"Man in the Mirror"
Time passed, and fourteen years went by in the blink of an eye.
Beside the blinds, John Kent stood lazily in front of the full-length mirror in his room, bare-chested, admiring his perfect physique.
All told.
As of today, he had basked in the Kansas sun for a full eighteen years.
A foundation of V1, a variant of Compound V, and the sunlight shining into his cells every day.
All those strange ingredients had been stirred together, forging his body into what it was now.
It was like pouring molten bronze into a mold, then knocking the mold away after it cooled to reveal the form beneath.
His shoulders had broadened by an inch and a half, his trapezius muscles evenly distributed where they joined the base of his neck.
The lower edges of his pecs tapered cleanly.
His abs weren't like those fake rows of chocolate squares stacked up in Playboy.
Instead, they resembled a solid bronze plate chiseled with natural grooves of varying depths.
The center line of his rectus abdominis cut from beneath his breastbone to his navel, while his obliques drew tight toward his waist, forming a steep V.
The sun had branded his skin an uneven bronze, darkest at the back of his neck, followed by his forearms, with a pale strip left along his waist.
Finished with his daily admiration session.
John picked up his bar work shirt, slipped it on, and buttoned it up.
Just last year, John had started working in a Kansas town called Munie, washing up and mopping floors at a bar.
It was worth mentioning that Jonathan had introduced him to this bar; both husband and wife had worked here when they were young.
Munie was less than forty miles from Smallville and had a population of eight hundred.
The bar had no name. The sign outside bore only one word: BAR.
Well, the job didn't require much skill.
The beer glasses were still hot when they came out of the dishwasher and had to be wiped clean with a white cloth.
There was always a layer of some unidentified sticky substance on the counter that took hard scrubbing.
John worked diligently. In his previous life, his mind had never been quiet.
Vought had scheduled his appearances from six in the morning until two the next morning.
Every minute, someone told him where to stand, what to say, and which camera to smile at.
Over time, he had grown sick of that life.
Now, by contrast, he particularly enjoyed this relaxed existence.
That night.
There weren't many people in the bar tonight. Rain was falling outside, the sparse, drizzling spring rain of Kansas.
A few familiar faces sat at the counter.
Old Sam was tucked away in a corner drinking stout, while a married couple ate fish and chips in a booth.
A fucking Black couple, at that.
Three truckers occupied another table in the corner, still in their work clothes, which were stained with engine oil and sweat. They were probably on their third round already.
One had a full beard and a neck as thick as a tree stump. His whole chest shook when he laughed.
John found him a little annoying.
Because his voice was the fucking loudest, and his language the filthiest. Every sentence involved genitals and someone else's blood relatives.
Even sitting over by the counter, John could smell the foul alcoholic stench spraying from his mouth.
John gave him an extra glance while polishing a glass. He didn't look like a decent sort, but the bar saw plenty of people like him. As long as they paid and left after drinking, that was fine.
So he left him alone.
After all, he had promised Old Joe that he would keep himself hidden.
Besides, one blast of Heat Vision could send low-grade trash like that straight to God.
Yes, Heat Vision. You heard that right.
By now, John had recovered to his peak condition before he had been injected with V1.
Including, but not limited to, hearing and observational abilities, flight, an invulnerable body, and Heat Vision.
There was also a newly awakened ability with some unknown properties, something akin to force-field manipulation.
Roughly speaking, it was an invisible protective shell he could feel himself, capable of shielding him or other matter from harm.
Besides, John wasn't some blockhead. His adoptive father was probably afraid of him using his powers mostly because he feared exposing them.
But having lived two lives, although John had reined himself in considerably compared to his previous life.
If some blind fool really did come looking for trouble with him, he genuinely wouldn't mind making them physically disappear.
After all, only dead men couldn't talk.
Well, provided he didn't expose his powers.
Besides, technology in this era was nowhere near as advanced as in his previous life.
The street surveillance cameras only had porno-level image quality. He could simply find a blind spot, and with his absolute observational abilities, no one would discover him.
He was very confident about that.
"Creak-"
Just then, the door opened. John glanced over while mopping. Hmm, not regulars.
Two sexily dressed girls, probably in their early twenties, ran inside to escape the rain, half their hair soaked and a few drops of mud splashed onto their denim hot pants.
One had long blond hair and wore a pale blue sweatshirt. The other had short hair and round-framed glasses.
They sat down at the counter and ordered two lemonades. When the blonde smiled, she showed two pointed canine teeth.
The short-haired beauty took a map from her bag, spread it across the counter, and pointed at a red circle as she asked John, who was nearest:
"Excuse me, how do we get to this campground?"
How did this become my business?
With his powers restored, John could remember anything at a glance.
Just one look at the map told him it was the state park campground, about fifteen miles from Munie.
"Head north out of town, cross a bridge, then turn left."
"Thanks, handsome."
