American comics: Damn it, I’m surrounded by those who worry about their fathers!.

Chapter 993 The Joker's Gift to Peter!

Erica and the mime stared in astonishment as a crisp sound echoed through the frozen space.

With that soft sound, the iron cap, along with its menacing metal spikes, instantly lost all its "existence" form!
The metal cap, like a wax figure thrown into a furnace, began to disintegrate and collapse from its most basic molecular structure in less than a thousandth of a second.

The metal instantly vaporized, turning into countless particles finer than dust, shimmering with a faint metallic and silicon-like luster.

These particles did not dissipate, but rather, as if drawn by an invisible magnetic field, they formed a rapidly spinning silver vortex around the spot where Peter flicked his finger.

This miraculous scene was clearly reflected in the depths of Erica and Marcos's pupils.

Erica's fingers, which were controlling the wires, suddenly froze, and a deep-seated horror and disbelief appeared on her face.

Marcos's empty, vacant eyes trembled violently, as if a boulder had been thrown into a calm, stagnant pool.

Peter then turned his gaze to the netting above his head, which was still "slowly" descending.

He gracefully raised the hand holding the coffee cup.

With this simple gesture, the net of death, powerful enough to sever all things, instantly lost all its sharpness and toughness.

The strong intermolecular forces of the materials that make up the threads are forcibly rewritten by an invisible force of law.

The incredibly tough web, like a spiderweb thrown into strong acid, dissolved silently under Erica's horrified and desperate gaze.

The silver thread, as thin as a spider's web, transformed into a stream of shimmering metallic particles the instant it touched the edge of Peter's surrounding area.

Then the metal particles fell like silver dust blown away by the wind, mingling with the rain and disappearing without a trace.

The entire battle, from start to finish, lasted less than ten seconds.

Peter stood still, without moving an inch.

The coffee in the paper cup in his hand was still warm, the surface of the liquid calm and still.

He then gently blew on the steam rising from the rim of his cup, his gaze calmly settling on his two opponents who seemed frozen in place.

Erica leaned against the cold wall, her chest heaving violently, her face pale, her fingers that had been manipulating the threads hanging limply at her sides, her eyes filled with immense fear and bewilderment.

Her prized weapon was so easily neutralized in the eyes of her opponent!

Marcos maintained his elegant "firing" posture, but the fingertips of the hand that was making the gun gesture were trembling slightly uncontrollably.

His eyes were fixed on the spot where Peter had just flicked his finger; the metal cap he had thrown was now nothing but swirling stardust.

His ability to transform nothingness into deadly weapons appeared laughable and pale in the face of his opponent's almost godlike authority.

The rain fell coldly, pattering against the trash cans and puddles in the alley with a monotonous pattering sound.

The clamor of the previous battle, the shrieking sound of tearing through the air, and the clash of metal seemed as if they had never happened.

Only a faint trace of dust remained in the air, proving that the brief exchange just now was not an illusion.

Peter shook his head, stepped forward, and splashed a little water as his shoes sank into the murky puddles.

He then walked toward Erica and Marcos, who stood like a statue.

“Before you take action next time,” his calm voice rang out in the rainy alley, clearly reaching the ears of the two behind him, carrying an undeniable warning, “remember to ask yourselves first what exactly you are facing.”

"Now tell me, who are you?"

Peter asked in an unfriendly tone.

Peter had never heard of these two superhumans in this world, and he suspected that they came from another universe.

Sensing the powerful aura and chilling presence emanating from Peter, Erica breathed heavily.

The two thought of their encounter with Dr. Manhattan.

The feeling Peter gave them was just as terrifying as the oppressive force Dr. Manhattan exerted on them.

"I...we just wanted to rob some money."

Erica stammered, "So I just picked someone randomly on the street."

"Really? I don't believe you just ran into me while robbing someone."

Peter naturally didn't believe what the other person said.

How could such a coincidence happen in the world?
He shook his head, stretched out his hand, and then, to Erica's horrified gaze, she flew straight backward.

Almost at the same moment she fell, there was a loud bang.

The flimsy wooden door behind them shattered into countless flying fragments as if it had been hit head-on by a battering ram.

The cold rain, carrying with it the strong smell of blood and wood chips, flooded into the bar.

The patrons in the bar were stunned by what had suddenly happened.

The patrons near the bar stared in shock at the pitiful Erica and the two mime performers.

Erica Manson staggered to her feet, the marionette clutching her left eye tightly with her hand.

