Malphegor
patreon
PIG Ch. 07
🕑 Added 2025-11-27 04:49:54 +0000 UTCGotham and Metropolis faced each other across a gray-blue bay. The usual commute between the two cities was either a long, winding drive along the coastal highway, or taking the ferry that crossed between the shores. The latter was cheap and slow, which naturally made it the first choice for Marco and most other poor people.
After getting off the boat, he had to take a bus into the city. Leaving his apartment at seven in the morning, by the time he finally saw the iconic planet logo on top of the Daily Planet building, it was already close to ten.
The sunlight was blazing.
Metropolis' forest of glass curtain-wall skyscrapers reflected dazzling light that almost hurt his eyes. It was a sight he could barely imagine seeing in Gotham, where gray clouds hung overhead almost all year round.
When the receptionist asked the purpose of his visit, he said he was a fan of Clark Kent. She was surprised at first, then politely led him to a reception room and served him coffee. As she closed the door behind her, he could vaguely hear their whispering voices.
"Lois' little farm-boy sidekick has fans now? He even looks as clueless as he does..."
"Shh. If she hears you, you're dead. I heard Perry got yelled back into his office again this morning..."
Fine. Sorry I can't be like other transmigrators who breeze in, charm every beauty with one look, and get them throwing themselves into my arms. My bad for disappointing everyone.
Basking in the bright sunlight streaming in from outside, Marco slumped into the sofa and looked around. On the walls hung several beautifully framed black-and-white news photos, capturing important moments in the city's history. Near the door, a sleek glass display case held several gleaming Pulitzer trophies and old front pages of historical significance. In the center of the room sat a thick round glass coffee table, polished so clean it reflected the blue sky and white clouds outside.
He looked closely at the trophies. Most of the names carved on them belonged to the same person, Lois Lane.
Maybe she's really that capable... but having a father who's both a general and a senator probably doesn't hurt either. Well, whatever. News has nothing to do with me anyway. I just hope I can somehow push the Waylon situation into Metropolis today...
While he was leaning against the window, lost in thought, someone knocked and came in. Backlit by the light, the figure momentarily seemed tall and imposing, but the feeling disappeared in an instant. Instead came a sense of gentleness and calming warmth.
Kindness, humility, shyness... all the finest adjectives in the dictionary of human virtues could apply to him. A stranger nearly 191 centimeters tall should have felt threatening, yet instead made you feel perfectly safe.
Wide retro black-rimmed glasses. A loose navy flannel suit. A simple diagonally striped tie. Shoulders that sloped inward a little. He was indeed very hard to associate with the man who one day would lift mountains and cross seas at will.
Marco stood up and offered his hand.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Kent."
"Uh... uh, I'm very happy to meet you too, Officer Vitale."
Clark hurried forward, grabbed Marco's hand, only for his knee to bang directly into the edge of the glass table. The coffee cup wobbled wildly. Startled, he let go of Marco and tried to steady the cup, but slapped his hand down on the metal stirring spoon instead.
Thunk!
The spoon shot upward, scraped across the front of his suit jacket, leaving a brown streak, then clinked against the table edge before finally plopping onto the star-patterned carpet.
"I'm so sorry. That was all my fault."
His face flushed bright red. He was only in his early twenties, at most he'd secretly saved a derailed train or a crashing plane, far from the world-weary, middle-aged man who liked giving speeches. Although the little sequence of clumsy movements wasn't entirely accidental, it was still embarrassing, and he naturally felt awkward.
"It's just a very minor accident." Marco smiled, taking a napkin from his pocket and handing it over. "Please, wipe it off."
"Thank you so much." Clark wiped at his jacket, then sat in the seat opposite him, hands placed properly on his knees, looking shy and lost, almost like he was the one here to see his idol.
The two stared at each other with polite, awkward smiles for a few seconds before Marco finally began.
"Mr. Kent, my name is Marco Vitale from the Gotham Police Department. I've read your articles about football. The writing was vivid, very interesting..."
Vivid and interesting? Yeah right.
Superman might push the moon without breaking a sweat, but the articles he published in the paper were dry and plain to the point of despair. But hey, flattery doesn't cost money, right? And sure enough, Clark's face visibly reddened and the corners of his mouth began to twitch upward.
"Uh... it's not just about reporting the games. You also called on the team to pay attention to players' health and injury prevention, while other journalists only focus on the team's record or stock earnings. I think that means you must be a very kind person."
In Gotham, even ten-year-olds wouldn't fall for praise like that. They'd stare coldly, then wait until you were alone in an alley and try to mug you with a spring knife for whatever change you had in your pocket. But for a Kansas boy who had yet to be beaten down by society or sabotaged by Batman, his level of experience was still basically elementary school.
He felt the praise was exaggerated, yet he couldn't stop the giddy happiness bubbling up. He adjusted his glasses and said, slightly shy, "Officer Vitale, please just call me Clark. And really, that opportunity was thanks to my colleague helping me get the interview. Did you read the article about the league schedule and injury challenges, or the one about protective gear and concussions? Would you like to discuss it further?"