Putting the map away, the blonde took a long pull of lemonade, then turned to look at the old license plates decorating the wall-
They came from all different states, and a few were so rusty their original colors were impossible to make out.
"You're not locals, are you?"
John spoke while polishing a glass.
"We're from Wichita. We're going camping over spring break."
They sat at the counter for about half an hour, drank half their lemonade, and chatted about the weather and road conditions.
The blonde might have drunk more. Clearly needing to pee, she stood up to go to the restroom.
But just as she passed the table in the corner, the bearded man suddenly lowered his hand from the tabletop.
It wasn't an accident. He deliberately pressed his palm against the girl's butt, curled his fingers, then gave an almost imperceptible squeeze.
"Ah!"
The blonde sprang away as though scalded by hot water and whirled around.
All the ease vanished from her face, leaving only an expression that mixed disgust, anger, and fear.
She opened her mouth, wanting to curse, but the bearded man spoke first.
"Oh... what's wrong, America's sweetheart? Did I bump into you?"
He grinned, exposing large, tobacco-yellowed teeth. His two companions laughed along.
One of them, a skinny man, even raised his hands and made an obscene grabbing motion with both:
"Come on, babe, you charge just for passing by? Not a bad size, either~"
"Pervert!"
The blonde's face flushed bright red. Her companion rose from the counter, took her arm, and whispered, "Let it go."
"I..."
The blonde was clearly the hot-tempered sort and couldn't swallow this insult. Her chest rose and fell twice, and she trembled with anger.
Why should I?
Because they were three big men reeking of engine oil, while she wasn't even five foot five.
Among girls, that counted as tall.
But facing three six-foot men, it was nowhere near enough.
Just then, John put down the glass in his hand. Its base struck the rack with a dull clunk.
He came out from behind the counter, walked to the corner table, and stood beside the blonde.
John wasn't some bleeding heart. He just remembered Jonathan once telling him that he could lend a hand when he saw someone in difficulty.
It wasn't out of some bullshit sense of justice. He fucking hated those high-sounding pretenses most of all.
It was an involuntary, constant effort to "follow Joe's example."
The same principle as when he had followed Soldier Boy's lead in choosing cocktails.
"Hey, I said... apologize to her."
The bearded man looked up at him, froze for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"Who the fuck are you? The bartender?"
He looked John up and down.
"Little brat hasn't even grown his pubes yet. Go back to polishing your glasses. Wanna play the hero and save the beauty?"
"I said, apologize."
John's voice was calm.
Seeing that John refused to know what was good for him, the bearded man stopped smiling too. He set down his beer glass and slowly rose.
He was half a head taller than John and at least sixty pounds heavier. As he stood, the backs of his knees shoved his chair half a meter backward.
The reek of sweat and alcohol rolled straight off him, driving the two girls beside them a step back.
"Son of a bitch..."
He leaned into John's face, spraying it with booze and cigarette breath. Beneath the lights, his nostrils looked like two black holes.
His lips curled back far enough to reveal his gums.
"Fuck... you want a little feel too?"
As he said that, he raised his right hand, spread his fingers, and reached toward John's chest.
Then, the next second, he went flying.
The effect was relatively "plain."
To make his performance look reasonable, John had even deliberately calculated the force, gripping his wrist and twisting him into the air.
Then he locked down his wrist and twisted inward, while hooking his left foot between the man's legs.
He drove his shoulder beneath the man's armpit and thrust his whole body forward.
"Thud-"
The bearded man's two-hundred-plus-pound body hung in the air for half a second, traced half an arc, then slammed back-first into the wooden floor in the corner.
"Bang!!"
The impact toppled the beer glasses on the table, splashing foam all over his face. The floorboards cracked with a dull sound, and a splintered section instantly sprang up from a gap in the floor.
"Joseph, are you okay?"
Seeing the bearded man defeated in an instant, his two companions immediately stood up.
The skinny one grabbed a beer bottle and smashed its base against the edge of the table, leaving half a length of sharp, broken glass.
The other pulled a switchblade from his waistband. Its spring gave a crisp ding as the blade snapped out.
The skinny man gripped the broken bottle, the jagged glass at its mouth glinting darkly beneath the lights.
He raised the bottle above his shoulder, aiming at John's face.
"You're fucking asking to die!"
The broken bottle stabbed toward him, followed by the switchblade.
One came from the front, the other from the side. They had chosen decent angles; clearly, this wasn't their first time working together.
John didn't retreat. Retreating would expose the two girls by the counter to the fight.
That would cause unnecessary trouble.
Immediately afterward, he advanced half a step, and the broken bottle skimmed past his ear.
Then his right hand swept up from below and caught the skinny man's bottle-wielding hand. He drove his thumb into the inside of the man's wrist joint and pressed inward.
"Clack!"
The next second, the skinny man's fingers sprang open on their own, and the bottle fell from his hand.
With his super senses, John caught the bottle one-handed.