Crimson blood gushed out from between her fingers like a stream, staining her pale cheeks and neck.

Her body trembled violently from the excruciating pain and immense fear.

The mime artist Marcos Metz, standing next to her, was in equally miserable condition.

His left ear was a bloody mess, the auricle almost completely gone, leaving only a wound with eerily smooth edges, forcibly "smoothed out" by some force.

Blood also stained the shoulders of his trench coat.

His usually composed face was now contorted with pain and a deep-seated horror.

Peter slowly turned around, his gaze calmly sweeping over Erica's bleeding left eye, over Marcos's "erased" left ear, and finally landing on his trembling right hand.

His eyes held no anger, no murderous intent, not even a ripple of emotion, only a condescending indifference.

This indifference chilled them to the bone more than any roaring threat.

"Since you refuse to explain why you dared to attack me, then you may all die."

Peter's voice broke the silence; he reached out his hand.

But looking at the two of them, he quickly changed his mind.

"Or... give me a reason not to completely erase your existence at the molecular level."

He took a step forward, and that tiny step caused Erica and Marcos to recoil like startled beasts, their backs slamming heavily against the wreckage of the broken door frame with a dull thud.

The immense fear completely overwhelmed the physical pain, almost suffocating them.

Erica's body trembled like a leaf in the wind, and blood continued to seep from between her fingers covering her eyes.

She opened her mouth, a hoarse, guttural sound escaping her throat; immense fear gripped her vocal cords.

Marcos was engaged in a fierce internal struggle, as if he were enduring some kind of internal tearing pain.

His intact right ear twitched slightly, but ultimately yielded to the powerful aura emanating from Peter.

"It's the Joker!"

Erica seemed to be activated by the word. She took a deep breath, and the heavy, bloody gasp finally broke through the blockage in her throat.

She said in a hoarse, shrill voice, “It’s him! It’s that guy! He said… he said that if we kill you… if we get your… your ‘part’, he will cooperate with us and tell us what we want to know.”

"He said... he said you have 'clues'... he said you are the 'key'!"

Erica's voice trembled slightly, filled with resentment at being deceived and used. "He said you're strong, but as long as we do as he says, at the time and place he designates, using his 'designed' method to ambush you, we can...we can..."

She couldn't continue speaking after that.

Peter's overwhelming power completely shattered the Joker's lies.

So-called "design" is laughably naive in the face of absolute power.

"cooperate?"

Peter felt like he'd heard the most absurd joke ever. "With the clown?"

He shook his head slightly and said contemptuously to the two of them, "That abyss clown who feeds on chaos and takes pleasure in pain? You two willingly became two pawns on his chessboard after just two sentences from him."

He hadn't expected the Joker to get involved.

After the Joker appeared, Peter ignored him completely.

After all, this is Bruce's "CP" (couple partner), so he can't easily make a move against her.

Unexpectedly, this guy used these two people to launch an attack against him.

Peter was somewhat surprised that the Joker had taken a liking to him.

It seems things are getting more and more complicated with the arrival of the Pharaoh and Dr. Manhattan!
Shaking his head, Peter finished thinking and asked the two, "You are not from this world. Where do you come from?"

Captured by the same chilling aura emanating from Peter and Dr. Manhattan, Erica, enduring the pain, told Peter that she came from the Watchmen universe.

After listening to their stories, Peter fell into deep thought.

Seeing Peter lost in thought, Erica let out a suppressed sob and curled up even tighter.

Marcos's fingers fell limply to his sides as he looked at Peter with fear and confusion.

He thought the person the Joker wanted him to kill was just an ordinary person, or even a superhuman, whom the two of them could easily handle.

I never imagined that this guy named Peter Patrick would be just as terrifying as Dr. Manhattan.

Peter finished thinking and his gaze swept over Erica's blood-soaked eye once more.

Peter's gaze then swept over Marcos's left ear, which had been "smoothed out" leaving only a smooth wound, and his right hand, which was still trembling nervously.

"pain."

Peter's voice regained its calm.

"It is the most effective teacher in the world; it can penetrate the most numb nerves and engrave the most profound lessons."

He slowly raised his right hand, the palm facing upwards, the hand with the single thread removed, as elegant as an artist's.

There were no incantations, no bursts of light.

But Erica and Marcos simultaneously felt the intense pain that had been so intense it could have caused them to faint subside rapidly, like the receding tide.

