The accommodation provided by Columbia dical School was quite decent; each person had a single suite with a bedroom and a small living room. Of course, the accommodation fee was also very expensive, and parties were not allowed, so many people chose to rent houses nearby.
Shiller lived in the dormitory, and all four of his roommates who used the sa communal lounge had moved out, so he could enjoy an entire bedroom to himself.
Shiller went back to change his clothes and took his laptop with him. At this ti, laptops were still quite heavy, so Shiller carried a computer bag.
The weather was not so warm yet, so he wore a turtleneck sweater and a wool coat on top of that, which was a very common outfit at the school. Paired with a scarf, he wouldn't stand out in a crowd.
Shiller left, exited from the east gate of the school at the back of the dormitory building, and took the subway to the heart of the Manhattan Area. He strolled around the streets for a while and found a café to sit down in.
He ordered a cup of coffee, sat at a table in the café, opened his laptop, and began to check the docunts he had saved, ready to see how far his research had progressed.
Shiller guessed there was nothing on the computer originally, because this was a detail that wouldn't be ntioned in the comics, but the mont he opened it, there were many incomplete minor research papers.
Shiller took a quick look and saw they were quite basic. One of them had the most recent edit date; after opening the calendar, he found it was due soon—there were more than 30 hours left before the deadline.
Shiller began to write leisurely; to him, this was effortless. The only thing he needed to control was to not write anything too complex; it had to match the level of a student who had just started dical school.
How to write a lousy paper that didn't seem like it was written by him was sothing he had beco quite skilled at lately since it hadn't been long since Bruce had graduated.
While writing, Shiller suddenly rembered sothing. He asked Ultron, "How much money do I have in my account now?"
"Not much, otherwise you wouldn't be living in the dormitory."
"How much is this cup of coffee?"
"In my view, it's not expensive, but you probably can't afford it."
"Get so money."
"All right."
As Shiller was finishing the paper, Ultron told him it was taken care of. He now had about thirty thousand US Dollars in his account.
Perhaps due to the setting of his past life in the Super-Ego Manuscript, the forr Shiller didn't have any student loans, but to appear ordinary, he didn't tell anyone about this and would occasionally complain about the pressure of student loans.
After confirming with Ultron, he found indeed there were no loans under his account na, so this amount of money would definitely last for a while.
After finishing the paper smoothly, the street was peaceful, and nothing happened, but Shiller was not in a hurry. He paid for his coffee and carried his laptop towards the nearest Catholic church.
He rummaged through his personal belongings and found a card from a Father, which allowed him to enter any Catholic church easily, because possessing a personal card from any Father ant that at least you were a very devout believer, and no church would refuse your entry.
Shiller entered the church without any trouble. Today happened to be the Father's day off, and no one received him, but Shiller didn't mind and sat down in a chair at the very front of the church.
Sitting there, reminiscing about the past for a while, Shiller thought that on average, New York had thousands of superpower cri cases daily, with Manhattan being a disaster zone. Shiller didn't believe he could go an entire afternoon without encountering one.
Sure enough, before long, there was a commotion outside the door. Shiller didn't hear any siren sounds, but there were noises similar to a silenced handgun, which sounded like standard equipnt.
Suddenly, a man wearing a jacket burst in, tall with dark brown hair and eyes like those of a hawk.
Shiller looked back at him, feeling sowhat disappointed; this wasn't the person he was looking for, clearly not an agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
But since the man had already rushed in, Shiller still made a sowhat surprised expression and asked, "Who are you? What's going on?"
"Who are you?" the man asked defiantly in return.
"Clearly, I'm a Prayer, sir, a student from the dical school of Columbia University to be specific."
"You're a dical student?"
"Yes."
"Great, we have a patient here. Can you help us treat him? The man seed a bit anxious."
"I'd be very happy to help," Shiller made his attitude clear, "but I'm sorry, I'm from the psychology departnt, and I don't have a license."
"You know that's not the point. You should be able to handle a gunshot wound, right? You just need to extract the bullet and then bandage it up, make sure he won't die in the next three hours."
"I'm afraid I can't guarantee anything," Shiller sighed. This was why he disliked dealing with any special agent organizations—it seed like everyone here was a machine incapable of understanding human speech.
"Co with ," he said.
Shiller stepped outside and saw clearly that a person was lying in the bushes within the walls of the small church, appearing to have just been injured. As Shiller approached, he saw two bullet holes in the person's calf, blood still flowing, but the person had already passed out, as if shock had overwheld him.
