The days of being a spiritual mentor in Meiman.

Chapter 386 Schiller is sick
On the second-floor terrace of the dimly lit hotel, a tall man in a suit took out a cigarette from his pocket. He leaned on the railing, making a relaxed posture, but squeezed the cigarette tightly, then turned slightly He turned his head and looked at the windows flickering with lights on the side of the hotel.

The scene in one of the windows caught his attention. He finished smoking the cigarette in his hand, and instead of throwing the butt on the ground, he stuck his fingernails in the center of the cigarette butt, and after tearing off the unfinished part , lit with a lighter.

When the flames were about to burn his fingertips, he threw the cluster of flaming cigarette butts on the ground, and stomped on it with his toe to make sure no fingerprints were left.

He walked into the hotel at a steady pace, greeted the waiter who came up, then walked into the elevator, and straightened his suit.

With a sound of "ding", the elevator door opened, and he stepped out. His shoes stepped on the carpet on the guest room floor, making a dull sound. He walked through the somewhat dim hotel corridor and came to the door of room 3103.

"Du", "Du", "Du", he knocked on the door a few times, but there was no response from the middle of the room. The man took out a note from his suit pocket and stuffed it in from under the door. After a while, the door opened. The lock rang slightly, and he walked in, and saw an old man with a serious face.

"Are you the contact person sent by the doctor?" The old man looked him up and down and said, "It looks like someone Pierce's subordinates will find... Come in."

He turned around and wanted to walk into the room, but just after he took two steps, he felt something blocking his back. The old man who had been in the sea of ​​spies for half his life immediately realized that it was a A pistol with a suppressor.

He slowly raised his hands and said calmly, "Who are you? Who do you work for? S.H.I.E.L.D. or the KGB?"

"I work for doctors."

"boom!"

Seeing the figure of the old man falling down slowly, Grant removed the magazine of the pistol, put the gun away, put on his gloves, groped around the old man, and handed the gun he had put in through the crack of the door. A piece of paper was taken back, then turned and left as if nothing had happened.

Walking out of the hotel gate, it was dark in New York. He walked to a park phone booth and dialed a number, and then said to the other end of the phone: "How are you doing? Let's meet, it's at the coffee shop west of Hell's Kitchen. "

A slightly indifferent voice came from the opposite side, "Tomorrow at 3 o'clock in the afternoon..."

The next morning, in the cafeteria of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Alliance, Schiller and Stark were having breakfast face to face. Stark complained while cutting the sausage on the plate: "I don't know what happened recently, no The young councilor was assassinated, even if you want to take revenge at this time, you have to consider the general environment, right?"

Schiller didn't speak, but focused on using the knife and fork to deal with the food on the plate. Stark glanced at his movements and said, "What's the matter with you recently?"

"What's wrong?" Schiller asked him instead without looking up.

"I think you've become a little weird." Stark pulled the corner of his mouth down and said, "It's like a different person."

Schiller put half a small tomato into his mouth, then looked up at Stark, and asked him, "Where did you see that?"

Stark opened his mouth, as if there were too many things to say, and he didn't know where to start. He lowered his head and cut a piece of beef, and said while eating: "Let's talk about clothes first, you usually like to wear doctor uniforms, Just like shirts or sweaters, I don't see you in a suit much."

Stark looked up again at Schiller, who was sitting across from him in a dark suit and a checkered tie, and continued, "Although there are many people in Manhattan, especially around Wall Street, I like to wear suits all year round, but why did your dressing style suddenly change so much?"

"What else?" Schiller asked while eating.

Stark stared at his plate and said, "I just wanted to ask, why do you move the fried eggs from left to right, and then from right to left, is this a ritual?"

"Because the vegetables are going to be on the left in the first place."

"so what?"

"So the fried egg can only be moved to the right."

Stark took a deep breath and said: "If you have any dissatisfaction with me, you can say it directly. My temper has improved a lot recently, and I can even bear Steve dangling in front of my eyes... "

"It's nothing, it's just my anxiety attack." Schiller still didn't look up, he was eating very attentively, Stark snorted and said, "You can't fool me, I also have anxiety attacks, although it's been a long time I've been guilty of it, but I know what this disease feels like."

"Panic, hyperventilation, limb stiffness, in the most severe attack, I had to lean against a wall and lift one hand with the other to continue the experiment, I remember you wrote in my medical record earlier Don't you remember the medical history?"

Schiller suddenly stopped what he was doing, then looked at Stark and said, "The answer is full marks, but it's useless."