The gushing blood between Erica's fingers stopped instantly, leaving only a cold and sharp phantom pain deep in her eye sockets, and darkness that completely enveloped the left half of her vision.

The excruciating, bloody pain in Marcos's left ear disappeared, replaced by utter silence.

Peter did not cure them.

He simply "solidified" their injuries in a colder, more efficient way, robbing them of the pain itself, but permanently branding the consequences of their mutilation onto their senses. "Now," Peter said calmly to the two men, withdrawing his hand, "take the scars I left you with."

Peter spoke as he strode toward the bar entrance.

He did not pause as he passed the two figures who looked like sculptures reshaped by pain and fear.

“Tell that 'clown' hiding in the shadows.”

Peter's voice, though not loud, pierced through the rain and was clearly imprinted on the remnants of Erica and Marcos's hearing and consciousness.

“I accept this ‘gift’. These scars on your bodies are a gift I gave to him. As for the rest, I will make him pay it back with interest.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Peter's figure disappeared through the broken doorway and into the rainy night of Gotham.

There were no footsteps, no splashes of water, as if he had never been there.

In the alley, only the broken wooden door creaked in the wind and rain.

Erica still tightly covered her left eye, which would never see the light again, and cold rain mixed with the remaining blood slid down between her fingers.

Her remaining right eye was filled with immense fear and a sense of utter emptiness.

Marcos stood frozen in place, his left ear filled with suffocating silence, while his right ear could hear Erica's suppressed voice and the patter of raindrops.

Peter Patrick, the name is like a red-hot branding iron, deeply imprinted on their souls.

Deep in the alley, a huge neon billboard, flashing a dark red light, flickered in the rain, making the two even more terrified and trembling.

……

at the same time.

Arkham Asylum

The chill seeping from the cement floor seeped into his bones, and the second-generation Rorschach sat curled up against the cold wall.

His cell in Block B of Arkham Asylum was like a coffin filled with darkness, the pale, fence-like light from the overhead lamps cutting through the mask on his face.

The pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with the putrid stench of excrement and blood condensed into a thick mist.

He could hear muffled thuds from the next cell, the sound of someone banging their head against the wall, and intermittent, maniacal laughter from some distant corner.

Footsteps came from outside.

A tall, thin figure in a black and white striped prison uniform stood outside the iron bars.

His face was pressed against the rusty iron bars, squeezing his cheekbones out of shape, and a few stained teeth were visible in his grin.

"Tsk tsk tsk..."

The zebra-man flicked his tongue against his palate, hissing like a viper striking its tongue, “Look at this little guy who’s fallen into the trap.”

His slender fingers suddenly reached into the gaps in the fence and nervously tapped the metal.

Rorschach remained motionless, the chaotic black and white ink stains on his mask churning.

The zebra-man ignored the silent threat, instead squeezing his face even tighter and whispering in a barely audible voice: "You know what? The 'Crotch-Watching Brothers' have their eyes on you in the cafeteria... those two perverts who love to 'admire' new toys."

His cloudy eyes darted about in the dim light, a sickly excitement in them. "But don't be afraid, little bird..."

His withered fingers slashed across the iron gate, making a teeth-grinding scraping sound. "I told them—you are my private property."

The muscles beneath the mask tensed instantly, and Rorschach's fingertips dug into the cold cement cracks, his knuckles turning white from the force.

"Go away!"

Luo Xia cursed at the other party.

The zebra-man smiled at him, then turned and left.

The other person's neurotic laughter echoed down the corridor and gradually faded away.

How long have I been here?

Luo Xia seemed to realize something.

The passage of time lost its measure in the windowless prison cell.

Only the metallic scraping sound of food trays slid roughly into the gap under the iron gate, and the brief sweep of the guards' flashlight beams during their routine patrols, marked the cycle of day and night.

Rorschach remained in that curled-up position for most of the time.

He was gathering strength and fighting against fear.

He had another nightmare.

I dreamt of the "miracle" that descended upon New York, meticulously planned by Pharaoh Ozymandias: a gigantic, octopus-shaped alien monster, as large as a mountain, crashed down in the city center, its spewing psionic shockwaves sweeping everything away.

The glass curtain wall shattered, cars were crushed into iron discs by an invisible giant hand, and screaming crowds were instantly turned into flying pulp on the street corner... In the heart of that hell on earth was his parents' home.

He could almost see his mother's last terrified look back, his father's futilely outstretched arm, and then everything was completely swallowed up by the blinding white light and the deafening sound of collapse.

