[Comprehensive Yingmei] Genius Lianmeng

Chapter34 wrong assumptions

Finally, Little Jim, who was going to open a candle shop, finally retreated safely with his respect.But his lazy but provocative "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes, Bruce Wayne, JonnyboyandlittleClark." reveals his ambition to make a comeback.

The background music is the canine whimpers and wails of the little reporter.

After the game, the tranquility of the past re-permeates every room in 221B (not).

Four guys with an explosive sense of existence occupy 221B-although one is concentrating on doing chemical experiments, one is wholeheartedly flipping through the Italian "Divine Comedy" and reciting in a low voice, and one is lazy and casually signing countless documents , a space covering his body as much as possible while covering his eyes——Watson still felt that he had nowhere to go.

He had no choice but to turn to the one who looked the most harmless (fog), trying to start a small talk: "Try to open your eyes, Clark, you can control your sight, anyway, 221B is messy enough, maybe you burn something It can have a miraculous effect on the icing on the cake.”

"Poor little reporter is probably dazzled by our good neighbor's shameless show of affection." Bruce looked away from the paper piled up to the ceiling, and said bluntly.

Watson was tongue-tied, but Sherlock raised his head from the test bench that temporarily lost the dignity of the dining table, and said in a bickering tone with Mycroft: "And your strategic plan of letting go of little Jim and jumping up to cover Clark's eyes is also worthy of praise." A stroke of genius."

"Sherlock is right, Bruce, you shouldn't have let the bombardier go so easily." If it weren't for covering your eyes and crying, the little reporter's words would have been quite righteous.

Bruce snorted disdainfully, showing a sweet, frivolous and playful playboy smile—he seemed to have forgotten the mask he had come handy during this time—Bai Sensen's teeth gleamed: "Then the whole swimming pool will be destroyed Your out-of-control heat sight burns to melt and crumbs, and the Bomber's purpose of dragging everyone to hell is accomplished."

"Yes... I'm sorry..." Clark, who was covering his eyes and crying, was about to cry.

What a fu^cking world!There must be something wrong with the way the amnesiac Superman opened it!

This question was asked by Bruce, one of the world's greatest detectives.

"I know you've covered a lot of Superman scoops, Clark, have you been cursed by Superman?"

Immediately, the young reporter came out of the negativity and launched a defense of the Guardians of the Metropolis: "I never knew 'Superman' and 'Curse' could be put in one sentence."

"I know, for example, 'Superman' has no resistance to magical 'curse'." Bruce said calmly and slightly sarcastically (this made John Watson suddenly have a feeling: Bruce Wayne Gradually unifying Brucey Babe and Batman), "Come on, let's not talk about the alien mascot in Metropolis, and let's focus on you, Clark. First, given In the world we used to have, no one except Superman could send out heat vision; second, you and Superman are extremely similar in appearance, and the iris features are exactly the same, so I have to come up with several possible hypotheses."

Clark rubbed his closed eyes hard, and said sullenly: "Please tell me. Although I can't make sentences with 'Clark Kent' and 'Superman', except for 'Clark Kent sent a report of Superman from the front'. "

"Superpower? Boring." Sherlock shook his head dismissively, just like a cat grinning at the bones fed to a dog.

"Whether you are interested or not, Sherlock, similar things are happening, starting from the abnormal human research center eyeing us, and there will only be more and more." Bruce pushed the hill of files away, and quickly Call up an image of a red cape and blue tights.

This person has black slightly curly hair, a strand of S-shaped curls bouncing stubbornly in the center of his forehead.The height and width of his forehead are just right, every line of his facial features is perfect, a pair of pure blue eyes without mottled color, like the sun continuously radiating warmth, clarity and sincerity.He folded his arms, his red cloak fluttered, and the slightly interlaced long legs wrapped in blue tights seemed to be filled with the order and truth of the universe. His toes were pointing down, more graceful than a ballet dancer— — This is the innate beauty of the celestial species.

"He is made of gold and ivory, Bruce. He is a sculpture made by God in his own image. He is Apollo in the Temple of the Sun." Dr. Lecter put down the "Divine Comedy", and his fingers lightly slid across the paper. The hoarse voice seems to be able to cut through the paper and the gods on the paper, "It's a pity that this Apollo's taste seems to be exactly the same as that of a country bumpkin from the western countryside of the United States."

