Multiverse: Deathstroke - Chapter 503: Ch.503 Buying a Car

Chapter 503: Ch.503 Buying a Car

Ahead lay a ridge, its rugged shape visible despite the blizzard’s swirling snow.

The sleds and supplies stayed behind; the team had to trek up on foot.

Three miles took nearly two hours. When Witwicky reached the scout dogs, they were circling frantically, barking at the center of a trampled ring in the snow.

He knelt, patting a dog’s neck, its thick fur icy through his glove.

“Kids, nothing lives under the ice. What’d you find?”

Stepping into the circle, a sharp crack sounded, and he plummeted.

A fall into the abyss. He thought he was done.

Countless bones lay buried in glacial crevasses; today, he’d join them.

But unlike ancient explorers, he fell only a few meters, landing hard but alive, pain shooting through him.

Groaning as he sat up, he realized a massive figure had caught him, cradling him in its palm above a bottomless chasm.

The figure was encased in ice, five fingers upturned, as if once grasping something.

Sunlight pierced from above, revealing the ice coated a never-seen silver metal—a fanged, metallic giant emerging from the glacier.

Its still form seemed to stare at him with window-sized eyes.

“By The Presence…”

“Captain! You okay?” his team shouted from above.

“I’m fine, lads!”

Witwicky stood, grabbing his fallen ice pick. He chipped at the figure’s ice, wanting a clearer look.

All metal—were those fangs for eating? He’d found something extraordinary.

But as his pick struck, the figure’s eyes blazed red, flooding the cave with crimson light.

“Ah!”

Witwicky collapsed, blinded by the glare, his vision gone.

His glasses, fallen on the ice, were etched with invisible patterns.

Present Day, Tranquility, USA, suburban expansion zone.

Not a slum, but no rich enclave either—just working-class homes, modest earners.

In a house by the road, sixteen-year-old Sam checked his “eBuy” account, selling garage finds: a pair of ancient silver candlesticks, a gemless wooden jewelry box, a Civil War saber duller than a file.

And his great-grandfather Witwicky’s glasses.

Not from wealth, Sam couldn’t earn pocket money mowing lawns.

He had a crush but no cash for even a soda—how to talk to girls?

With his dad’s okay, he’d sell “antiques” online, a step up from lawn flea markets.

Photos, a tempting description—bam! Deal done.

Or so he thought days ago.

Even at $100, no one wanted old glasses.

Comments mocked him:

“Buddy, money-crazy? Get a job.”

“Witwicky? First to the Arctic Circle? History disagrees. Parallel universe tale?”

“I’ve got The Presence’s shroud—or so I think. Visit: I’mASucker.com.”

Days later, only old comics sold for $10. The rest? Nothing.

Sam kept dropping prices. Today, the glasses hit $25.

“These are really Witwicky’s glasses! His Arctic journal’s included! Believe me!” Sam roared internally, typing the new price, hitting enter.

Price updated. Still no buyers.

His dad called from downstairs: “Sam! Come down! Didn’t you want a car?”

Sam leapt, shutting his computer, scrambling into clothes. Online forgotten—he was getting a car!

A sleek two-seater? A comfy luxury sedan? So exciting…

But his dad’s pickup drove toward the slums, pulling into a used car lot an hour later.

Sam’s dream crashed.

“You said you’d cover half, not buy scrap,” he muttered.

His eyes drooped. These cars were ancient, their faded windshields screaming thirty years old.

His dad wasn’t fazed. No money, no mercy. He clapped Sam’s back.

“At your age, four wheels and an engine were enough. Want a bicycle instead?”

Sam slumped out, trailing his dad into the “junkyard.”

A tight-suited fat man rolled toward them, wiping his bald head with a handkerchief.

“Gentlemen, welcome to Bobby’s Auto Supermarket! I’m Bobby Bolivia, your pal! Look around, don’t be shy—freedom! America’s spirit’s under these hoods!”

He zoomed to Sam’s dad, spitting words, shaking hands, then hooking Sam’s shoulder like an old friend.

“Come, kid. Bobby’s rule: you don’t pick the car—the car picks you.”

The eager sales pitch stunned them. Sam’s dad, more seasoned, managed, “I’m getting my son his first car.”

Bobby lit up, arms sprouting like a plant, spinning in place.

“You’re in the right spot! Look—100 cars! Right here, perfect for a young man’s first ride! Cheap! Safe! Top quality! Timeless classics!”

Sam smirked. Classics? From an era smelted back to steel?

Barely above scrap—rubber-tired scrap.

Bobby ignored the teen’s grimace, beaming. “So, kid, what kinda car you want?”

“Uh, something to drive to school, cruise with friends…” Sam blushed, meaning girl friends, but his dad’s stare silenced him.

Bobby, who’d sold more cars than Sam had eaten salt, got it. Fat, balding, constipated, hemorrhoid-ridden, and heart-troubled, he’d been sixteen once.

“Come, young friend, check this Ford Thunderbird. Pure white, original paint, chrome, interior—mint! Ready to drive to school.” He led Sam across the lot, glancing at his dad, whispering, “Best part? Killer shocks.”

He winked, giving Sam a knowing look.

Others might’ve caught it, but Sam, a cartoon figurine geek, was clueless.

Ford Thunderbird? Discontinued in ’94. Its electric seatbelts, if faulty, choked drivers at the neck, decapitating in crashes.

And ugly—a shoebox on wheels, worse than a Santana.

Sam shook his head.

Bobby read his look—style issue. Easy fix.

“No worries, kid. Cars choose people. Check this one.”

“Jaguar Daimler, ’92, like new. Look—sleek headlights, exquisite silver grille, perfect engine!” Bobby stroked the hood’s jaguar statue, thumbing up at Sam.

Girls love felines.

Sam shook his head. Black sedan, stodgy grille? Girls wouldn’t bite.

Bobby got it. This kid wanted flair—a sports car.

“Over here! Dodge Challenger, king of sports cars forty years ago. You deserve it! Don’t rush—I’ve got 97 more to show. You’re driving home today.”

The sleek, bold design hit Sam hard. Hollywood’s old heroes drove these.

“How much?”

“Ten grand, but worth it—this is a Challenger!” Bobby hyped.

Sam’s dad cut in—no budget for that. Aim for $3,000.

Despair hit Sam and Bobby for different reasons. Then, someone called Bobby over.

A man in a high-end suit, one-eyed, glanced their way. Sam’s heart raced, like a mouse spotting a cat—life-threatening dread.

The man looked away, beckoning Bobby.

“That yellow-black Chevy—how much?”

“Five thousand. Look at that racing paint—original, not my spray. Fully modded racecar—”

“Shut it. Take my money.”

The black-suited man tossed a stack of cash.

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