PFC Chapter 2666 Hollywood Rhapsody (24)
Chapter 2666 Hollywood Rhapsody (24)
Chapter 2666 Hollywood Rhapsody (Twenty-four)
The accommodation provided by Columbia Medical School is quite good. Each person has a single suite with a bedroom and a small living room. Of course, the accommodation fee is also very expensive, and parties are not allowed, so many people choose to rent a house nearby.
Schiller lived in the dormitory. The four roommates who shared the common room with him all moved out, so he had the entire dormitory to himself.
Schiller went back to change his clothes and took his laptop. Laptops at that time were still quite heavy, so Schiller carried a computer bag.
The weather was not that warm at that time, so he wore a turtleneck sweater and a tweed coat on the outside, which was a very common outfit in school. He also wore a scarf and could not be found in the crowd.
Schiller went out and walked out of the school's east gate behind the dormitory building, took the subway to the center of Manhattan, strolled around the streets, and found a cafe to sit down.
He ordered a cup of coffee, sat at the table in the cafe, opened his notebook, and began to look through the documents he had saved, ready to see how far his research had progressed.
Schiller guessed that there was nothing in the computer originally, because this was a detail that could not be explained in the comics, but the moment he opened it, there were many unfinished small project papers.
Schiller took a quick look and found that they were all relatively basic. One of them had been edited recently. After opening the calendar, he found that it was due soon, and there were still more than 30 hours before the paper was due.
Schiller began to write slowly. These things came easily to him. The only thing he had to control was that it could not be too complicated and should be at the level of a student who had just entered medical school.
He had become quite good at writing a crappy paper that didn't seem like he had written it, since it hadn't been that long since Bruce graduated.
Halfway through writing, Schiller suddenly remembered something, and 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 coffee?”
"It doesn't seem expensive to me, but you probably can't afford it."
"Help me get some money."
"Ok."
When Schiller had almost finished writing the paper, Ultron told him that it was done and he now had about 30,000 US dollars in his account.
Perhaps due to the setting of his previous life copied by his superego, Schiller did not have student loans in his previous life, but in order to behave like an ordinary person, he did not tell anyone about it, and occasionally complained about the heavy pressure of student loans.
After confirmation by Ultron, it was found that there was indeed no loan in his account, so the money would definitely be enough for a while.
He finished writing the thesis successfully. The street was quiet and nothing happened, but Schiller was not in a hurry. He paid the bill for coffee and walked towards the nearest Catholic church with his computer.
He found a priest's business card among his personal belongings, which allowed him to enter any Catholic church smoothly, because getting a priest's personal business card meant that you were at least a very devout believer, and no church would refuse you entry.
Schiller entered the church smoothly. Today happened to be the priest's day off and no one received him, but Schiller didn't care. He walked to the chair at the front of the church and sat down.
Sitting here and reminiscing about the past for a while, Schiller thought that there were an average of thousands of super-powered crimes in New York every day, and Manhattan was the hardest hit area. Schiller didn't believe that he wouldn't encounter one in the whole afternoon.
Sure enough, not long after, there was a noise outside the door. Schiller did not hear any sirens, but there was a sound similar to that of a pistol silencer, which sounded like standard equipment.
Suddenly a man in a jacket rushed in. He was tall, with dark brown hair and a pair of eagle-like eyes.
Schiller looked back at him and felt a little disappointed. This was not the person he was looking for. This was obviously not an FBI agent.
But since the other party had already rushed in, he still pretended to be a little surprised and asked, "Who are you? What happened?"
"Who are you?" he asked back confidently.
"Apparently I am a man of prayer, sir. Specifically, a student at Columbia University Medical School."
“Are you a medical student?”
"Yes."
"Great, we have a patient here, can you help us treat him? The man seemed a little anxious."
"I'm happy to help," Schiller said, "but I'm sorry, I'm in the psychology department 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 take the bullet out, bandage it, and make sure he doesn't die in the next three hours."
"I'm afraid I can't guarantee anything." Schiller sighed. This is why he doesn't like dealing with any spy organization. It seems that all the people here can't understand human language. They are like machines that can't communicate.
"Come with me." he said.
Schiller walked out and saw a man lying in the bushes inside the wall of the chapel. He looked like he had just been shot. When Schiller walked over, he saw two bullet holes on his calf. He was bleeding, but he had fainted and looked like he had been electrocuted.
