.
“Look at that boy! That boy isn’t even sitting in the driver’s seat driving, what’s wrong with me and my girlfriend three people sitting in the driver’s seat?”
The drunk driver pointed discontentedly at the passing Hellcat.
The traffic police just glanced back.
Their eyes met.
He pretended not to see Ian.
“Precisely because he isn’t sitting in the driver’s seat, how can you define him as driving? I’m well-versed in the law; a car running on the street by itself doesn’t count as a crime.”
The traffic police might be a genius, though his cleverness has recently clearly caught up to genius speed; such rigorous logic left the driver speechless.
“The police make sense, I saw it, there’s no one in the driver’s seat, so he definitely isn’t driving.” The heavily made-up girl dressed to the nines even chose to side with the police.
“Yeah, yeah, you drank alcohol, maybe you didn’t see clearly; that car is indeed running on its own.” The other girl chimed in; the two girls together probably hadn’t finished elementary school.
They thought it was reasonable.
The police thought it was reasonable too.
The drunk driver, afraid of being ostracized, had childhood shadows from not fitting in resurface; he immediately started thinking maybe this was really reasonable.
“I was wrong.”
The driver lowered his head in shame.
The scene was harmonious.
Ian passed by lightly.
He didn’t wave his sleeves or take away clouds. But Metropolis people, clearly under his positive influence, have started developing superior thinking from local areas.
“Vroom vroom vroom~”
The Hellcat did a tail flick.
It stopped directly in front of the office building where Dr. Hannibal was. In America, most top psychiatrists actually have their own clinics, renting a whole floor like Hannibal.
Of course.
A floor in the bustling commercial district of Metropolis isn’t something every psychiatrist can afford to rent; the rent is very expensive, only doctors with truly strong resources can bear it.
Hannibal is indeed excellent enough.
“The city is full of people, full of elites everywhere.”
Ian thought Dr. Hannibal had mastered the win-win trick; white-collar workers in the central area with extremely high mental pressure provide plenty of earning opportunities and richer ingredient choices.
For a cannibal.
Is there any better hunting ground than this?
“No.”
Ian answered for Hannibal; he nimbly jumped down from the Hellcat roof.
“Go find a free parking spot, good boy.” After a brief instruction to his mount, Ian entered the building; when he stepped into the elevator, there was already a lady in professional attire inside.
She was holding a five- or six-year-old little boy with one hand and a telephone with the other.
“Listen, I’ll go back to my parents’ place for dinner, yes, they’re sick.” The woman said to her husband on the phone, “So, I might need you to pick up the child.”
She finished the gentle call with her husband, then dialed another number, her voice immediately becoming sweeter: “Mr. Allen, I’ve prepared the contract.”
“Yes, I’ll take you to see the house again later; as long as we communicate well in your future new home, I believe you’ll feel the charm of that house.”
The woman was obviously a real estate agent.
She was using special sales techniques.
“Oh oh, I brought pop rocks.”
“Could you prepare another iced cola for me?”
While flirting.
Ian thought this wasn’t a skill a child should learn, so he secretly covered the little boy’s ears, remembered he was a child too, and conveniently covered his own.
No use.
But he could pretend it was useful; the sense of ritual was maxed out.
“Hm? What are you looking at?” Seeing the little boy staring at him, Ian glanced at the woman with her back to him, then reached out to wipe the little boy’s eyelid.
However.
Unexpectedly, a move even Superman struggles with, which never fails, actually lost effect on the little kid; after Ian removed his hand, the kid opened his eyes again and stared at Ian.
“Heh.”
Feeling challenged, Ian brought out his real skills.
“Ding~”
When the elevator doors opened.
Ian walked out; the woman who just finished her call turned around and discovered her child was wearing “glasses” made from shoelaces and eggshells on his face, somehow.
Utterly ridiculous.
But the kid who couldn’t see anything liked it very much.
Hehey laughing.
