Chapter 280 2, Countdown to Life

Hoffa felt like he was dying.

Not only the scorching sun that brought him during the day, but also some subtle and irreversible changes in his body.

Under the bright sunshine in London in 1994, he could see tiny lenses forming on the surface of his skin. Those lenses were growing and spreading little by little, and it didn't take long for his right knuckles to become transparent.

Sister Chloe had told him, except her. From birth, everyone's position in time and space is determined. If he moves without authorization, time flares will be generated. The longer he exists in a different dimension, the more fragile the logical chain that maintains his existence will be.

The last time, just two or three days before he went there, he almost died under the pressure of time flares. The sense of powerlessness in the face of the law of time is still fresh.

And this time, fifty years later.

When the time flare sounded the horn of death again, Chloe was no longer there, stepping on a completely strange land alone, he couldn't think of any way to keep himself alive.

Fifty years ago? To find Dumbledore? Thinking about it, even Dumbledore couldn't bring him back fifty years ago, and even if he wanted to, it would be impossible to build another Arrow of Time in just two days.

What can be done? If only two days of life left.

Five years ago, if he was asked what he would do in the world of Harry Potter, he would probably happily say, make Hermione, fight Voldemort and so on.

But now, looking at the poster of "This Killer Is Not So Cold" in front of him, he just wants to order a cup of popcorn, an iced coke, and a hamburger, and sit in the most comfortable position in the cinema, quietly waiting for death 's arrival

Not one of the most negative traversers in history.

Thinking of this, Hoffa actually laughed at himself. This is probably some kind of emotional compensation mechanism. The brain subconsciously prevents people from collapsing because of being too desperate.

So do it.

He stood up in a daze, ignoring the strange eyes of others, and walked towards the distant movie theater on his own.

But when he walked slowly to the entrance of the cinema, he found another problem that was not a problem.

He has no money.

His clothes were changed at Miranda's house fifty years ago, and they became tattered because of the battle. Even if there were some money in his pocket, it would have been burned long ago.

True, he could conjure some money with magic or conjure up a little counterfeit money or something.

But that's pointless.

It's boring to kill people before you die.

He saw the delicate old necklace in his hand, the only thing he owned, and looked at a nearby McDonald's, thinking he might trade it for an iced Coke.

So he walked into the store, but as soon as he entered, he was pushed out by a fat female clerk with an upturned pockmarked face. Well, go and go, I don't have time to entertain homeless people."

Hoffa, who was pushed out of the glass door, was not angry at all. He turned around and asked, "Did you guys win World War II?"

I froze for a second.

"are you crazy."

The fat woman waved the rag that was wiping the table, lettuce leaves splashed on Hoffa's face, and said slowly and bitterly: "If you have any questions, ask your teacher, you are just a high school dropout with nothing to do."

Outside the McDonald's restaurant, Hoffa held the necklace and sat on the red fire hydrant on the street in the afternoon, looking aimlessly at the passing vehicles. At this moment, the time flare on the back of the hand has expanded to the forearm, from his thumb to the elbow joint, more than half of it is transparent.

He has long been accustomed to the devastation of World War II, but he is very strange to this living world that should be familiar to him.

The UK is still the UK, there are no fewer movies that should be made, electrical appliances that should be invented are the same, and things that should happen will still happen.

Germany didn't win, even if I was about to die in two days, Germany still didn't win. Grindelwald's failure to achieve the goal of making the world feel pain shows that his own existence is actually insignificant, with him or without him.

"It's ironic."

He said lightly, "So I am nothing."

Swish! !

As soon as the voice fell, there was a rush of tires rubbing against the ground. A flamboyant yellow Lamborghini Diablo parked in front of McDonald's.

It has square eyes, a huge air intake grille and a long tail, and the butt makes a puffing exhaust sound and drips outward.

The pedestrians on the side turned their heads in the direction of the sound, and the drivers stared at the wide monster with wide eyes, showing envious expressions, and the children jumped up and down, whispering excitedly, the sound from under the hood, Interrupting the voices of others on the street.

Although he was on the verge of death at this moment, and although Hoffa had just come to this era fifty years ago, he still dug out some information about this car from his dusty memory. Diablo, produced in 1991. One of the top luxury cars in the 1990s.

boom.

The car door opened upwards, and a hoarse and pleasant man's voice came out from inside the car: "Honey, just come down here."

"Hey, what about the one who agreed to go shopping on Oxford Street?"

The woman said dissatisfied.

