Superman from the comics: Starting with the Black Robe

Chapter 7 Will Super Black Guys Sell Super Fried Chicken?

Given that the people in the helicopter either had just had their legs broken by him, or had just shot him twice in the head, or were still gripping their sword hilts and seemed ready to fight him at any moment, Joey wisely didn't get on the helicopter. Instead, he borrowed a shirt from them and followed them by following the helicopter's exhaust fumes.

He could hear the shouts of everyone on board the helicopter through the deafening roar of the engines and the noise of the propeller blades:

The mercenaries from Red River Security were chatting and joking among themselves, while the sniper next to them nervously tapped on his phone, presumably talking to someone. Maeve was also arguing with a man named Steelville through a microphone, complaining that the Red River Security personnel always lacked any discipline, and how she was terrified by Joey, who was covered in blood and looked like a madman, when they first met. Only Locomotive was still howling and wailing as others bandaged his wounds.

The speedsters lack both speed and quality; the Amazon warriors lack resilience and courage; the military forces under the heroic team maintaining world peace lack discipline and lethality. Everything fits the theory of the makeshift operation Joey encountered in his past life: luxury cars speed along the highway, appearing glamorous from afar, but upon closer inspection, they're just four people riding bicycles with shells on, putting on a show. Everyone does it—Joey does it, his colleagues do it—no one speaks out, they just go through the motions, either making mistakes or on their way to making mistakes.

If parallel universes really exist like in the comics, this universe is definitely the most relatable one in Joey's memory.

The two people I've come into contact with are members of the Seven, one of the seven strongest people in the world, but their actual performance is disappointing and doesn't match my impression of heroes from my previous life at all.

One was a locomotive, spouting censored words at the drop of a hat, barely exceeding the speed of sound, and crying his eyes out for a whole morning over a hole in his shinbone, driving everyone crazy; the other was Queen Maeve, who was a little better, but not much better, and he couldn't recall any Wonder Woman from any other world who would blame all the problems on ordinary people without superpowers.

The helicopter did not fly directly to New York, the destination of the person on the phone. Instead, it stopped at a small base halfway there. The mercenaries on board were dismissed on the spot, the locomotive was carried out of the hangar on a stretcher, and the person on board and Queen Maeve boarded another helicopter that had been repaired and headed straight for Manhattan.

"I'm not going to eat people." Joey looked at Queen Maeve, who was deliberately keeping an entire cabin's distance from him, and wondered why she was so afraid of him. "The train incident was just a misunderstanding. I didn't attack you, did I?"

Maeve didn't reply, but simply moved her buttocks further away from Joey.

In every way, Joey is like a carbon copy of Homelander, including his blood-soaked appearance. Maeve had seen something similar in Homelander before, and she was indeed a little intimidated by it.

But the deeper reason is that, as a veteran member of the Seven, Maeve knows perfectly well what kind of dark core lies beneath the glamorous and righteous exterior of Vought International and all its superhero teams.

While powerful superhumans like her and Joey are indeed invulnerable, it doesn't mean the Vought International lacks the means to control them. The company could easily persuade him or increase its efforts to subdue him, and then, like other orphans whose abilities have spiraled out of control, simply throw them into the Red River Welfare Home to fend for themselves.

She wasn't sure why this "Little Homelander" attracted the Vought Corporation's top brass, but based on past experience, the bigwigs on the 82nd floor of the Vought Tower almost never got involved in the company's specific business, because on ordinary days, Madeline alone was enough to keep all the superheroes under control.

Maeve was not a smart person, at least not compared to those big shots. She was unwilling to be dragged into the unseen undercurrents and die without a burial place before things were clear.

"The Water Tower, I see it."

Even before entering New York, Joey could see the towering Water Tower, which is cylindrical in shape and is often referred to as the Water Tower.

The exterior windows and lights of the Water Tower were arranged to form a towering "7", highlighting the Seven's important position in the Vought Corporation. However, the helicopter did not fly directly in that direction, but instead turned in another direction.

"Huh? Aren't we just going straight there?"

