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"Clark is awake?"
When Richard heard the news from Ben, he knew his worst fear had come true. He had anticipated this. Knowing Clark was Superman, he understood that if the boy woke up, he would undoubtedly try to get back to New York on his own.
But Clark didn't know that an organization existed in this world that monitored everything and everyone. He would most likely try to use his powers to fly home, which would expose him to every government and spy agency on the planet. If that happened, all of Richard's efforts would have been for nothing.
Of course, there was another possibility. Richard had noted how weak Clark seemed in his coma; it was uncertain if he could even use his powers. But that scenario was even more dangerous than being discovered.
A faint flash outside the window caught Richard's eye. The agents were closing in.
"Ben, listen to me," Richard said, his voice urgent. "Clark will definitely try to get to New York. He's a smart kid; ordinary people can't fool him. Drive along the highways leading to New York and search for him."
He spoke quickly, "I can't offer any more help. You have to find him. With the world leaders' summit happening soon, every organization in the country is on high alert. We can't let them find him."
"I understand," Ben replied.
Richard hung up. Ben wasted no time, immediately getting in his car and speeding onto the highway. Whatever it took, he had to find his son before they did.
By nightfall, Clark and the trucker had stopped at a roadside tavern. Winter had come to Kansas, and heavy snow was falling, quickly blanketing the ground in a thick layer of white.
"Didn't I tell you to wait in the car?" the man grumbled. "This is a bar, not a place for a kid."
Clark said nothing, simply taking a seat beside him.
"This afternoon," Clark said quietly, "you told me to rest in the car while you went off alone. You went to fight in an underground boxing match."
Though the man was taking him to New York, he wasn't sticking to the main roads. He had driven them to this remote tavern, which hosted illegal fights in its basement. Clark knew because, even without his full strength, the sunlight from the day had started to restore his senses. Over the noisy chatter of the tavern, he could faintly hear the cheers coming from beneath the floorboards.
"It seems you're not such a simple kid after all," the man said, downing a large mug of beer in one go.
On the television hanging over the bar, a news report flashed across the screen: world leaders were gathering in the United States to discuss the growing "mutant problem." The news, however, didn't interrupt their conversation.
Clark looked at the man seriously. "Are you short on money?"
"That's a stupid question. Do I look rich to you?" The man sized up the boy. Clark was thin, but his clothes were clearly expensive. Richard had made sure his nephew was dressed warmly enough to survive being left in the grass in the middle of winter. "On the contrary," the man added, "it seems like your family has plenty. You don't have to worry about a thing."
Clark didn't argue. That might have been true a few years ago, but since his father and uncle's business had taken off, money had ceased to be a concern for the Parker family. They weren't in the same league as Stark Industries, but they had more than enough to live comfortably.
"If you want, I can ask my parents to arrange a job for you in New York," Clark offered.
The man looked at him, surprised. "And you're not going to lecture me about how underground fighting is illegal?"
Clark shook his head. His time in the DC universe had taught him to understand the struggles of others. Even before that, he wouldn't have preached empty morals about money. His best friend Matthew's father had been a boxer for the mob.
Clark knew how hard life was for ordinary people. Survival was a fight in itself; who was he to judge them harshly? Besides, the man was just fighting to get by, not hurting innocent people.
"Looks like you're more to my liking than I thought," the man said with a smile. The kid was a hassle, but at least he wasn't pretentious. That would make the long road ahead easier.
"What's your name?" Clark asked.
The man didn't answer right away. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it slosh against the sides. From his silence, Clark got his answer. This was a man who went where the wind took him. He might find a place to call home one day, but it wouldn't be in a corporate office.
"Is the question important?" the man finally asked.
"Yes," Clark replied. "Because you helped me. You're my benefactor."
The man seemed to wrestle with himself. He had no memory of his past and had been wandering for fifteen years trying to find it. For some reason, he always kept people at a distance, possessed by a nagging feeling that getting close to him would only bring them danger. Not to mention, he was already hated by ordinary humans.
Finally, he gave the name he believed was his.
"Logan. Just call me Logan."
Clark nodded, committing the name to memory. At that exact moment, a burly man holding a wooden bat appeared behind them and swung it hard at Logan's head.
BANG!
It wasn't Clark who moved. He reacted, but without his powers, his body couldn't keep up.
It was Logan. Three metal claws shot out from between his knuckles with a sharp snikt, slicing through the wooden bat with ease. In the same motion, he lunged forward, slamming the attacker against a nearby pillar.
"You want to die?" Logan snarled, his voice a low growl.