"Please don't insult the country bumpkins in the western countryside of the United States, Dr. Lecter." The little reporter said angrily, his weak and stubborn western accent being deliberately amplified by himself, "Besides, the combination of red and blue is actually the culture of Krypton. "

"Okay, gentlemen, stop the Sherlock Holmes-style bickering." Bruce blackened the four people with one sentence, "If you would kindly lend me Clark for a minute, Dr. Lecter, I would be very grateful."

The little reporter stood up from the sofa clumsily - because his eyes were closed, he bumped into the table in front of the sofa, and was about to have a close contact with the floor full of debris...

He found that what he was in close contact with was two arms as hard as steel and as flexible as spider silk.

"Thank you, Bruce..." the little reporter said cautiously and shyly, and for some reason, they stuck closer together.

"The motor cells seem to be necrotic, the hands and feet are extremely uncoordinated, and the balance must have been eaten up. It has nothing to do with Superman's super strength and super speed." Bruce picked up the little reporter who was motionless in his arms, "If you shrink again If you put your neck on your back..."

Clark was so frightened that he quickly stood at attention.

The timid, shy, introverted little reporter in front of him was actually quite tall, measuring six feet three inches and weighing 225 pounds (he roughly figured it out when he held Clark up), with broad shoulders and muscular muscles—Bruce unwrapped it. Clark's completely ill-fitting suit, his rough, sturdy hands caressing those bones and muscles-the touch under his hands is extraordinary, those muscles are not like * at all, but like iron wrapped in silk.The outer surface of the silk can be scratched, and the bright red blood that looks normal will flow, but he heals much faster than normal people, and there will never be a trace of stitching on the silk...

The temperature on the little reporter was getting higher and higher, Bruce's lips were tightly pursed, and the last uncertain premise was finally completed.

"Okay, the impossible options have been ruled out, and now there are only two hypotheses left." Bruce said with confidence, "Clark, I have to tell you a news that can't be said to be good or bad: you are either the son of Superman , or a copy of Superman, there is no third possibility."

Before the person concerned had time to react, Watson silently banged his head on the table: 221B was opened in the wrong way today.

Sherlock condescendingly left his laboratory bench and sat down in the armchair opposite Watson, crossing his hands against the tip of his nose.

As always, the cohabitant takes care of her appearance like a cat with ingenuity and no compromises—slim white shirts, well-tailored dark suits and hand-made shoes (Sherlock occasionally picks up for his equipment) some no-brainer but well-revenged cases, and the salary of a laboratory assistant at Barts Hospital can never afford a fifteen-hundred-pound overcoat.), looks like the must-have outfit of a young and promising banker, but the shaggy curly hair And the two buttons he undid at will announced grandly that he could not be controlled.

Sherlock is like a sharp sword in a golden belt.

The sword was unsheathed, and another round of eloquent reasoning began: "Bruce obviously tested Clark's blood, and did a series of tests through our game with Little Jim. Clark has the exact same physical characteristics as the Kryptonian , but his superpowers only awaken heat vision—maybe there is also extraordinary healing ability? This makes the possibility of "cloning people" greatly increased. But it is obvious that this time the cloning was not successful, and Clark has no superman His super speed, super strength, flying ability, X-ray, freezing air and other abilities, but since he has awakened his heat vision in a dangerous moment, it is possible to awaken other abilities in the next crisis. The completely consistent physical characteristics make' Superman's son said 'Not so convincing, but given that Kryptonian genes are different from humans, maybe they are dominant genes relative to humans, so this hypothesis cannot be completely ruled out. You are asking why Clark can't be Superman himself ? Oh, John, Clark's blood composition is obviously different from that of Kyle-Eyre! Bruce, a pessimist who wants to make a thousand records, will definitely rack his brains to get Superman's blood, otherwise how could he give up?"

"The Kryptonite attack will make Superman bleed like a human on Earth, and there is no need to 'struggle' to get Kyle-Eyer's blood, Sherlock, the only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes." Bruce pulled out his peers He raised his chin slightly and added triumphantly, "Another reason why Clark can't be Superman is that their personalities, ways of doing things and values ​​are very different. I have never seen anyone more calm and elegant than the alien blue big man." , and never knew anyone more clumsy and timid than Clark Kent. I've never seen anyone as busy as an alien rescue dog on the first scene of a rescue, and I've never seen anyone more busy interviewing than a poor little reporter Reporting is exhausting."

A sense of superiority emerged from Watson's habitual heart: Abnormal Human Research Center really treated John Hamish Watson fucking favorably!