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When a city bus weighing approximately 14.9 tons hit his “son” from an alternative timeline at 55 miles per hour, Sir Reginald Hargreeves flinched. But only after he caught sight of the driver. 

For, you see, said chauffeur seemed to suffer from an acute affliction of empathy. 

Upon flattening an innocent pedestrian into an American-style pancake, putting an eternal end to said victim’s vital life functions, the driver—whose name tag declared his moniker to be Geoffrey—ground his colossal vehicle to a stop, turned on the hazard lights and exited, jogging toward the alleged corpse on vibrating limbs. 

Geoffrey was a rather disheveled man, sporting a milk-stained mustache along with the wrinkled uniform of a public transport employee.

“Oh my lord, oh my lord,” he explained, with the hint of a Southern accent. “Heaven help me, shit shit shit” he continued, rushing closer to Klaus as his eyes began to fill with tears and mimic those of a rabid rodent.

Reginald hastened a step southeast, placing himself in the middle of the road, between Klaus and the driver. 

Geoffrey—a ridiculous, convoluted way to spell a common name, if you were to ask Reginald—halted, seeming to notice Reginald for the first time. 

“Oh thank heavens! Do you know where the nearest payphone is? We have to call 9-1—”

“You will do no such thing,” Reginald proclaimed. “I can assure you that the young man you’ve struck today is perfectly fine and shall resume all essential motor functionality in due course. He doesn’t need any obtuse observers such as yourself interfering with his recovery.” 

“But he needs help! Someone has to call an ambulance.” No wonder Geoffrey hadn’t secured a more esteemed profession. The man concerned himself with issues of little consequence.

Nevertheless, Reginald reached into his waistcoat and withdraw his checkbook. “How about 5,000 dollars? Will that put an end to your absurd willy nagging?”

“What?!” Geoffrey’s mouth dropped open, revealing botched dental surgery debilitating several of his teeth. “No, you can’t just buy me off. I have to report this! We—we have to do something!”

Reginald sighed. “Do you know who I am , Geoffrey?”

Geoffrey went to shake his head, but then, upon examining Reginald’s facial structure a second more, stopped. “You’re that crazy gazillionaire, aren’t you? Mr. Regibald Hargrief?”

“Sir Reginald Hargreeves.”

Geoffrey had no response, still stealing concerned glances at his masterful roadkill.

“Fine, would you prefer I send one of my children after you?” Reginald countered. “I can see your license plate quite clearly. Which means, with a simple call to your employer, I can deduce your full legal name and current address. Surely, you are aware of the Sparrow Academy’s abilities. Leave now and I’ll let you select your manner of expiration: crows nestling into your right frontal lobe or eldritch tentacles invading your large intestine.”

Reginald could hear the gulp from the bowels of Geoffrey’s tightening throat.

Reginald flourished his pen. “Shall we settle on 8,000 dollars then?”

Geoffrey looked to the ground and offered a barely discernible nod. “I can’t promise they won’t say anything though.”

“Hmm?” Reginald looked around, not seeing anyone else. “To whom are you referring?”

“Them,” Geoffrey pointed back to the bus. 

Reginald hurried over. A few dozen pairs of eyes—34, to be precise—stared back. They belonged to humans of all ages and creeds. A particularly young juvenile, sporting unkempt pigtails, lifted a chubby hand up in greeting. Another toddler of similar impish demeanor stuck its tongue out.

Reginald didn’t blink. “My checkbook can accompany them too.”

The driver of a Jeep Cherokee settled for $12,000. A teenager in a Honda Civic happily accepted just $900. A supercilious septuagenarian in a Mercedes-Benz held out for 50 grand. 

There was a disconcerting incident in which a middle-aged couple demonstrated exemplary reflexes—managing to avoid Klaus and all of his outstretched limbs completely as they maneuvered their Mazda3 to the side. Reginald thought about asking them to try again. But oh well, it was their financial loss.

A bombastic millennial also missed out; she hit the brakes with virtual clairvoyance, stopping her compact SUV a few feet ahead of Klaus a moment after he dashed into the road’s center.

“Motherfucker!,” she yelled, presenting a nail-bitten middle finger out the window. “Get the fuck out of the street, shithead!”

Reginald approached her passenger side and tapped the window. “You’ll do well to moderate your language, young lady. It’s not very becoming for someone of your particular societal status.”

“Bite me, grandpa,” she growled and sped off.

Reginald much preferred people who commit occasional hit-and-runs to those who disrespect linguistics. 

34 minutes and 6 vehicular manslaughters later, a bicyclist approached. 

The man on board the two-wheeler ignored Klaus, driving right past the temporarily deceased body and up to Reginald instead.

“Sir Reginald!” he said, with affection.

Reginald looked the man up and down, noting his impeccable three-piece teal suit with the Hotel Obsidian's logo on its breast pocket. 

“Mr. Rodo!” Reginald responded with little delay. “Enjoying a leisurely break, are we, Chet?” 

“My dog’s missing. Have you seen him?”

“Mr. Pennycrumb? I’m afraid I have not.”

“Shame.” Chet glanced down and spotted Klaus. He looked back up at Reginald. “Meeting with a friend?”

“Uh, yes, we’re playing a game.”

“Oh? What’s it called?”

“Bus ball.”

“I hope you win.”

Reginald freely offered up a two-dollar bill. “For your discretion, Mr. Rodo.”

“That’s very kind of you. I’ll be sure not to spill the secrets of your unique relationship-building methods.”

Chet slipped the bill into his breast pocket and rode off.

Reginald smiled and went to collect his timekeeping notebook. That was the perfect end to the day’s experiment.