"Hmm... the test results don't show any major issues." The PhD said to Clark, "This special powder in your blood will indeed have some impact on you, but as it stands, antibodies are being produced."
"Antibodies?"
"That's right. This stuff isn't a poison, it's likely an element that naturally exists in the cosmos, it's just that you're allergic to it. If you come into contact with small amounts, it'll just make you feel uncomfortable, but it's not lethal."
"So it doesn't have any other effects?" Clark asked, "Like maybe it could enhance my body..."
"We haven't observed that yet; it may be because you've only been exposed for a short time, or maybe your body has been strengthened to the earthly limit, so any further enhancements might not be noticeable. But I still suggest you continue desensitization training, in case someone tries to use it against you."
Clark instinctively said, "Who would be so nasty?"
But he quickly thought of Shiller, then said, "Alright, I really should do the desensitization as soon as possible. What do I need to do?"
"First, I need to obtain some powder from this gemstone to make a potion or drink. Second, you should continue wearing this gemstone to get used to the radiation it causes. Lastly, you need to exercise more in the coming days to speed up your metabolism, so you can produce antibodies faster."
Clark nodded and said, "Okay, I'll go for a run tomorrow."
"By the way, don't go back to New York yet. Once I prepare the potion, you might need regular injections. It would be hard to send them to you if you leave."
Clark agreed. He also understood that he was sort of using public resources for personal purposes. After all, the gemstone couldn't be considered his property, but it was being used for his desensitization training. It's best not to let word of this get out of Los Angeles.
Fortunately, the Federal Government was quite generous, covering all his hotel and living expenses. Though he also needed to give a couple of public speeches here to do some promotion and such.
Leaving the lab, the sun shone brightly, palm trees swayed against the blue sky, and the glass facades of buildings gleamed. Remembering the PhD's advice, Clark decided to run two laps around Los Angeles.
He'd been to Los Angeles before, mostly on business trips, so he'd only had the chance for a quick glance, never really getting up close to admire the city's streetscape.
The mild climate here made him feel very comfortable; the sun felt warm on his body, greatly reducing his discomfort. The main roads in Los Angeles were fairly spacious, and the greenery was nice, unlike New York's hustle and bustle. Clark ran while sightseeing, gaining more energy as he went.
From noon until sunset, Clark had no idea where he ended up. He thought about flying from a corner, but then remembered how unappetizing the hotel dinner was and that the Federal Government was covering his meals and lodging, so he decided to dine out instead.
He wandered around, asking for directions several times, and finally found an area with several restaurants. He picked one that looked decent and sat down to order.
This was a Chinese restaurant, the waitstaff weren't particularly friendly, but Clark didn't mind. He ordered a plate of fried noodles, a piece of pork he couldn't identify the flavor of, and a bowl of soup.
Not surprisingly, the service was slow; there seemed to be only one chef in the kitchen. Clark waited for a long time, feeling a bit anxious but too polite to urge them. Bored, he started eavesdropping on the conversation next to him.
He heard two people with Mexican accents talking.
"Don't say it, this isn't bad. Just work 10 hours a day and you can earn over 1000 Dollars, while cucumbers cost only two dollars."
"Exactly, this job isn't hard, definitely easier than training. Just standing around moving hands, it's less than a warm-up workout."
"Shame the boss says we're too strong, won't let us serve dishes. I heard there's tips for serving, earning up to 2000 Dollars."
"No worries, once we get the hang of the language, we'll switch to a better place for sure."
"By the way, aren't you feeling a bit unwell? How about we see a doctor?"
"Are you crazy? What would the hospital understand here? Plus, we're both undocumented, wouldn't they catch us at the hospital?"
"That's true. Never mind, maybe in a couple of days, we'll get a day off and we can buy some medicine..."
The meal was a mixed bag of emotions for Clark. The portions weren't even that big, but at the end, he couldn't finish it. After eating, he tipped the waiter a little, then went to the counter window to chat with the chef-owner.
"...it's like this." The boss spoke with a bit of an accent in his English, "These illegal workers, they don't have identity, they don't have education, and we still have to cover their food and accommodation. They say they work ten hours, but really, there aren't that many customers. At most, they work hard for three or four hours a day. Don't look at that little over 1000 Dollars a month, when they send it back home, it's a huge sum."
"Also, the meal you're eating only costs 10 dollars in total. If it weren't for them helping wash dishes, I'd have to hire those local lazy guys for two or three thousand bucks, and this meal would cost you at least 30. Without immigrants helping with work, you guys would all starve to death."