"Wow--"

The peephole panel outside the cell door was pulled open.

A calm, scrutinizing blue eye appeared behind the hole.

"Number 736, time for conversation."

A calm male voice came from behind.

The key turned, and the cell door opened.

A middle-aged man wearing a neatly pressed white lab coat and gold-rimmed glasses walked in, carrying a notepad.

Behind him followed two fully armed, muscular guards, their guns pointed intentionally or unintentionally at Rorschach.

“I am Dr. Sean,” the man stopped a few steps away from Rorschach at a safe distance, his voice calm and even. “Someone asked me to conduct a routine psychological evaluation on you. You can call me Dr. Sean.”

His gaze swept over the inhuman mask on Rorschach's face, without any surprise or disgust, only pure observation and analysis.

Rorschach remained silent, like a forgotten stone statue.

“Silence is a common defense mechanism, especially in Arkham,” Dr. Sean wrote on his whiteboard.

"You told the guard your name was Reggie?"

"Don't call me that name!"

Luo Xia suddenly looked up, his body tense like a spring compressed to its limit.

Two guards immediately stepped forward, and the stun gun emitted a "crackling" sound as it charged.

Dr. Sean raised his hand to stop them.

"Why?" the doctor asked, his tone unchanged. "Reggie is your legal name. Acknowledging it is the first step in facing your true self. Running away will only make you sink deeper into Rorschach, that... violent symbol."

"reality?"

Rorschach let out a low laugh. "The truth is that self-proclaimed god, the Pharaoh! He killed three million people with a play! A damnably realistic play!"

His voice suddenly rose in pitch, booming in the cramped cell and making the walls vibrate.

The ink on the mask was completely out of control, like spilled ink.

Rorschach witnessed another painful scene.

He saw collapsing skyscrapers, twisted steel debris, and splattered crimson flesh... finally settling on a familiar apartment window covered in ivy.

Inside the window, the profiles of a middle-aged couple who looked back in astonishment quickly vaporized and disappeared in the bright light!
“My father! Malcolm! He’s right there! He just finished a seminar on Kovax and wants to go home for my mother’s birthday!”

Rorschach's body trembled violently, each word seeming to be clenched and spat out from between his teeth, dripping with bloody pain, "And my mother, Gloria! She baked my favorite apple pie... The pie's still in the oven! The oven..."

His voice choked, leaving only heavy, labored breathing like a broken bellows.

Rorschach revealed his identity in the Watchers universe.

When faced with a psychologist, he finally lost control of his emotions and poured out all his pain.

Rorschach II revealed his real name as Reggie Lang, and that his parents died in the Pharaoh's conspiracy involving three million people.

"They are just... two numbers out of three million, right? To the Pharaoh, and to you who stand by and watch, or even enjoy the 'peace' he brings!"

Rorschach suddenly pointed at Dr. Sean, treating him as someone from his own world, "Who do you think is crazy? The real madman is Witt! The butcher who used three million lives to build his ideal world!"

Dr. Sean listened quietly, his notepad hanging at his side, his gaze behind his gold-rimmed glasses unfathomable.

Although he didn't understand what Rorschach meant by the conspiracy of three million people and the Pharaoh, he listened quietly to the other party's venting and recorded it truthfully.

Only Rorschach's suppressed, wounded animal-like panting could be heard in the cell.

The air seemed to solidify into lead, pressing heavily on everyone's heart.

at this time--

"Zi la——!"

A sharp, piercing sound of an electrical short circuit came from the end of the corridor.

All the overhead lights flickered wildly a few times, then went out completely!

Area B was instantly plunged into a thick, inky darkness.

"what happened?"

A guard frantically pressed the intercom, only to be met with a noisy busy signal.

"Backup power failed! Repeat, Sector B..." Another guard's shout was swallowed by the darkness.

In the engulfing darkness and the sudden, frantic screams of the other prisoners, a faint girl's voice pierced the chaos and precisely reached Rorschach's ears:

"Rorschach? Can you hear me? I'm Saturn Girl, grab my hand, now!"

A slightly cool hand, in the impenetrable darkness, accurately grasped Rorschach's wrist, which was covered in cold sweat and grime.

hope?

trap?

The remaining rationality beneath Rorschach's mask warned him, but he hesitated for a moment.

He used all his strength to grab the hand that reached out from the darkness.

(End of this chapter)