Maeve remained silent, instead handing her headset to Joey, who had asked the question. Joey took the headset, and a deep, resonant voice of a middle-aged man came through:

"It's not my way of hospitality to take guests directly to their workplace. I've booked a room and a table in a more suitable place and am waiting for you."

Maeve had to admit that these bigwigs were quite adept at mitigating risk. She'd previously worried that bringing a potentially destructive human bomb into the nearly $10 billion Water Tower might be too dangerous; what if someone suddenly decided to renovate it? The losses would be tens of millions of dollars, she'd be optimistic about. But the meeting place wasn't even in their own building, but rather—

Joey turned his head to look at the front of the helicopter and found his destination in no time. When he saw the building’s gold color scheme and the familiar surname written in large gold letters on the top of the building, Joey couldn’t help but smile for a long time. Isn’t this the property of a certain American real estate tycoon with blond hair that he used to make up for his KPIs when he was a reporter in his previous life and he was out of work?

The building was quite old. The helicopter landed directly on the rooftop helipad, and before the rotors even stopped spinning, a waiter bent down and peered into the cabin door, leading Joey to the meeting place.

Joey, who was in the elevator, was also quite curious about who he was meeting. Judging from Maeve’s subtle and cautious reactions when she answered the phone, the other party must be a very important person with great influence.

"We've arrived." The waiter led him to a room, then bowed slightly and took his leave.

Joey pushed open the door and walked straight in. Neither the opulent interior decor, the glittering crystal chandelier, the female musician playing the piano by herself, nor the long table in the center of the room with silver cutlery and champagne and food could attract his attention. His attention was immediately drawn to the uniquely charismatic person sitting across the table in just a second.

"This building has hosted many celebrities and dignitaries, including top athletes, senators and speakers of the House and Senate, e-commerce giants from across the ocean, and even Michael Jackson once lived here."

Across the long table sat a well-dressed African American man with deep-set eyes and a high-bridged nose. He nodded slightly, gesturing for the waiter to pour him a glass of Macallan 26. He exuded elegance and sophistication. As he raised his glass to Joey, his magnetic voice added a touch of mystery and composure to his demeanor.

"Most people never get the chance to enter this building in their entire lives, but you are different. In the near future, this building will be honored by your visit, just like Michael Jackson. I am Stan Edgar, CEO of Vought International. Please have a seat, son."

If it were an ordinary sixteen-year-old boy, he would be showered with a huge offer, comparable to that of a music king, and would immediately be so infatuated with this old vixen that he would lose his senses.

But Joey is no ordinary person. It's not that he's particularly good at resisting sweet talk; in his previous life, he was killed by a cannonball. Rather, when he saw the CEO of Vought Corporation in front of him, he finally understood why that magnetic voice sounded so familiar and comforting.

Isn't that Chicken Gudetama?!

Upon seeing two "old acquaintances" in one day, Joey, for the first time in a long time, spoke without thinking, blurting out:

"You're not selling fried chicken anymore?"

Upon hearing this, Stan Edgar's already dark face darkened even further.

Joey then realized that his statement was somewhat politically incorrect. Fried chicken, due to historical issues, was loved by the Black community and thus became the food that the NYT designated as not requiring cutlery and "low-class and rude," innocently being tied to the stereotypes of the NYT and racial knights.

Whether in this life or the last, Joey was definitely not a member of the same race as a knight. If you had to say, he had seen just as many fat white men made of fried chicken as black men in his past life. To associate fried chicken with black men is a bit of an insult to both sides. Fried chicken is good, and black men are not all bad.

Just as Joey's mind was racing, trying to figure out how to explain, the female musician who had been playing the piano behind him suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter, like a crowing rooster, until she was breathless from laughing. Joey noticed that Stan Edgar, sitting across the long table, looked even worse.

"Hahahahahahahahahaha!"

The soothing piano music abruptly stopped. The female musician stood up from the piano, quickly walked to Joey's side, leaned against the back of the chair, put her arm around his shoulder, and whispered in Joey's ear with an intimacy and indulgence that made him uncomfortable:

"That was a good joke, my good boy."