PFC Chapter 4417 Dark Prelude (2)
Chapter 4417 Dark Prelude (2)
Chapter 4417 Dark Prelude (Part Two)
Inside the enclosed gym, strong men were drenched in sweat. The plank position caused large beads of sweat to splatter from their foreheads onto the floor, then roll into the cracks in the floorboards.
His muscles were swollen and engorged with blood, the veins clearly visible. The moment the timer went off, the man almost immediately collapsed to the ground. He rolled over, panting heavily. He grabbed the towel hanging around his neck and wiped the sweat from his face, but it still seeped into his eyes.
He rubbed his eyes in frustration, but the more he rubbed, the more it hurt. He had no choice but to stand up unsteadily and go to the bathroom to wash his face. He tried several times but couldn't turn on the faucet; his arms were shaking too badly. He had to stick his head out and use his cheek to lift the faucet switch.
When washing his face, he could only bring it close to the water to rinse it, and then rub it on a towel. He returned to the training area, picked up the timer, and struggled to turn it on. After finally getting it set and in position, his arm slipped, and he fell face-first to the ground with a thud.
"Damn it!" he cursed, using his last bit of strength to roll over, panting as he stared at the ceiling.
The retraining process was going terribly wrong. Hal struggled to lift his eyelids. He didn't know why, in just a few months, his physical fitness had declined to such a state, and his balance was a complete mess. The most absurd thing was that he felt nauseous while riding the "mayonnaise machine"—the pilots' nickname for the training machine that spun wildly 360 degrees once you sat on it.
Good heavens, he's a fighter pilot! No training machine on the ground can compare to actual flight training. If he can't handle this, how could he possibly pass the test?!
Hal lay on the floor, beginning to ponder why all this had happened. He admitted that he had been mentally and physically exhausted over the past few months, and that the decline in his physical abilities was normal due to lack of training.
However, he doesn't drink excessively, doesn't use drugs, doesn't even smoke, doesn't stay up late, doesn't overeat, and has no other bad habits. His physique is as good as when he was active, so how could he have lost so much weight?
Even more absurdly, his prized piloting skills—his sense of direction and balance—were not as good as when he first joined the military. This gave him a sense of panic: was he really getting old?
For a pilot, his age isn't actually old; it should be considered his prime. Although pilots are typically selected at a young age, that's only because the training and development process is lengthy, not because high school students can suddenly become highly skilled. An age like Hal's represents the period when physical fitness, reaction time, and experience are at their most balanced.
What worries Hal even more is that whenever he comes into contact with flight-related training, including acceleration training and flight simulation, he is always reminded of the moment when the plane crashes.
Pilots often suffer psychological trauma after a plane crash, and many who successfully save their aircraft never return to the profession. It can be a lifelong shadow.
But Hal never imagined he would experience this. In fact, during his most depressed and dejected period after being fired, he didn't develop any post-traumatic stress disorder. He thought he wouldn't be afraid of these things.
Besides the moment of the plane crash, another scene that often comes to Hal's mind is the moment he died at the hands of Steppenwolf.
He knew he had died then, not from unconsciousness, but from being resurrected by Victor using the power of the Mother Box. As the crash and death scenes recurred, sometimes overlapping, Hal began to wonder: if the plane had crashed, would he have met his death in the same way?
Perhaps these distracting thoughts affected his performance. After another day of hard training with no results, Hal returned to his apartment. For the first time ever, he bought a bottle of whiskey, added some ice to a glass, but after only a few sips, he became too drunk and collapsed next to the sofa.
Later, Carroll called to tell him that it would be difficult to return to his position as a test pilot. Hal didn't say much. Considering his recent situation, he had no choice but to contact Schiller.
Looking at the application form on the table, Schiller glanced at Hal. Hal sighed softly and said, "I don't think I can do it. Maybe I shouldn't be so fixated on being a test pilot."
“Why do you say that?” Schiller asked.
“The retraining went very poorly,” Hal said. “I felt like my potential had been completely exhausted, but the data was not satisfactory. It’s as if I’ve also lost my talent as a pilot. Perhaps this is God’s punishment for me.”
"This doesn't sound like something you would say."
What am I like in your eyes?
“I’ve watched all the previous battle footage,” Schiller said. “You have a very strong will, you fought to the death and never gave up. I thought you wouldn’t give up easily.”
Hal propped his elbows on the table, vigorously rubbed his face, and said, "Willpower isn't about being stubborn or obstinate. On the contrary, it's a kind of self-control that allows you to recognize yourself in time and know when to stop. If I were to resume flying in this state, it would only create more disasters."