Meanwhile, the low-key Ian had arrived at the information desk. At the information desk, the young receptionist gave Ian a warm, genuine smile.
“Mr. Little Kent, you have twenty minutes until your appointment with Dr. Hannibal. You can rest in the waiting area.” The receptionist gestured invitingly to Ian.
“Okay.”
Ian had no resistance this time; after all, as a wise person, he timed his arrival for a reason. Just as the law of wildflowers being better than home flowers depicts.
Men are the same from childhood to adulthood.
So the most fun is always someone else’s toy.
Ian was still thinking about his unfinished work, but upon entering the waiting area, he felt helpless; the Gundam he didn’t finish last time was dismantled by some kid coming for treatment.
“Hell is prepared specifically for people like that.” Ian was secretly annoyed; he could only pour out a box of LEGO bricks and start a new round of building blocks. This time Master Ian didn’t plan to build Gundam; he wanted to build the tiger king, the animated character that climbs out of the television with the ultimate move storm nebula rift.
“I still like cats so much.”
While Ian was focused.
“Little friend, are you here alone?”
Suddenly, a gentle voice spoke up beside him. Ian turned and saw the dozing man nearby seemed awake, removing his glasses to wipe the fogged lenses. He had light brown curly hair and tired but gentle blue eyes, wearing a slightly wrinkled but clean plaid shirt.
“Will Graham?”
Ian tentatively asked.
His gaze fell on the 《Criminal Psychology》 on the man’s knee.
“Good observation.”
The man was surprised, looked down at the teacher badge still on his chest, assuming Ian read his name from that.
“It really is you.”
Ian was slightly surprised. He had watched the 《Hannibal》 TV series and even movies, knowing Will is the one who loves and kills with the cannibal Hannibal. This is a character with 【empathy】 ability, who can empathize with the dead’s perspective to reconstruct crime scenes; unclear if it counts as a superpower in this world.
“Hm? You’ve heard of me?”
The man named Will was even more surprised.
He is a criminal profiler, occasionally teaching crime analysis to FBI new recruits; normally, a little boy shouldn’t make such a familiar expression toward him.
To this.
Ian gave no response.
“If I tell you I came with my good friend, would you think I have mental illness?” He just answered Will’s initial question.
Will was stunned first.
Then he showed a gentle smile, as if very empathetic, “No, because everyone has imaginary friends in childhood.”
This made Ian put down his LEGO bricks.
“Did you have imaginary friends as a kid?”
He suddenly seemed interested, staring straight at Will.
“Uh…” Will scratched his head.
“Of course.”
He gave an affirmative response.
This should have been a heartwarming response.
However.
“Then it seems you really do have mental illness.” Ian thought for a moment, then delivered a confident critical hit; this sentence choked Will who was about to drink water.
Ian was still staring at him.
Feeling the atmosphere awkward, Will quickly changed the topic, “Actually, I just wanted to know how your parents treat you, because I smell blood on you.”
“I’m certain it’s not animal blood.”
His nostrils fluttered slightly.
Just like a police dog sniffing evidence.
“What a dog nose.” Ian looked down at the dark red stain on his cuff; that was 666 fuel dripping from the demon head when he accidentally held it this morning.
“If I say I’m on my period, would you believe it?”
Ian countered with another question.
“Ah? No way?”
Will’s expression froze. He involuntarily examined Ian’s overly delicate features, starting to suspect if he mistook a girl for a boy.
Seeing Will’s shocked and uncertain expression.
“Heh.”
Ian chuckled lightly.
“I have mental illness, and you believe me? You’re definitely not lightly ill.”
He knew he didn’t have mental illness, of course, but claiming to have it was very useful at this moment; one sentence left Will dumbfounded.
The air was somewhat silent.
Fortunately, the receptionist’s sweet voice saved the speechless Will.
“Mr. Little Kent, Dr. Hannibal is ready to see you.” The receptionist wanted to hold Ian’s hand, but Ian didn’t let her take advantage.
“Okay, thanks.”
Ian remained polite.