"Oh, it's just a coincidence today, I have to pick up a friend."

"You can't tell me in advance, where will I go now?"

"Go shopping, go shopping, drink coffee, whatever you want."

The hoarse male voice became a little perfunctory.

"I don't."

The woman said forcefully.

"Hold it, the password is your birthday."

The man said casually, stuffing something into her hand.

"You remember my birthday!?"

The woman said in surprise.

"uh maybe"

"Hmph, I hate it, I just like your indifferent attitude towards me, Trojan horse!"

Accompanied by a passionate kiss that made passers-by envious, followed by a burst of hot fragrance. A pair of long legs stepped out of the luxury car and flashed past Hoffa.

It was a strange woman wearing sunglasses and a brand-name bag, looking arrogantly at the surroundings. The jeweled face was short of writing four large characters, I am a supermodel.

This kind of picture is not uncommon in later generations of London. The war is over, the economy is developing rapidly, and rich people are everywhere, just like in Shanghai or BJ in the 21st century. Seeing this kind of picture, I probably cursed in my heart, damn guy, or is the rich really rich? After saying that he could do whatever he wanted, he turned and left unwillingly, blaming God for not giving him a good pregnancy.

Hoffa hung his head, didn't care about a sports car or a model, he didn't care about anything because he was going to die.

But the sports car didn't leave, but stopped in front of him and farted.

The owner of the sports car turned sideways and shouted to the gray-haired boy sitting on the fire hydrant outside the car door: "Hey, can you come in?"

The arm suddenly stabbed, and Hoffa frowned.

Seeing that he didn't respond, the guy driving the sports car honked his horn, and the yellow Lamborghini Diablo let out a loud roar.

Hoffa raised his head slowly, and saw an old man wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap staring at him through the open gull-wing door. He was wearing a simple white T and blue jeans, and happily honked the horn: "Young man, don't be so negative, come in and sit down."

Hoffa glanced around, and the Lamborghini made an unpleasant fart sound again, puff.

The old man was helpless: "Who are you looking at, I'm talking to you."

Passers-by stopped one after another, showing surprised expressions.

They couldn't associate this guy who was just sitting on the manhole cover begging, with a tattered body, a gray chicken coop, and a mess of dust on his face, with the shiny luxury car in front of him.

The female employee who cleaned the table in the burger shop saw the scene outside the glass, her jaw didn't drop to the ground. Can't understand why the owner of that rare luxury car would let a homeless man in for a ride.

Even the tall model, who had walked away for several steps, pulled down her glasses in surprise, and her mouth, which was painted with expensive lipstick, became O-shaped.

Hoffa still didn't respond.

The old man in the car was a little helpless, he got out from the other side, and saw that under his vest was a bronzed, healthy complexion, tall and powerful.

After that, he stepped forward in three steps and two steps, grabbed Hoffa's arm, and dragged him into the car involuntarily.

Lamborghini doesn't match its appearance and its simple, chrome interior. Hoffa let out a muffled snort. There was a strong smell of perfume in the car, which made people feel tight in his chest. .

There was a slight clicking sound, and he could feel his chest crystallizing rapidly. His existence is becoming more and more illogical, and his body is rapidly disintegrating under the power of the arrow of time.

boom!

The door of the Lamborghini closes.

The vehicle made a roar on the streets of London and sped out.

The acceleration pushed Hoffa against the back of the seat. He turned his head and looked at the old man in the driver's seat beside him, wearing a baseball cap and a white T. He said in a hoarse voice, "What are you doing?"

"You don't ask who I am?"

The old man held the steering wheel and asked with a smile.

"I don't care who you are."

Hoffa said slowly, looking at his arm.

Through the glass of the car window, his right side has almost disappeared in the sunlight, as if it were made of glass, and only some faint blood vessels and bone veins can be seen inside.

"Yes, I have a bit of pride when I was young."

The old man smiled and nodded, very happy.

"Big words."

Hoffa sneered feebly. He didn't think an old man who drove a sports car could be compared with himself.

His pride and experience do not allow anyone to feel similar to him, but he is now powerless to resist. I don't want to refute either. It looks like a drifting duckweed.

Time flares are eroding his body, and he has entered the countdown stage of his life.

creak.

When passing the traffic light, the Lamborghini stopped. The old man smiled and pulled off his baseball cap and sunglasses, revealing short gray hair and a pair of light golden eyes.

He looked at Hoffa with the steering wheel, and said in Chinese: "Am I really brazen?"