With a flick of his wrist, he turned the bottle around and struck its base against the soft hollow where the skinny man's collarbone met his neck.
"Thump~"
The skinny man's whole body went rigid for half a second as though electrocuted, then his knees buckled and he dropped to the floor.
One hand clutched his neck. His mouth hung open, but no sound came out.
At the same time, the switchblade stabbed into John's left ribs.
John neither pulled in his stomach nor blocked.
The tip pierced his work shirt, and the instant it touched his skin-
The blade bent outright.
As though it had struck a wall of iron plate, the cutting edge curled back from the tip, then coiled into a little spiral flower of metal.
The switchblade's handle jolted free of the other thug's hand and fell to the floor with a clang.
Fuck... did I expose myself?
John glanced around. Finding that no one had noticed, he let out a huge sigh of relief inwardly.
Phew... good thing no one noticed. There was still a chance.
At that moment, the punk looked down at his empty hand, then at the knife on the floor with its rolled edge.
When he looked back up at John, all the viciousness in his eyes was gone.
Only the instinctive fear that came after his brain crashed remained.
"You..."
"Fuck!"
John looked down at the hole in his clothes.
Employees had to buy their own bartender uniforms. He had bought this one with his own hard-earned money.
It looked like he would have to buy another one. That cheapskate Tom definitely wouldn't reimburse him.
The bearded man got up off the floor, half his face smeared with beer foam and dust from the wooden floor.
The corner of his mouth had split from the impact, and blood mixed with beer dripped down his chin.
He struggled to stand, bracing himself against the table. His right hand quickly found another beer bottle on it, his fingers clenched, and he swung the bottle up.
But he didn't dare bring it down.
Because John casually turned his head and glanced at him.
They were just ordinary eyes, but there was no anger in them, no fear, no hesitation.
One could say there was nothing in them at all.
The bearded man had lived for over thirty years.
He had seen eyes turn red in drunken fights, seen the hysterical frenzy of people robbed of their money, seen the desperate fury of men who had been cuckolded.
But he had never seen such a terrifying gaze.
This wasn't looking at him. This was weighing him.
Weighing his life.
In those eyes, his life was given an inconsequential little heft.
Just like the spilled beer, the wood splinters on the floor, and the drunk in the corner who had vomited all over the place-
All worthless trash.
Soon, the bottle slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. He didn't even dare pick it up.
"Fuck!"
He took a step back, his back hitting the wall, his fingers clutching the edge of the table and leaving sweaty marks.
"...Fine, you're tough... fuck, I'm not going to..."
"Apologize to her."
John simply repeated those few words, his tone flat.
But the pressure they put on the bearded man was especially intense.
It seemed as though something would shoot out of his eyes the very next second and slice the man's head in half.
Gulp.
The bearded man's Adam's apple bobbed once. Looking into John's eyes, he moved his lips and struggled to squeeze a few words out of his throat:
"I'm... I'm sorry."
"Get lost."
Hearing John's impatient words, the bearded man felt as though he had been granted amnesty. He hurriedly took his two companions and scrambled away, running without looking back.
Only the blonde girl remained standing there, staring blankly at John.
Until her companion said quietly beside her,
"Kelly, weren't you going to the bathroom just now?"
Only then did she abruptly snap out of it, as though awakened. Her face reddened slightly, and she held her lower belly as she hurried toward the restroom.
Old Sam was still sitting in the corner, his backside never having left his chair the entire time.
He held his glass of dark beer, foam sliding down the inside of the glass, and watched John.
John returned to his station and resumed wiping down the counter. As he wiped, he heard Old Sam say to him with a smile:
"Your dad did the same thing... twenty-three years ago, right at this very bar.
"There was a truck driver making trouble back then, and your dad threw him straight out the door.
"But he wasn't showing off. It was actually for your mom.
"Your mom was still Martha Clark back then (to add a detail, women abroad take their husband's surname after marriage, hence this wording), working as a cashier at the grocery store next door.
"Your dad shielded her behind him and fought three men alone. Afterward, his left eye stayed black and blue for a full week."
Old Sam took a sip of beer and looked at the dim yellow hanging light on the ceiling.
"But that driver never came back to Munie... oh, forgot to mention, your dad was twenty-one that year. His arms weren't even as thick as yours are now."
After saying that, he took another swig, then pointed at the knife cut in John's clothes.
"Don't throw that shirt away. Your mom can mend it so it looks better than a new one."
John looked down at the hole over his left ribs. The blade had pierced his work shirt, tearing the fabric outward in every direction.
A few threads pulled loose by the blade still hung from the edges.
Then he thought again of that lace-trimmed patch, full of love and carrying a delicate fragrance.
So sweet.
It really was like that.
"Yeah..."
"Oh, right, that son of a bitch didn't hurt you just now, did he? What was up with that knife?"
"Oh, probably some street-stall junk. Quality issue."
John tossed the switchblade with the rolled edge into the trash.
"No harm done."