Bro, why are you not following the script? This was just supposed to be polite mutual praise, why are you taking it seriously...
"Uh... I've read them all... No need to be so formal, you can call me Marco. And I'm here today for something much more important. It's about a fourteen-year-old boy in Gotham who's suffering from school bullying and discrimination at home..."
---
"That's pretty much the situation." Marco explained Waylon's circumstances. "I want to ask you to help recommend a suitable football team, or maybe a youth training program? I don't really understand the system. But I can guarantee he's really strong. When he runs, he's like a tank, knocking down a wall would be nothing for him. He could dominate the entire league."
Clark nodded slightly, thinking for a moment. "If that's really the case, there would indeed be a lot of teams eager to recruit him. But... from what I know, bullying also exists within teams. I worry that..."
"Don't worry. Capitalists won't let street cats scratch their golden goose. That way, the kid gets out of his toxic environment, the team gets a potential star and a money-making machine, and you get a major story you can write several follow-ups on. Three-way win, right?"
"That's true." Clark nodded slowly, his eyes studying Marco through the lenses. "But what about you? What do you get out of this?"
"Me..." Marco hesitated. "Honestly, the kid has a genetic condition that makes him stronger and stronger, but also more monstrous and withdrawn. And his living environment is terrible. You know, when someone loses hope in life, they can unleash incredible anger and destructive power. If things continue down this path, one day Gotham may end up with a terrifying, antisocial madman."
He sighed and shook his head slowly. "But right now, he's still just a fourteen-year-old boy. I can't execute him for a crime he hasn't yet committed. I hope a better environment can hold onto his humanity. Maybe, someday, I won't have to face a cruel and bloodthirsty monster. Honestly, that wouldn't be fun at all."
A brief silence fell over the reception room. Sunlight streamed through the window and lit up Clark's face, so bright that Marco almost had to squint.
"Marco, you're a good man. I'll try to contact someone for you. I'll also write a few articles for the paper, calling for public attention to the impact of school bullying and domestic violence on young people. I promise to reply to you as soon as I can."
"Uh... that would really be great. Thank you." Marco lowered his head and wiped his eyes, putting on a moved expression.
He watched Clark writing something in his notebook and quietly sank his consciousness inward, only to find he hadn't gained any new skill points.
So writing news articles really is Superman's destined path... Though honestly, if he could write something with a little more vocabulary and a little less painful dryness, I'd thank him even more...
Just as the two fell into silence, the door of the reception room was suddenly opened. A woman with a bob haircut and an oval face stepped inside. She glanced at the two men and offered an apologetic smile.
"Oh, sorry. I'm here for Clark."
"Hi, uh... this is Officer Vitale from Gotham PD. And this is my colleague, Lois Lane."
Even though Superman hadn't yet become Lois' full-time simp, the feeling was already borderline ambiguous, at least one-sidedly. It was like a stone sprouting new buds; his whole demeanor perked up.
Lois looked at Clark, then at Marco, and said with a smiling squint:
"Clark and I had lunch plans. I heard he even had a fan visit today, so I couldn't help coming to see. I hope you don't mind?"
That line would fool Clark, but Marco wasn't buying it.
A tough and driven career woman like her didn't barge into someone's meeting just because of lunch. Most likely, she thought he was some scammer here to trick her Kansas boy, so she rushed over to investigate.
"No, of course not. Clark and I were having a pleasant conversation," Marco said with a wave of his hand. "It's about time anyway, I should get going."
"Marco, would you like to join us for lunch?"
Uh...
Marco wasn't sure if Clark was doing it on purpose or was just socially clueless, but seeing Lois' expression shift ever so slightly, he hurriedly shook his head.
"No, thank you. I don't think I could eat right now. But if you could tell me where the nearest drugstore is, I'd appreciate it."
"You're sick? I can take you to the hospital."
As expected from the embodiment of moral virtue, he could feel Clark's concern was genuine and heartfelt, to the point that he temporarily forgot Lois entirely.
Marco smiled and declined his kindness.
"I just have a bit of lingering seasickness, and I need to get some medicine in preparation for the vomiting I'll probably do on the return trip. Thank you. Goodbye, Ms. Lane. Goodbye, Clark."
"Hey, Marco, wait!" Seeing that he was really leaving, Clark quickly tore a page from his notebook, scribbled a few lines, jogged over, and pressed it into Marco's hand. "These are the nearest pharmacies, and... and my phone number. If you start feeling really bad, or if anything happens, call me, don't hesitate. And about Waylon, don't worry. I'll get back to you as soon as I can. Take care on the way back."
Marco looked down at the slip of paper in his palm. He didn't say anything, just nodded firmly, turned around, and opened the heavy reception room door.
The shadow of the hallway swallowed him, creeping silently up his shoulders. He strode toward the elevator, leaving behind the two people filled with youth and hope, along with the too-bright sunlight of Metropolis.
Only the small note with a phone number in his hand remained.