He stood up and washed his hands with disinfectant first.
“Oh, by the way.”
Ian looked at Will again; he kept Will in a shocked open-mouthed expression not for nothing, “You have a curly hair in your teeth.”
“I’m also certain it’s not animal hair.” The boy grinned, showing two rows of neat white teeth, then turned toward Hannibal’s office after leaving a makes one shudder upon further thought remark.
“…”
Will sat in the chair.
His gaze toward Ian’s back flickered constantly.
Accompanied by the office door opening and closing, Ian entered the consultation room. Dr. Hannibal’s office was very tidy, like a carefully composed still life painting.
A dark brown solid wood bookshelf occupied an entire wall, neatly lined with gold-embossed professional books. Two facing leather armchairs were separated by a small tea table with an exquisite tea set. Soft wall lamps lit the room warmly without glare; a antique gramophone even sat in the corner.
At the moment, it was playing an extremely serene piece.
“Welcome back, Ian.” Hannibal sat in a genuine leather office chair, legs crossed, holding a notebook, his expression calm with aristocratic elegance.
He raised his head.
Showing a smile.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter.” Ian glanced back at the door; his mood wasn’t actually calm, wanting to mention Will but not knowing how to bring it up.
Straight ball?
Ian initially thought so, but now he was unsure.
While Ian weighed the impact of “striking a criminal” if mistaken.
“Would you like something to drink?”
Hannibal stood and walked to the refrigerator.
“Cola is fine.”
Ian said, pulling out his gift: a delicate small box with a peeled egg inside; after losing the donut, he repurchased a new gift.
“For me?”
Hannibal’s expression unchanged, holding a cola bottle and cup walked back.
“Yes, I originally prepared a donut, but I used it to save a romance.” Ian started telling the few truths left for today.
“That’s nice.”
Hannibal poured cola into an iced cup and handed it to Ian.
“What about this egg’s eggshell? Did it do a good deed too?” He asked Ian while casually placing the remaining cola bottle on the table.
“No, I just used it to benefit myself.”
After taking the cola, Ian sat on the sofa opposite Hannibal; he temporarily changed his original wording, as he needed to be an unpredictable great leader for men and women.
【Leader LV1〔1/10〕】
The system panel proved Ian had the qualifications.
“You can remove your colored contacts.” Hannibal sat back in his chair, picked up his pen, and flipped the notebook for recording patient info to Ian’s page.
“Can’t remove them.”
Ian sighed helplessly.
He missed his deep blue eyes, but clearly they couldn’t change back now.
“Hm.”
Hannibal didn’t pursue, just started recording info on the notebook; the nib’s scratching on paper wondrously blended with the gramophone music.
“I’ve contacted both your parents.” He suddenly continued, “Your mother thinks you’ve become much more outgoing, while Clark believes you need more treatment.”
Saying this.
Hannibal raised his head.
“I’m curious, what changes happened to you after the last treatment?” His tone carried curiosity, as if Ian’s situation caught him off guard.
“I became a sunny, outgoing big boy, transformed.” Ian remembered to be sufficiently honest with psychiatrists, even pre-spending tomorrow’s truths.
“I think I’m completely cured, with no anxiety symptoms left.” This was true for Ian, but Hannibal just stared at him with deep eyes.
“You’re saying what you think is the truth, but it’s not real.” Hannibal’s gaze was sharp as a scalpel; his therapy still loved straight balls.
Hearing this.
Ian quickly drank some cola to calm his shock.
“Alright, I admit, I think I’m beyond help. You know? My cousin aunt gave me Penguin Cola; that’s Gotham wastewater, I’ve definitely been infected with Joker Virus.”
If there was anything that could cause anxiety, Ian racked his brains and only came up with this, though he confirmed he wasn’t infected with Joker Virus.
But who can say for sure with this stuff.
“Joker Virus? Interesting term.” Hannibal subtly turned the cola can on the tea table to cover the “Penguin Cola（Penguin Cola）” label on top.