Clark let out a long sigh. Kansas State is home to domestic rednecks, and they're very resentful of illegal immigrants over there; they aren't even friendly to outsiders. Clark used to think, why wouldn't these people stay in their own country and insist on coming to someone else's?
But after getting an education, broadening his horizons, and especially after becoming a journalist, he understood that many things aren't as simple as a few words can explain, that morality and justice can't be eaten.
From a moral standpoint, they shouldn't be sneaking over, but they simply can't survive locally. Without some work here, their entire family would starve. What can you do?
Just as the boss said, working here ten hours a day, earning 1000 Dollars, could be worth tens of thousands in their local currency. If they went back home, even earning a 1000 in local currency might be hard; of course, they'd choose to come over.
Of course, there are those who live pretty well at home, but are fooled into coming here. However, such people are inherently lazy and generally can't handle the hard work of an illegal worker. Those washing dishes in the back kitchens of restaurants are usually the hardworking and enduring bottom class.
Clark thought this issue was worth discussing. He also knew that the media have always discussed immigration issues, but these people are just debating endlessly, insulting each other, without anyone truly seeing the bottom.
Just like the Egyptian relic called "Frenes Snake", when Ancient Egyptian Civilization is mentioned, everyone praises it, but when asked if this artifact exists, nobody knows, and no one has personally gone to the British Museum to see it.
Previously, Clark wanted to write a sensational report, to break away from the newspaper and become an independent journalist like Lois, to have a voice in the industry and defend the interests of himself and the public when needed with the power of the press.
Could illegal immigration be a good direction?
Clark didn't think that by reporting on the lives of bottom-level immigrants he would evoke much public sympathy, but it is a very topical subject. Even if more people curse him, he wouldn't mind. Other journalists might fear retaliation from extreme groups, but Clark feared these extreme groups wouldn't retaliate.
Determined to take action, Clark first recorded what the boss had said. It was just getting dark, and he squatted on the street, waiting for the trucks to arrive, then headed around to the back doors of the shops. He knew that when restaurants were unloading supplies, those illegal workers would be handling it, and perhaps he could catch one or two.
He sneakily hid in a corner of the street, and sure enough, someone soon came out. He quickly stepped forward to the car door, pretending to help with the unloading. After all, it was dark and nobody could see what he looked like, so he moved supplies while chatting with these people.
Most of them were from Mexico, as the two countries were close, and at this time the control at the US-Mexico Border wasn't strict, and it had even become an industry chain. The process basically involved being caught, spending a couple of days in immigration prison, and then being released. Those with relatives or friends went to them, those without were sent en masse to Los Angeles to work illegally.
As Clark understood, these people worked very quickly. When moving goods, those cases of beverages were piled half as high as a person, carrying them nonstop, trip after trip.
Clark also helped with the unloading, saying he was new and wanted to make a good impression. He even bought a few bottles of cold drinks out of his own pocket. After unloading, they had a short period of free time and leaned against a corner of the street to chat, and Clark managed to join their group. However, their stories were one sadder than the last.
One said his young daughter died in a shootout, another's wife went missing while working abroad, others had relatives and friends who starved to death on the streets after coming to America, or went for drug trials and never returned; any of them could write a modern social ledger of exploitation.
Clark sighed deeply. When he was in Kansas State, although it was relatively closed and backward, as a local, it wasn't hard to make a living, and the people were quite honest and simple.
When he came to New York, he already had a lot of job experience, and they were all pretty good jobs, easy to find, particularly the job at The Daily Planet—it was glamorous. He hadn't encountered the bottom class of a big city, and hadn't thought it would be like this.
Clark felt more uncomfortable as he listened, anxious to go back and write it all down. But just as he was about to leave, he saw a tall figure carrying two cases of beverages into the back kitchen.
Humans can't see clearly at night, but he could see directly into the internal organs and bones of a body. That's when he noticed that the internal structure of this big guy seemed a bit different from a human's.
"Wait a minute," Clark remembered what Diana had said during the day, "could this be a master from another planet hiding and blending in among ordinary humans???"
Clark followed him to the restaurant's back kitchen and discovered he was one of the two people speaking during the day.
No, this alien's situation was too miserable. A guy who once settled conflicts among three sides when he was still a toddler ended up working as an illegal laborer in a kitchen?
Did he arrive later than Clark himself?
Clark thought about it, and although he didn't consider himself a big deal now, he had at least made a name for himself, and was currently free. Besides writing reports, a convenient rescue of these two unlucky aliens seemed doable.
After some thought, he took out his business card and wrote a line on it: "Now hiring, excellent benefits, interview available, contact number..."