"This doesn't look like your colleague, sir. Are you sure you want to save him?"
"We maintain humanitarian principles for criminals. At the very least, we should let him live to face justice. Can you help ?"
"I'll do my best."
Shiller crouched and started forward, but felt a shadow loom over him. He looked up to see the dark barrel of a gun aid at his head.
"Why don't you ask who I am?"
"You don't look like a cop, but you don't seem like a bad guy either. Most importantly, you have a gun. Even if you were a criminal, do I have any choice but to work for you?"
The other man didn't lower his guard. With the hand holding the gun, he gestured, "My car's outside the gate. Go to the trunk and bring the dical kit. I have to keep an eye on him here."
Shiller sighed, turned, and walked in the direction indicated. Since the car was within his line of sight, he didn't plan any tricks, much less an escape.
He recognized the man, although he looked different from what he rembered—much younger, but Shiller still recognized him.
John Garrett, the na might be unfamiliar to so, but if you ntion Grant Ward, and his colleagues Hill, Natasha, Hawkeye, Coulson, there's no need to further explain his identity.
Shiller had dealt with Garrett before, even confronted him directly, but he really wasn't such a difficult opponent, nothing compared to Pierce. Although both of them were founders of S.H.I.E.L.D. and part of the Zodiac, Garrett evidently was more of a fringe mber, even his Hydra identity wasn't anything special.
He and Pierce belonged to two different factions within Hydra. Pierce had Nick under him, and he had Grant Ward. The two n were rivals, but since Ward was much younger than Nick, Pierce had the upper hand for now.
Considering it, there were at least three old acquaintances of his in S.H.I.E.L.D. now: Natasha and Nick, who were already immortals, and Coulson, who was probably still a greenhorn.
Shiller had zero desire to interact with them. Otherwise, the butterfly effect might influence a series of events that followed. But John Garrett was basically harmless; he was a peripheral figure with too little screen ti, and even if they were to clash in the future, he wouldn't live long.
Shiller opened the trunk and retrieved the first aid kit. Just as he was about to close the trunk, he glanced inside the car and noted that this ti Garrett wasn't here for any legitimate business—there were no caras in the car.
His hand moved to the side, resting on a toolbox beside him.
With a snap, the trunk closed. Shiller turned, seemingly bothered by the bright sunlight, and took off his glasses, folded them neatly, and placed them in his coat pocket.
"What are you dawdling for?" Garrett's aggressiveness and caution made Shiller want to laugh. Although it was still early days, this kind of agent was just too traditional.
"If it's just about bandaging the wound, bandages, of course, are useful. But if we need to extract the bullet, so tools are required to open the wound," Shiller explained, shaking a small screwdriver he held in his hand. He began to sterilize the screwdriver with items from the dical kit, crouching down.
Garrett was originally pointing the gun at him, but since the wall had railings allowing the outside to see in, and with cars occasionally passing by, Garrett had no choice but to crouch down too, though the hand with the gun remained tensely poised.
Shiller was ready. At the mont he started to pry the wound open, the person on the ground twitched, and Garrett imdiately raised his gun.
What shady business could have him so jumpy? Perhaps it's a silencing job. Shiller sized up the person lying on the ground, who truly didn't seem like a superpowered criminal, his aura too distinctly that of an agent.
It seed that he had unfortunately witnessed a silencing operation. As Shiller thought this, he thodically pried out the bullet, knowing that Garrett wouldn't want the standard-issue bullet to remain in the man's wound, as it could implicate him. That's why he picked a random person from the street to remove the bullet for him.
Why not just kill him first before doing this? It seed the man still had sothing in his mouth that hadn't been fully spit out. Shiller tore the pant leg a bit more to inspect the wound, and as he bent down, he saw a familiar emblem beneath the man's vest.
Wow, the Federal Bureau of Investigation emblem. Tough luck for you.
The screwdriver in his hand flipped from backhand to forehand. Shiller lunged forward, colliding with Garrett across from him. As Garrett was raising his gun-holding hand, Shiller rolled to the left with him, grabbing his neck. With a sputtering sound, the screwdriver pierced through Garrett's throat.
Blood began to spurt; Garrett clutched at his neck, making gasping sounds, curling on the ground like a scalded shrimp, gradually becoming still. Shiller, as if unfazed, walked to the side and bent down to wipe the screwdriver clean.
Looking up, he t the eyes of the Federal Bureau of Investigation agent, who had just opened his.
Shiller wiped the blood off his jaw with an alcohol swab.
The eyes that had just opened, closed again.
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