This was to prevent worsening Ian’s anxiety.
Penguin Cola.
Hannibal occasionally drank it too.
He didn’t believe it had added virus.
【Persecutory Delusion.】
The pen scratched on paper.
Hannibal circled the symptom Ian had shown before.
“I don’t find it funny; of course, if you like building happiness on my pain, that’s another story.” Ian secretly observed Hannibal’s expression.
He gulped down more iced cola.
“I meant interesting not mocking you, but I thought of something.” Hannibal’s voice was rich and powerful, “One of your elders came to see me recently.”
His words stunned Ian.
“Perhaps because of my professional skills, that elder asked me to analyze a recording… and I heard words similar to yours in it.”
Hannibal lowered his voice.
“Bruce Wayne?”
This was the name Ian settled on after thinking.
“Yes, that tycoon; I didn’t expect your family had this connection.” Hannibal nodded confirming Ian’s guess, but this only confused Ian more.
The boy’s eyes wavered.
Superman not discovering Hannibal’s issue was weird enough.
Now even Batman let this cannibal go?
This was too unreasonable.
Even Ian’s own twisted logic couldn’t explain it.
“What are you thinking?”
Hannibal stared at Ian and asked.
“Can I hear the recording?”
Ian just made a request, not voicing his thoughts. His words made Hannibal’s lips curve; he had clearly anticipated this request.
“In principle, I wouldn’t, but… rules sometimes need breaking.” Hannibal stood and rummaged in the file cabinet.
“After all, though your elder seems quite ill to me, he’s not my patient; he didn’t require confidentiality for this unknown recording.”
Hannibal walked back with a tape recorder.
He emphasized his adherence to doctor-patient confidentiality.
Somewhat redundant.
Because Ian didn’t care about confidentiality.
“Yes, he’s the real mentally ill one; you’re a great psychiatrist.” Ian couldn’t help praising Hannibal; his words created strong resonance.
Bruce Wayne deserved scathing criticism.
The news he learned at noon really made Ian angrier the more he thought; he wasn’t ready to start from scratch, and Batman directly shattered his get-rich dream.
Anyone would curse Bruce Wayne to death.
“Seems you have strong opinions about this elder.” Hannibal mused; he started the tape recorder, which emitted a faint hum.
With Hannibal pressing play.
The tape began turning.
He only played a short excerpt, but even that was enough to leave Ian dumbfounded.
The recording featured an anxious man’s voice: “Oh, doctor, save me, you must save me, I feel like I’ve been sick recently.”
“A very serious illness! I’m done for!”
The man’s voice carried full despair.
Then.
The psychiatrist’s voice sounded.
“What illness do you think you have?”
This female doctor’s voice sounded very gentle.
“Sniff sniff~”
A patient’s sniffling sounded.
“I said it, I was infected with a virus, a very scary virus, um, yes, Ian Virus; you might not have heard of it, but that doesn’t affect how terrifying it is.”
“Ian Virus has completely infected me, making me restless almost every night lately… whenever I don’t see 《Batman’s Tragic Romance》 I want to kill.”
The man’s helpless voice trembled.
“Have you read this book? No? I’ll burn it for you to see; 《Batman’s Tragic Romance》 brings me peace, maybe it can let you rest in peace too.”
Suddenly.
The chainsaw’s roar was deafening.
“Damn! Where did the chainsaw come from! No! You can’t do this! I can give you money! I have lots of money!” The psychiatrist screamed in terror hysterically.
“Don’t be afraid, doctor, I’m just proving to you I didn’t lie.” The man’s voice suddenly calmed, followed by a series of chilling screams.
Soon.
The screams turned to silence.
“Where’s your anesthetic, why aren’t you speaking, if you don’t speak I’ll assume you’re cured… next patient please…” Someone seemed to have put on the doctor’s clothes.
He spoke in a feigned low voice.
At that moment.
Hannibal gently turned off the tape recorder.
The room instantly left only Bach’s melody from the gramophone.
