It was raining.
The rain was coming from the fire hydrant.
The atmosphere at the scene was extremely awkward.
"You didn't set the handbrake?"
The traffic cop was completely dumbfounded.
"Uh..."
Ian was not exactly eager to admit he had made such a stupid mistake.
"And this isn't even the first time something like this happened today?"
The officer looked at him as if he were witnessing a true road menace. His face turned especially serious as he glared at the delinquent-looking boy in front of him.
And right then,
"How much do I have to pay..."
Ian asked with an embarrassed laugh.
The traffic cop turned to look at the hydrant still spraying water into the air.
"That's not handled by the police. But based on city maintenance standards, repair costs will be at least a hundred thousand dollars."
That was America for you. It had its own system of value.
With one round of compensation like that, the ever-present Agent Smith would probably walk away with ninety-nine thousand in pure profit.
Ian turned back toward the taxi and dragged a toolbox out from beside the driver's seat.
"What are you doing?!"
The traffic cop's hand went straight to his gun.
He was extremely alert.
It was a good thing Ian did not come equipped with some legendary nighttime-only skin, or the officer might already have emptied his magazine by now. At the moment, he was only somewhat worried that Ian might suddenly pull out a gun of his own.
"Obviously I'm fixing the fire hydrant!"
Ian pulled out a hammer, shoved the jammed car away from the hydrant with force, then turned and started smashing the hydrant violently.
"The handbrake!"
The traffic cop saw the taxi sliding toward Ian's backside and immediately abandoned his gun, dove into the cab, and managed to stop the car just before it kissed Ian.
"And this guy got a license?"
The officer wiped the sweat off his forehead. Crawling back out through the warped door, he discovered that Ian had disappeared. All that remained at the scene was a fire hydrant that was no longer spraying water.
It looked absolutely terrible, but at least it really had been "fixed."
And resting on top of it was a shabby-looking car key.
So it really had been in the ashtray the whole time.
"Damn it! Where did he go?"
The officer looked around wildly.
All he saw was a figure running faster than Bolt disappearing around a distant corner.
"Stan Lee, huh?!"
The traffic cop ground his teeth in anger. He was convinced that the second rollaway had absolutely been part of that rotten kid's scheme. He immediately grabbed his radio and started "putting out an alert" for Ian.
Of course,
since the name on the identification was the fake one Ian had wanted him to see, this "alert" was obviously not going to lead anywhere good. Still, that did not stop the officer from urgently calling for backup.
High above the sky,
inside the clouds,
smack.
The exhausted father up there slapped himself hard on the forehead.
Having watched the whole thing from start to finish, he was forced to admit that Ian was not quite the person he and Lois had thought he was.
How to put it.
He had morals. He had a conscience.
But it also felt like he did not have all that much of either.
Trying to raise this special child well, Clark felt an enormous amount of pressure.
"What a troublesome little guy."
Clark let out a long, heavy sigh. He could not help thinking back to the night he found Ian. Perhaps he should have realized then that Ian's future was never going to be ordinary.
Realizing it only now
was not too late.
Clark, now middle-aged, had three children. But compared to his eldest and second son, he felt that Ian, his adopted son, was actually the one most like him.
After all,
that day,
that night,
and that meteor shower
had all felt like a familiar cycle repeating itself.
...
Because he had missed the last bus,
Ian was left with only one option, taking a taxi, a choice that still gave him a slight psychological shadow.
Before that, though, his top priority was filling the stomach that had become unbearably empty thanks to [Regenerative Surge].
The stomach was an emotional organ.
Only after eating his fill would Ian be in the mood to go home and report what had happened.
He pushed open the door of a convenience store by the street. The store's greeting immediately rang out, but to him the word "Welcome" felt totally devoid of sincerity.
It was nowhere near as down-to-earth as "There you are, brother."
After entering the store, Ian went straight for the fast-carb section, meaning the cheap but high-calorie heavily processed foods.
"This, this, and this."
Through his own effort, Ian had managed to accumulate more money than his two brothers combined, so he had no need to worry about being short on cash while shopping.
The cashier was a young guy with glasses whose clear eyes gave off exactly the feeling of someone working part-time to support himself.
"That'll be $29.45."
The guy scanned each item one by one.
"Mm."
Stuffing food into his mouth with one hand, Ian took out three ten-dollar bills and counted out forty-five cents in coins. He clearly saw the cashier freeze for a moment.
"You can just give me back one dollar."
Ian reminded him.
"Oh, right."
The cashier suddenly looked enlightened.
Unfortunately, the enlightenment did not go very deep. He still grabbed a calculator and furiously punched in the numbers before finally handing Ian a one-dollar bill as change.
"Thanks."
Ian took a bite of his hot dog and turned to leave.
Just then,
"Welcome~"
The convenience store greeting sounded again, still just as emotionless. But the person entering was nothing if not emotional.
Wearing a stocking over his head and holding a small-caliber handgun, he charged straight toward the register.
"Robbery!!"
What a painfully cliché scene.
Anyone who did not know better would have thought this was Gotham next door.
"No funny business!"
The robber pointed his handgun at the horrified cashier.
Then he turned warily toward Ian, who had stopped nearby, and the gun instinctively shifted in Ian's direction.
The moment Ian saw the barrel point at him, he raised both hands.
"So, uh, times are hard for everybody. I get it."
Ian was not trying to get close to him, nor was he playing social politics.
He had simply taken one look at the guy and decided this was probably someone having a very bad day.
"Who the hell is getting screwed over, and who's got it worse?"
The robber was clearly thrown off, unable to understand Ian's strange attempt at sympathy. It was as if his intelligence had been insulted, and he immediately flew into a rage.
"Get lost, brat!"
Clearly,
this was a robber with ambition. His heart was set on the big score, and he had no interest in the loose change a middle schooler might be carrying. So he waved the gun threateningly a few times, ordering Ian to get out.
"All right, I'm going."
Ian quickly ran out of the convenience store.
And just when the robber was about to focus on dealing with the cashier,
"Welcome~"
Ian came back around again.
He was obviously not trying to be a superhero and defeat the robber to save the store. That was the insurance company's job.
The detail-oriented boy had simply realized something very important the moment he stepped outside.
"So, uh, I respected America's street traditions, but did somebody forget to say thank you to me?"
Soul corruption, perhaps, had not left Ian completely unaffected after all.
The angle of his thinking had become noticeably more twisted than usual.
(End of Chapter)
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