So you've decided to give up?
Hal nodded and said, "Take this form back. Thank you for everything you've done for me. I've decided to find a temporary job to make ends meet first, and then think about what else I can do."
Schiller didn't say much and took the form back. After returning to his apartment, Hal began researching what jobs he could do. He actually met the astronaut requirements; with his superpowers, he certainly wouldn't cause any trouble. However, he worried that he might indeed have post-traumatic stress disorder and that continuing in this line of work could lead to mental health issues. Therefore, he decided to find a job completely unrelated to aerospace, even manual labor like washing dishes would do.
After searching high and low, he actually found one. A fast food restaurant not far from the apartment was hiring, mainly for preparing food in the kitchen. The job sounded good, but it was actually very tiring, especially the positions near the deep fryer, which could leave you dehydrated by the end of the day.
But Hal wasn't afraid of that. Green Light Energy Fries sounded great—quick, not hot, and maybe even tastier. With that in mind, he went straight to the fast food restaurant.
This is a 24-hour fast food restaurant. Hearing that he had come for a job interview, the owner warmly welcomed him and let him try out the work. The work wasn't difficult at all, just a bit tedious. But Hal wasn't picky and started doing it anyway.
A short while later, as he was figuring out how to fry French fries, Carol called again. She said, "There's an instructor opening at the children's space education center in Los Angeles. Would you like to apply?"
"No, honey, I've already found a job. Next time you drive to my house, don't go straight, turn left. When you see that fast food restaurant with the red sign, be sure to go in and order some fries." Hal covered his palm with green light energy, scooped a fry from the oil, threw it in his mouth, chewed it, and said, "It tastes great."
"Oh my god, you went to a fast food restaurant to fry French fries?!" Carol's voice was somewhat surprised. "You know how to use those machines?"
“Uh, actually I’m not really good at it. I used Green Light Energy to fry it.” Hal tossed another fry into his mouth and said, “But it’s much better than regular frying. You’d better come early, or it’ll be packed with people.”
"Okay, Fries Master. I'll come see you when I'm done with this."
After hanging up the phone, Hal scratched his temple and called Bruce again, saying, "Could I have a Justice League Special Tax Team badge?"
"What do you need your documents for? Do you want to be audited for taxes too?"
"No, I found a job in the kitchen of a fast food restaurant and am trying to fry the best fries in the world. But you know Carole's circle, they can film 800 episodes of 'The Stepford Wives' a day. She needs a boyfriend with a decent job."
"Okay, I'll have Barry deliver the documents to you. But are you really not going to reconsider?"
"I'm very grateful that you all believe in me, but I'm really not feeling well. Maybe I'll try again after I've recovered for a while, but not anytime soon."
After hanging up the phone, Hal resumed examining the French fry machine. A flash of blue light appeared, and Barry materialized in the fast-food restaurant's kitchen.
"Oh my God, this smells amazing!" Barry sniffed. "What did you use to fry these fries?!"
Hal stretched out a hand covered in green light energy, waved it, and casually tossed Barry a fry. Barry expected it to be scalding hot, but it wasn't. He popped it into his mouth, chewed it, nodded, and said, "Delicious, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, not too greasy. Perfect fry."
Then he pulled out his identification from his pocket. Hal waved his hand and said, "Give it directly to Carol Frith..."
"I'm not a deliveryman. You need to give me an accurate address before I can deliver it."
Hal, holding the basket of fries, took out his phone and sent the exact address to Barry. Just as Barry was about to leave, Hal called him back. He grabbed a fast food tray from the side, piled up a mountain of fries, and handed it to Barry.
Then, Barry appeared before Carol carrying a mountain of French fries. Carol turned around and was startled, but breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a person's head behind the mountain of fries. She said, "I thought I was hallucinating. What are you doing here?"
“Hal asked me to deliver this to you.” Barry put down the mountain of fries.
Carol covered her forehead in exasperation and said, "When will he ever grow up?"
But despite saying that, she still picked up a fry, took a bite, and nodded, saying, "Five stars, is that okay?"
“No,” Barry said, pulling out his ID. “He told me to give this to you.”
Carol took the credentials and glanced at them, her eyes widening slightly. She looked at Barry, who nodded and said, "This is indeed a federally certified tax department, with more authority than ordinary tax enforcement officers. So far, they haven't lost a case, and the total amount of taxes collected may have already exceeded 100 billion."
Carol took a soft breath. She looked at the ID; the ink on the color photograph was still wet, clearly it had just been made.