“…”
Ian was struck silent.
The chainsaw sound from the recording echoed in his ears.
He unconsciously swallowed.
“Your expression tells me you know this person.” Hannibal’s deep brown pupils were profoundly deep; he used a statement, not a question.
“Hm?”
Ian’s fingers unconsciously rubbed the water droplets on his cup.
The cold touch calmed him slightly.
“He’s just my fanatic perverted fan; he wrote me letters, but I’m not really familiar with him.” Ian knew he had to painfully disavow the fan.
This involved a suspected Carnage incident after all.
“Is that so.” Hannibal’s pen paused on the paper, ink blooming a deep blue flower on the expensive parchment; his gaze oddly scanned Ian up and down.
“I’m surprised you don’t feel inner guilt or agony.” Hannibal’s voice was rich and powerful, with a thoughtful tone.
“Why should I feel guilty? Batman should; he didn’t catch and lock up this arch-nemesis.” Ian’s expression was unprecedentedly serious.
His thinking wasn’t led astray by Hannibal’s question.
“You heard it too; this person said he wants to kill when he can’t see my book, proving he doesn’t want to kill when reading it; God knows how many escaped the jaws because of this.” Ian’s tone was unusually serious; he truly believed his merit was boundless.
“Perhaps so.”
Hannibal nodded lightly.
No rebuttal.
He didn’t even add notes in his notebook.
Joker is Batman’s to handle.
Even non-Gotham people know this common knowledge.
“But you should stay vigilant enough.”
Suddenly.
Hannibal abruptly reminded Ian, “Have you thought that to see your story every day, this fan might eventually kidnap you?”
This was ordinary person perspective worry.
Ian nodded.
But gave no response.
“Actually, there’s another possibility: your tycoon elder can’t protect you either; to placate that man long-term, Batman might catch you…”
Hannibal was about to share his speculation.
“Boom!!!”
Suddenly.
Accompanied by a massive explosion.
The whole building shook violently.
“Missile attack?”
Hannibal’s crystal cups clinked with crisp wails; hardcover books from the bookshelf crashed down; even the doctor was shaken to the floor.
“Whoosh~”
Ian instinctively rushed to the window, palm “smack” on the cold glass.
“Not a missile.”
He denied.
His pupils shook violently at that moment.
“It’s a supernatural disaster…”
Ian’s voice carried undisguisable shock.
His pupils reflected the light.
The distant street seemed undergoing reality-transcending disintegration; street lamps bent at impossible angles. Countless concrete chunks floated defying gravity, like a paused explosion scene. At the storm center, a white-haired old woman floated painfully mid-air struggling.
Around her body.
Space twisted like crumpled tin foil.
No flames, no smoke; all changes radiated from the old woman like ink diffusing in clear water—this was a terrifying outburst from power loss of control!
“Dreamscape power! Could it be Morpheus messing up again?”
Ian’s mind raced, expression control nearly failing. He could see dreamscape ripples devouring the street, surging like tides toward his building. The instant pedestrians were hit, their bodies turned semi-transparent, stardust flickering under skin, as if being absorbed by terrifying power!
“Aaaah!”
Painful howls rose and fell.
The white-haired old woman floated hundreds of meters high, body twisting.
Layered semi-transparent ripples spread from her like water ripples; each expansion distorted reality further.
“Little guy, again… if you know this stuff too, is there anything you don’t know?”
A voice sounded behind; Ian whipped around—on the armchair where Hannibal should be sat an elegant woman in black.
Ian was dumbfounded.
Outside the window.
The old woman’s body continued emitting layered dreamscape power.
“Tsk tsk, some people, if their skin wasn’t so thick, should start feeling guilty now.”
The usurping woman crossed her pale hands on her knee, turned the chair toward Ian; her eyes pitch black, tone with sigh and amusement.
She is.
Miss Death.
Today past eight o’clock, power outage from tripped breaker, all typed on phone… so didn’t write enough.
