Chapter 604

The clatter of train wheels on rails echoed through the station; as the train slowed to a stop, Clark tightened his coat and stared at the two pet carriers in his hands.

He tapped the carriers with his fingers and muttered to himself, "If it weren't for you two little brats, I wouldn't be taking this train."

Still, he carried the carriers toward the station exit; just before leaving, he felt hungry—Metropolis was close to Gotham, but this slow train took hours, and since Schiller's estate was damaged, they hadn't offered him a meal, so Clark hadn't eaten in a full day.

As Superman, he wouldn't starve, but his normal appetite drove him to crave a proper meal; he glanced around—the Metropolis station was well-equipped, but the food was expensive, and Clark had little money, so he planned to find something outside the station.

Just then, a tempting aroma drifted through the air; he turned and saw, at the station entrance, a food cart had appeared, emitting that same alluring scent.

Clark followed the smell and found it was a hot dog cart; Metropolis had strict city regulations, so street carts were rare, but back home on his Kansas farm, farmers often pushed carts selling food made from their own crops—the smell was identical.

The Immortal Wood's Miracle

Hunger and homesickness pulled Clark forward; he approached, where a bearded man was busy at the cart. Clark ordered a large hot dog with double sauce and extra pickles; as he bit into the high-calorie delicacy, he let out a contented sigh.

"Oh, what's in those carriers? Cats? … Kinda cute." The man said.

"Really? I think so too—that's why I adopted them." Clark smiled as he ate; he found the man talkative, and having a good conversational partner while eating lifted his mood.

"What's in the other cage? You got two cats?" The hot dog vendor asked, flipping sausages.

"Ah, no—this one's a special-colored rat. Someone dyed it, and I rescued it. That's all." Clark's explanation sounded unnatural; clearly, someone had coached him, and he always grew awkward when lying.

"You keep cats and rats together? That's an odd hobby." The man hesitated; Clark had no good reply, so he just kept eating.

The conversation grew awkward, but Clark devoured the hot dog quickly; he gulped down two free sodas, wiped his mouth, waved at the man, and left.

After leaving the station, still burdened with the two pets, he couldn't fly—first, he didn't know if flying high would stress them, and second, the yellow rat insisted he was terrified of heights and refused to go above the third floor.

Clark wasn't surprised a rat could talk—he'd just come from a city full of talking cats, so a talking rat made perfect sense, right?

After repeatedly warning Pikachu not to shout in the city, Clark flagged a taxi and returned directly to his dorm at Metropolis University.

Metropolis University's facilities were better than Gotham University's; Clark had impressed his coach with his track performance, so the coach moved him to a better apartment building—complete with a private single room and a small living area, fully independent, so keeping pets was allowed.

He opened the carriers and let the cat and rat out; the Batcat burst out, flattening its ears and hissing at Pikachu; Clark immediately pressed his large hand onto the cat's skull and said, "What did I tell you? No fighting!"

He picked up the Batcat by the scruff and held him close, stroking his head. "Don't be nervous—I know cats have never seen a talking rat before. He scared you, didn't he?"

"What nonsense are you spouting? I wanted to bite him because he just shocked me!"

"Even if he shocked you, you still shouldn't—wait—"

"You can talk too?!"

Shocked, Clark flung his hands out; the Batcat leapt away, landing on the sofa opposite him.

It meowed again; Clark realized he still understood what the cat was saying—the Batcat said, "What are you so surprised about? Haven't we met before?"

Clark froze. "You're not Bruce… are you? I thought you just looked alike…"

The Batcat sighed helplessly; Clark had never imagined he'd see Bruce's expression on a cat's face. The Batcat explained.

Because their consciousnesses had once entered Cat City and learned to understand cat speech, even after returning to their bodies, their souls retained the ability to comprehend it.

Unlike Pikachu, who naturally spoke human language with a flawless, West Coast accent, the Batcat only meowed—but those who had entered Cat City could understand him.

Seeing Clark stunned, the Batcat calmly lay down on the sofa and looked at him. "I don't know how the other me puts up with you, but haven't you noticed you're being watched?"