After finishing speaking, he put down the knife and fork, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and just as he was about to stand up, Stark stopped him: "You just left?? We haven't finished talking yet! What on earth are you talking about?" what's going on?"

"Is this really an anxiety disorder? Why do I feel that something is wrong?" Stark looked puzzled at the tableware left by Schiller, where the remaining food was neatly arranged.

Schiller stepped out of his chair, looked back at Stark and said, "It's indeed an anxiety disorder, but it's just a complication. You can also think of it as a side effect of my broccoli allergy."

As he spoke, he leaned over to straighten the crooked fork, then turned around and left quickly. Stark stared at Schiller's leaving back, and muttered to himself, "What's wrong with him? ?”

At this time, another figure came over, and when the waiter removed Schiller's previous plate, Steve sat across from Stark and said, "Do you mind if I eat here? We can discuss the Avengers Alliance next job."

Stark turned his head to the side unnaturally, but he didn't object. Steve leaned his upper body out of the seat and glanced back, just in time to see Schiller pushing the revolving door to leave. He asked, "Do you have any questions?" Don't you think he's acting weird recently, as if he's changed?"

"I found out earlier than you. As early as he said he was going to move back to the small clinic in Hell's Kitchen, I felt something was wrong."

Steve frowned while eating, and said: "Remember our speculation last time? Hydra may be affecting all of our emotions. Do you think he will also..."

"It's unlikely." Stark picked up a piece of potato with a fork and put it in his mouth, then said, "He's a psychiatrist and can read minds, but he's not that easily influenced."

"Did you forget?" Steve leaned forward, lowered his voice, and said, "He came into contact with that black-robed Hydra in a nursing home. Those people are very good at brainwashing. Schiller stayed with them for a while, We'd better look into this."

"How are you going to investigate? Go directly to him?" Stark turned his head, put down the fork, and said, "If he hasn't been brainwashed, he will only treat us as crazy. If he is brainwashed, do you think he? Will you admit it?"

"We have to find a professional." Steve said firmly. Stark raised his eyebrows and looked at him. The two looked at each other and thought of the same person.

In the afternoon, the light became stronger and stronger, and the heavy snow that covered the street last night began to melt, and the ground was somewhat muddy. When Schiller entered the cafe, he stamped his feet on the threshold, shaking off the snowflakes stuck to the edges of his shoes.

Grant saw him, but his expression remained the same. He just lowered his head and drank his coffee. After Schiller walked over, he sat across from him, took the coffee from the waiter, and scooped the latte art on the surface with a spoon. How many is it?"

"The sixth one." Grant glanced to the side, and Schiller saw his movements. He said, "I have to say, even in S.H.I.E.L.D., you are considered a highly vigilant agent."

Grant let out a low sneer through his nose, and said, "So what? It's not in your hands?"

"Don't worry, I haven't finished the second half of the sentence. Your current vigilance is in obvious contrast to your previous innocence. How do you think that you will really get out of this line of work?"

Grant pursed his lips, and he said with a self-deprecating smile: "Indeed, how could I expect a despicable and cunning Hydra to keep its promise?"

Schiller picked up his coffee cup and took a sip of coffee. He said, "Do you think I really want to choose you? If someone else is available, I don't like forcing an ordinary person to be a killer."

ordinary people?Grant almost felt the absurdity. This was the first time he heard someone call him an ordinary person. Even Garrett would often praise him for his talent in this area.

On the career path of agents and assassins, Grant's resume is very good. He entered the industry very early. Since he was adopted by Garrett, he has been receiving professional agent training day after day. In addition, Garrett also taught him a lot of killing skills. The words and deeds of a senior agent made his starting point in this industry exceed the end point of many people.

If the situation in S.H.I.E.L.D. continues to develop according to the previous situation, then he is likely to take over the position of Hydra leader in S.H.I.E.L.D. at Pierce's age.

When this topic was mentioned, Schiller seemed to be a little interested, and he continued: "It may sound absurd to you, but many murderers are born, or in other words, some natural talent."

"Like?" Grant asked, looking at him.

"Among the cases of antisocial personality disorder psychopathy, there is a very small possibility of natural born killers. They are cold-blooded, violent, and good at controlling others. A recent case I encountered was a teenager who was much younger than you."

"Who is that?"

"You don't know him, but I do. His name is Oswald Copperpot."

"A...little penguin with a sharp beak."

(End of this chapter)