Chapter 5038

"Hiss... gentle, it hurts." Clark pressed a hand to his chest.

"If you don't move your hand, how am I supposed to change your dressing?" Diana kept her head lowered, tending to his chest. "Don't touch it, or it'll split open again in a moment..."

Clark's face showed discomfort, then he cried out again: "Ah!"

Diana straightened up helplessly. "No wonder the nurses all refuse to change your dressing. Can't you just behave?"

"I've never been injured like this in my life," Clark said aggrievedly. "No, I should say I've never been injured at all. I used to wonder why humans scream so miserably when they're hurt. Turns out it really hurts that much."

Diana sighed helplessly. "Don't touch it with your hand, or you'll wipe off the medicinal powder..."

"Does this really work?" Clark looked down at the wound on his chest. "What I mean is, can human medicine work on me?"

"This is the Revival Alliance's specially developed drug," Diana said. "It might not speed up healing, but it'll definitely stop the pain. Just behave, once I've applied it and bandaged you up it won't hurt anymore..."

"Clark, Clark!" Agent Hill walked in. "Routine patrol, why didn't you..."

She'd just finished speaking when she slapped her forehead. "Sorry, there's been a lot going on lately, I forgot you were injured."

Clark looked at her somewhat anxious face and said, "It's fine, just a minor injury. I can still go on patrol."

Diana hurriedly patted him down. "You're not going anywhere. Stay put and recover, what if it gets worse?"

"But patrol can't go unmanned either," Clark said. "I patrol the most dangerous streets, you know — the ones that used to be Gotham's slums. The guys there aren't easy to deal with."

"It's fine, you recover," Hill said. "I'll find someone else."

"Can that work?" Clark asked with some worry. "You'd better find a capable hand, don't let the patrol fail and get beaten back instead."

Hill waved a hand at him, signaling him to relax. After leaving the room she sighed. Where was she supposed to find a capable hand now? Everyone was circling the cathedral; even regular agents couldn't be spared.

She was walking out when she ran straight into Coulson. She hurriedly stopped him and said, "Why didn't you go to the church?"

"I just got back from Wayne Enterprises," Coulson said. "They're discussing a joint venture. Also, Spider-Man's back. But Mr. Wayne said it's still best not to let him show his face for now..."

"Does he have time?" Hill was grasping at straws in her desperation; even if Spider-Man wasn't that formidable, he was better than no one at all. She added, "Clark's injured and needs rest. His sector is short a patrol. Let Spider-Man go."

Coulson's face showed difficulty, but after thinking a moment he said, "Alright, I'll pass the message on."

Before long, Spider-Man appeared in the skies above Forward York City. His mood was actually terrible. He truly hadn't expected that what Iron Man said was actually true — these people had been harboring malicious intentions to frame him all along.

Last time their operation was interrupted by Iron Man's sudden arrival. This time, old tricks repeated — he actually stepped into the trap again, and in the end it was only thanks to Peter and Thomas that they barely salvaged his reputation.

Spider-Man had heard about the circumstances of other Bruce Waynes in the universe. The basic information he could gather was that Bruce Wayne is a playboy by day, and by night dresses as Batman to uphold justice.

"Playboy" sounds like a derogatory term, but in fact, in the American environment, people actually prefer playboys. It's the inarticulate bookworms who get ostracized.

For example, many American high schools and universities have fraternities and sororities. These organizations aren't quite the same as student councils — they don't perform student management functions, they just form small cliques and exchange resources among themselves.

And the daily activities of these organizations are drinking, chatting, throwing parties — what's called socializing. In such settings, the glib and smooth-talking are more popular. If they're morally bankrupt to boot, capable of any outrageous act, they attract even more attention and more easily become social celebrities.

And most Bruce Waynes disguise themselves as exactly this type of person. And given his background, he really should be this kind of person — because most fraternity and sorority organizers are heirs from old money families, and they use precisely these methods to win people over.

No one would suspect that the Wayne heir's persona hides some unspeakable secret, because everyone acts like this. Bruce Wayne only counts as mediocre — not outstanding, not outrageous — so he doesn't spark widespread discussion, and the public naturally doesn't suspect he's Batman.

Whereas someone like this universe's Spider-Man — clearly a conglomerate heir yet acting like a bookworm — instead easily arouses suspicion about whether he has some special perversion or is a mental patient.

After this incident, quite a few people dug into his past behavior. Some said he's gay, some said he's schizophrenic, some said he kills in private, some said he runs prostitution rings. Every analysis was presented with convincing detail, not stopping until they'd painted him as a psychopath.

Because they couldn't understand how a rich young master raised in that kind of high-society environment could have the same personality as a shut-in. To prove he was faking it, they naturally kept analyzing him.

Spider-Man was given a massive headache by these voices. He didn't dare show his face in public now — any public appearance and reporters would hound him. He couldn't even attend classes anymore, so he could only come be Spider-Man.

Just as he was fretting, Spider-Man saw a familiar figure. Accurately speaking, a whole squad of familiar figures.