"What?" Compared to a talking cat, this was more startling; Clark asked, confused, "What do you mean, I'm being watched?"

"Along your journey—the cigarette vendor in the station, the hot dog man, the taxi driver—they're all the same group. Their target is you."

"You didn't notice the cigarette vendor passed you five times. Your appearance and mannerisms aren't those of a smoker. Vendors like him have sharp eyes—they don't waste time on non-smokers."

"The hot dog man kept probing you. He said your cat was cute, but his expression showed resistance—even disgust. You didn't notice."

"The taxi driver claimed he was also from Kansas, just to be friendly. He feigned ignorance about the brand of farm machinery you mentioned, and when you got out, his expression in the rearview mirror turned icy."

"You…" Clark was speechless; he blinked, then walked helplessly to the sofa. The Batcat tried to flee, but Clark grabbed him.

He lifted the cat to eye level, staring into its eyes. "Before, I didn't notice—but now I see, your eyes aren't blue. They're purple…"

"Wait—you're the clown cat?! The one that got dyed and then faded? How are you here?!"

The Batcat covered its eyes with its paw; it had forgotten that, besides Schiller, Bruce, and itself, almost no one knew the full story. Clark had witnessed it all, but hadn't listened to the conversations, so he didn't know the details.

The Batcat briefly told Clark his story; Clark's face softened with pity—then received a paw to the face.

The result: the Batcat sat on the sofa, licking its broken nail, while Clark stroked its head. "I'm truly sorry—you can't attack me, or your claws will break again."

Clark gently took one of the cat's paws; two claws on the one that had scratched him were broken—one snapped clean at the base, bleeding slightly.

Clark sighed, stood up, and searched the room for a first-aid kit—but the dorm's kit was for humans; he'd never used one and didn't know how to bandage a cat's nail. Finally, he shook his head helplessly, picked up the Batcat, and placed him back in the carrier.

"Come on—we need to see a vet. I heard if a cat's nail gets infected, it can get serious—might even stop walking. We have to go now."

Clark picked up the carrier and turned to leave; Pikachu called from behind:

"Hey! When I said I had acrophobia, you didn't care this much! If you keep this up, I'm going to be mad!"

Clark sighed, about to turn and soothe Pikachu—when Pikachu shouted, "Wait! What's that? Is that a game console?!"

"Oh my god! An ancient console! Wait—that's the ultra-expensive reissue I saw at the expo last time! Where are the cartridges?!"

Pikachu bounced over to the desk, rummaged through it, pulled out a game cartridge, and waved at Clark. "You go ahead—I'll watch the place."

Clark clicked his tongue, shook his head, said nothing, and turned to leave. This time, he held the carrier close to his chest, so he could hear exactly what the Batcat was saying.

"The person at eleven o'clock—every time he walks past, he stares at you for ten seconds. He's watching you."

"The taxi driver now is fine, but the person who just got out of this car? Also watching you."

Clark's skin crawled; he whispered, "Why? What's so special about me?"

"Who knows? Could it be because you're super-strong, can fly, and shoot lasers from your eyes?"

Clark caught the sarcasm—and then heard the Batcat add, "These people didn't just appear today. They've been in place a long time. Your life has been under surveillance all along."

Clark shivered. "What do I do? How do I shake them off? I'm almost done with the semester—if they follow me home, my parents could be in danger."

"Stop staring at the carrier. Keep your expression normal. Act like always. Clearly, your recent unusual movements drew their attention, so they're watching tighter. Return to your routine—they'll pull back some agents. Then you can investigate."

Clearly, with Batman's external brain, Clark abandoned thinking and obeyed instinctively. Though this Batman was a cat, perhaps, in some way, it was better—after all, people trusted animals more than humans.

After taking the Batcat to the vet, Clark headed back to his dorm. When he opened the door, a sight froze him in place.

Two men lay sprawled in his room, charred black—obviously electrocuted. Pikachu stood on the sofa, holding a game controller. Seeing Clark, he said:

"These two broke into your room while you were gone. I took them out. Found this on them."

Pikachu jumped down from the sofa back, reached into the cushion seam, and pulled out an object; Clark took it and saw a medal stamped with a sickle, hammer, and red flag.