【耽美/科幻/中译英】残次品The Defective Chapter 4

原作：Priest（晋江）
翻译：楚水凉同人工作室-千字250富豪翻译小组
After restraining herself for several minutes, she loses it and go out for trouble.
Weirdly, the ruckus disappears the moment she removes her earbuds.
In a rage, she looks around, only to find some lifeless grown-ups curling up to hide from the fierce draughts, no kid at all. Blank and dizzy, she burps and doubts it is some hallucination from drinking. She shakes her head, put on the earbuds and the hood, and closes her eyes again.

Just as the alcohol is about to get her, a sharp crying penetrates her ears: “Mama!”
All of a sudden, her eyes wide open, the same time “tarT potion” lets out a long sigh and then stops.
She turns off the music and can hear clearly that the devastating crying isn’t far at all and it is squeezing into her ears.
But……what kid would be born in such a hell?

The stop sign has long been stolen and the street lamps have long been out. Darkness is everywhere. The eyes of dark night peep from the dirty corners of the squalid and interlinked alleys nearby. The “artificial retard” driver f*cks something up again: the terminus notice sounds at a wrong stop. Before the passengers can complain, the bus goes dormant automatically, leaving them no choice but to get off.

With a frowning face, the girl carries her luggage and follows other exhausted passengers. A thin and small middle-aged man in thick parka stands in front of her, tugging an emaciated old man who topples over to the girl.
She glares at them, and her eyes are suddenly blurred before she is able to teach them sharp lessons. The punk girl rubs her eyes almost stuck together by mascara goop, and, suddenly, she finds the old man, incredibly, turning into a little boy.

Am I intoxicated by fake booze?
She thinks, blinking her eyes with strength.
As the blurry vision becomes clear, she is astounded by what she sees – the old man disappeared, instead, a two or three-year-old kid wrapped in dirty rags is in her sight. But under the grubby rags, the clothes are quite fine and delicate. A “tramp” lifts the crying kid by clutching his neck with one hand and grabbing his wrist with the other. The kid keeps screaming and fighting, but nobody casts a glance at it or even feels a bit weird – perhaps they only saw a nutty old man here, just as she did a moment ago.

It must be a “collective hallucination”!
She squints her eyes, suspecting the “tramp” to be a kidnapper or trafficker with certain futuristic technology. So she follows behind them quietly.
The “tramp” takes no notice of the girl. He gets off the bus and walks into a narrow lane scattered with dilapidated residences. An illegal bar is hidden in the deep lane. Dim nightlights illuminate the snow-covered street heading to the back door of the bar. The kid’s piercing scream echoes around the lane, but everybody remains unperturbed.

It cannot be hallucination agent -- whether on the bus or in the lane, the blustering wind could blow away any biochemical agent.
She puts her bag across the shoulder and adjusts her hood.
“Hey! Hold it!” she calls.
The “tramp” pauses, grabbing the kid by his nape. He raises his shoulders and offers a half flattering, half coward smile, showing no intention to make any troubles.

He stutters, “Umm...me?”
The girl squints at him with vigilance. “Is that your kid?” She lifts her chin and nods at the kid.
His face suddenly falls but he is pretending to be calm, hiding the tension in his eyes. “W-what? You m-must had be, be wrong. What kid? Th-this old man’s like a c-crinkled monkey. He i-is small, but no, no kid. See!” the “tramp” replies with a forced smile.

He pushes the man to the front of the girl. In that instant, she feels as if a broken-down screen burst upon her eyes, on which a crying kid and a nasty old man alternately present.
She frowns, steps forward, and tilts her head with a sense of suspicion. “Weird.” 
Seeing his trick works, the “tramp” grins, showing his broken brown teeth, “See, I, I have t-told you…”

Before he finishes his words, the girl suddenly takes a wine-bottle out of her bag and hits into his forehead. The bottle breaks into pieces, letting out a sharp smell of the feints. Holding the bottle half, she rubs out the discolored lipstick mark with the back of her hand.
“Pooh, bastard! You’re tricking me?”
As the wine rolls down the “tramp’s” face, his smile fades away. He shoots fierce eye at the girl, putting down the kid. With a rattling of bones, his body swells like a balloon. In a flash, he turns into a two-meter bruiser.

With her staring upward, the aggressive punk girl is kind of befuddled now. The sense of confusion unconsciously drives her a little step back.
“You...”
The “tramp”, or rather a huge monster, lets out a shit-eating grin, from ear to ear.
“Humph, it doesn’t work to you, f*cking Deaf.”
This very word of “Deaf” freezes the girl, the expression of panic on her face is flooded with a howling wave of rage in a second, and she kicks directly into that monster’s d*ck. When he bends down, his lowered height is just good enough for her to seize his hair with one hand, tugging at his head down, and stab into his face with that broken half of the wine bottle in her other hand -- all are done with no hesitation, but accuracy and speed, which can tell how experienced a senior hooligan she is, especially in street fighting.

What she doesn’t imagine is that her “weapon” doesn’t even make a scratch, only to slide by his side. The man’s pale face is, incredibly, with the strength and rigidity of some hard metal.
The “tramp” adjusts a bit his neck, doesn’t give a sh*t to the girl’s attack, and grabs the very hand of her in his hair casually and easily.
Throwing the bottle half away, she is picked up into the air like a kitten, so vulnerable, so delicate. Struggles are in vain. She is so shocked to realize something from the monster’s metallic face.

“Yo...you’re not human.”
The “tramp” quirked into a mischievous grin with blue veins standing out on his hands, the fan-like huge hands, grabbing her head.
At this very moment, with a glare flash, 3 or 4 high-speed motors plummet from the air, which is an obvious violation to the restriction of “No High-speed Motors within a 100-meter Height”, though.

Thundering engine sound rises following the glare, and a swirling wind sweeps through then.
The “tramp” seems to find out something -- his face becomes stone all of a sudden and he lets go of the girl -- and is about to run.
The swirling wind blows the little boy, who is left behind, into the air.
That monster bounces like a beast, and stops over at the top of a wall, disappearing with a flash coming from his own body.

Quiet and dark night again.
The little boy struggles hard in the air, but is pushed forward by an invisible hand, heading to a secret bar.
The back door of the bar opens suddenly. A man comes out from which. Reaches out to the flying little boy’s nape.
The squad of high-speed motors grounds and mute immediately. The girl, who is lying on her stomach at a corner, raises her head and peers at the man through her rag-liked hair.

It’s a tall man. Stands in his own light. She can barely see his face.
He bends, putting the kid down to the ground. As a light waddles in the other hand, he flicks the ash off a cigarette.
“Forget it. He used a Spatial Field. Has gone,” the man says in a neutral tone, “You can come on the stage in a more exaggerated manner next time. Your enemy may take to his heels even a light year away.”

TBC