Peter Parker was leading a group of students, inspecting architectural planning on nearby streets. Spider-Man remembered that in class they'd mentioned this old district was slated for modernization renovation. Presumably Forward York University's urban planning students were also participating.

Thinking of this, Spider-Man grew even angrier. He'd wanted to properly attend university. He'd wanted to participate in the urban renewal project. But now he couldn't even go down and say hello to them — he could only cling to the wall and secretly audit the class.

"Everyone look at this street. The architectural planning here has severe problems. First, the building spacing is too narrow, causing serious lighting issues. The layout is irrational — if you want to reach that street next door, you have to detour around an entire alley. This is the relationship between horizontal and vertical dimensions we discussed in class..."

Peter Parker walked backward in one direction, lecturing the students as he went. Spider-Man followed along, listening intently. He hadn't forgotten he was here on patrol either, occasionally raising his head to monitor the surroundings.

Perhaps because Superman had been patrolling before — no criminal could escape his gaze, most were caught, the rest didn't dare come out. After watching a while with no activity, Spider-Man climbed lower, intending to follow Peter to another street.

Peter naturally noticed Spider-Man, but didn't stop him. He still felt great sympathy for Spider-Man — he himself had been caught in public opinion storms multiple times in his youth. He understood that feeling.

Spider-Man focused on the lecture, Peter reminisced about the past. Right when both were somewhat distracted, a man in a black jacket suddenly rushed from the street corner and grabbed the bag in Peter's hand.

Whatever else, Peter had been Spider-Man for all those years. He instinctively clutched the bag tight, engaged his core and yanked it back. The mugger failed to snatch the bag away.

But the mugger had forward momentum from his charge. He leveraged that inertia, exerted force, and yanked Peter into a stumble, nearly throwing him to the ground. Peter was a bit helpless — been a warrior too long, switching to mage takes some adjusting. He hurriedly readjusted his posture.

And in that very instant, the mugger drew a gun and fired.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The whole world magnified in Spider-Man's eyes. His spider-sense screamed shrilly, clamoring to dodge, yet his body instinctively lunged in that direction. Anger, fear, bewilderment — emotions can outrun bullets, but the body cannot.

With a bang, Spider-Man crashed into the crowd. Sliding along with the momentum, he slammed into a wall. Screams amplified endlessly in his ears. Rainwater splashed. The crowd clamored. He forced his eyes open, but saw no sign of Peter fallen on the ground.

Spider-Man felt dizzy, his whole body trembling. The next second, he saw Peter appear behind the gunman, raise a hand and knock him unconscious. The students had already fled the alley in panic. Only the two of them remained in the narrow lane.

Peter helped Spider-Man up. Though he was unharmed, his expression was extremely grave. "You alright? Bruce?"

Spider-Man couldn't bring himself to say he was fine. He didn't know what was wrong with him — clearly he hadn't done anything physically taxing, yet right now he could barely stand. Ever since gaining superpowers, he'd had inexhaustible energy every day. A moment of total physical exhaustion like this hadn't happened in a very long time.

Peter supported him to the wall, braced him against it. Extended a finger, took a deep breath, wanted to say something, but seemed not to know where to start. Then he let go, allowing Spider-Man to slide down and sit against the wall.

Peter lowered his head, seeing the damp mud and puddles at the wall's base. Spider-Man's bright suit reflected on the water's surface, nearly swallowed by the filth. Peter Parker had never smoked in his life, yet right now he suddenly wanted a cigarette.

"Listen, Bruce. You can't keep going on like this," Peter said. "Otherwise you'll keep losing. Lose a lot."

"I don't even know what I am right now," Spider-Man said. "I haven't found myself. So how can I talk about change?"

Peter grabbed his collar, hauled him up, then shoved him hard against the wall again, saying with something like viciousness: "I gave you superpowers, not so you could wallow in self-abandonment here!"

"Then take them back." Spider-Man seized Peter's hand, raising his voice. "Take the superpowers back. Go be your Spider-Man! You go, not me!"

Peter flung the hand away, took another deep breath, composed himself and said: "It's not that simple, Bruce. The wheels of fate have already started turning."

"Couldn't tell you're a fortune-teller too." Spider-Man looked at him.

"I'm not joking with you." Peter stepped back two paces, eyes full of sorrow. "Once a car's wheels start turning, they don't stop easily. If you don't run fast enough, you'll be crushed."

Peter's Adam's apple bobbed. He paused, then said: "It's my fault. You should see not just the surface glamour when this car speeds along, but the bloodstains left by the wheel hubs."

"You sound like a poet." Spider-Man said. "Tell me what to do, Peter... what exactly should I do?"

Peter looked at him in silence. In the gloomy daylight, facial hollows always showed more clearly, making him look ten years older — or perhaps he was already this old, sustained by some mental fortitude, and when that dispersed, the weathered weariness surged up uncontrollably, making him look like a piece of gray-white basalt.

"I don't know, Bruce." Peter's voice was somewhat choked. "I haven't succeeded either. I don't know."