"This doesn't look like your colleague sir, are you sure you want to save him?"
"We should be humane to the criminal. At least we should bring him back alive. Can you help me?"
"I'll try my best."
Schiller walked over and squatted, but felt a shadow blocking his way. When he looked up, he saw the black muzzle of a gun aimed at his head.
"Why don't you ask who I am?"
"You don't look like a policeman, but you don't look like a bad guy either. The most important thing is that you have a gun. Even if you are a criminal, is there any way for me not to work for you?"
The other party did not lower his guard at all. He waved the hand holding the gun and said, "My car is outside the gate. Go to the trunk and get the medical kit. I have to keep an eye on him here."
Schiller sighed, turned and walked in the direction he pointed. Since the car was within his sight, Schiller did not plan to do any tricks, let alone escape.
He recognized this person, even though he looked different from the one he remembered and was much younger, but he still managed to recognize him.
John Garrett, this name may sound unfamiliar, but when it comes to Grant Ward and his colleagues Hill, Natasha, Hawkeye, and Coulson, there is no need to say more about his identity.
Schiller and Garrett have dealt with each other before, and even fought head-on, but he is indeed not a very difficult opponent, far worse than Pierce. Although they are both founders of S.H.I.E.L.D. and members of the Zodiac, Garrett is obviously the more marginal one among them, and even his identity as Hydra is not special.
He and Pierce belong to two different factions of Hydra. Pierce's subordinate is Nick, and his subordinate is Grant Ward. The two are competing against each other, but because Ward is much younger than Nick, Pierce has the upper hand so far.
After thinking about it, he realized that there are at least three old acquaintances of his in SHIELD now, Natasha and Nick, who are originally immortals, and Coulson, who is probably still a rookie.
Schiller didn't want to deal with them at all, otherwise the butterfly effect might affect a series of events later, but John Garrett was basically fine. He was just a marginal figure with too few scenes. Even if they would face each other in the future, he didn't live long.
Schiller opened the trunk and retrieved the medical kit. When he was about to close the trunk, he looked inside the car. It seemed that Garrett was not here for any serious business this time, and there were no cameras in the car.
He reached out and pressed his hand on the toolbox beside him.
With a click, the trunk was closed. When Schiller turned around, he seemed to feel the sunlight was too glaring. He took off his glasses, folded them and put them in his coat pocket.
"What are you dithering about?" Schiller found the aggressiveness and caution displayed by Garrett ridiculous. Although it was still early days, this kind of agent was still too traditional.
"If you just want to bandage the wound, bandages and the like are indeed useful, but if you want to remove the bullet, you need some tools to open the wound." Schiller shook a small screwdriver in his hand, squatted down and began to disinfect the screwdriver with the contents of the medical kit.
Garrett originally pointed a gun at him, but because the wall was a railing, people from outside could see what was going on inside, and cars would pass by from time to time, so Garrett had to squat down, but his hand holding the gun was always ready to shoot.
Schiller was ready, and at the moment he opened the wound, the man lying on the ground twitched, and Garrett immediately raised his gun.
What shameful thing had he done to make him so startled? Could he be trying to silence someone? Schiller looked at the man lying on the ground. He certainly didn't look like a superpowered criminal. He looked like a spy.
It seemed that he had unfortunately witnessed an attempt to silence someone, Schiller thought as he pried the bullet out methodically. He knew that Garrett didn't want the standard equipment bullet to remain in the man's wound, otherwise he might be suspected, so he just found someone on the street to help him remove the bullet.
Why not kill him first and then do these things? It seems that this person still has something in his mouth. Schiller tore the pants on his calves a little wider. Just as he lowered his head to check the wound, he saw a familiar symbol under the man's vest.
Wow, the FBI emblem, bad luck to you.
The screwdriver changed his hand and Schiller rushed forward, directly bumping into Garrett on the opposite side. The opponent just raised his hand holding the gun, and Schiller rolled him to the left, grabbed his neck, and with a "puff", the screwdriver pierced Garrett's throat.
Blood began to splatter, Garrett covered his neck and made a chuckle, curled up on the ground like a shrimp scalded by boiling water, and gradually became motionless. Schiller seemed to be unaware of it, walked to the side, bent down and wiped the screwdriver clean.
When he looked up again, he met the FBI agent's eyes which had just opened.
Schiller wiped the blood from his jaw with an alcohol pad.
The eyes that had just opened closed again.
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