The accommodation provided by Columbia Medical College 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, and all four of his roommates who shared the common room with him had moved out, so he had the entire dormitory to himself.
Schiller went back, changed his clothes, and took his laptop. Laptops at this time were still relatively heavy, so Schiller carried a computer bag.
The weather was not that warm at this time, so he wore a turtleneck sweater and a woolen coat. This is a very common attire in school. He also paired it with a scarf, which could not be found in the crowd.
Schiller went out, walked out from the east gate of the school behind the dormitory building, took the subway to the center of Manhattan, walked around the streets, and found a coffee shop to sit down.
He ordered a cup of coffee, sat on the table in the cafe, opened his notebook, and began to look at the documents he had saved, ready to see where 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 papers on small topics.
Schiller took a brief look and found that they were all relatively basic. One of them had a recent editing time. After opening the schedule, he found that it was due recently and there were still more than 30 hours left before the paper was due.
Schiller started writing slowly, and these things came easily to him. The only thing he had to control was not to write too complicated, and to be in line with the level of a student who had just entered medical school.
He has been very good at writing a paper that doesn't look like a bad paper written by him recently, after all, it hasn't been long since Bruce graduated.
Halfway through writing, Schiller suddenly remembered something. He asked Ultron, "How much money is there in my account now?"
"Not much, otherwise you wouldn't live in the dormitory."
"How much does this cup of coffee cost?"
"It's not expensive in my opinion, but you probably can't afford it."
"Help me get some money."
"OK."
When Schiller was almost finished writing this paper, Ultron told him that it was done, and now he had almost 30,000 US dollars in his account.
Perhaps due to the past life setting of the superego, Schiller did not borrow 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 pressure of student loans.
Heavy.
After Ultron's confirmation, it was found that there was indeed no loan in his account name, so the money must be enough for a period of time.
After successfully finishing his thesis, the street was quiet and nothing happened, but Schiller was not in a hurry. He paid for the coffee and walked to the nearest Catholic church with his computer in hand.
He rummaged through his personal belongings and found a priest's business card, which allowed him to enter any Catholic church smoothly, because getting any priest's personal business card means that you are at least a very devout believer.
No church will deny you entry.
Schiller entered the church smoothly. Today happened to be the priest's day off. No one greeted him, but Schiller didn't care. He walked to the chair at the front of the church and sat down.
Sitting here and thinking about the past for a while, Schiller thought about the fact that there were thousands of superpower crimes in New York every day on average, and Manhattan was the hardest hit area. Schiller couldn't believe that he wouldn't encounter one in an afternoon.
Sure enough, there was movement outside the door not long after. Schiller did not hear the siren, but there was a sound similar to a pistol silencer. It sounded like standard equipment.
Suddenly, a man wearing a jacket rushed in. He was tall, with dark brown hair and eyes like an eagle.
Schiller looked back at him, feeling a little disappointed. This was not the person he was looking for. This was obviously not an FBI agent.
But now that the other party has rushed in, he still made a somewhat surprised expression and asked: "Who are you? What's going on?"
"Who are you?" he asked confidently.
"Apparently I am a man of prayer, sir, specifically, a Columbia University medical student."
"Are you a medical student?"
"Yes."
"Great, we have a patient here, can you help us treat him? The man seems a little anxious."
"I'm very happy to help." Schiller first expressed his attitude, "But I'm sorry, I am a psychology major, 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 out the bullet and bandage it to make sure he doesn't die within the next three hours."
"I'm afraid I can't guarantee anything." Schiller sighed. This is why he doesn't like to deal with any spy organizations. Everyone here seems to be unable to understand human speech and is a machine with no way to communicate.
"Come with me." He said.
Schiller went out and saw a man lying in the bushes within the walls of the chapel. He looked like he had just been wounded. When Schiller walked over, he saw two bullets on his calf.
Kong was bleeding at this time, but he had fainted and looked like he had been stunned.
"This doesn't look like your colleague, sir. Are you sure you want to save him?"
"We must maintain a humanitarian spirit towards the criminal, and at least let him be brought to justice alive. Can you help me?"
"I'll try my best."
Schiller walked over and squatted down, but felt a shadow blocking his face. When he raised his head, a black gun was aimed at his head.
"Why don't you ask me who I am?"
"You don't look like a policeman, but you don't look like a bad person either. The most important thing is that you have a gun in your hand. Even if you are a criminal, is there any way I can stop working for you?"
The other party did not lower his vigilance at all. He waved with the hand holding the gun and said: "My car is outside the hospital gate. You go and get the medical kit from the trunk. I have to keep an eye on him here."
Schiller sighed, turned around and walked in the direction he pointed. Because the car was also within sight, Schiller had no intention of playing any tricks, let alone escaping.
He recognized this person. Although it was different from the one in his memory and he was much younger, he still recognized him reluctantly.
John Garrett, this name may be 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 also dealt with each other, and even faced each other head-on, but he is indeed not a very difficult opponent, far worse than Pierce, even though they are both the founders of SHIELD and are also members of the Zodiac
Twelve Houses, but Garrett is obviously the more marginal one among them, and even the identity of Hydra is not special.
He and Pierce each 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, there are at least three old acquaintances of his in SHIELD, Natasha and Nick, who were originally immortals, and Coulson, who should still be a new recruit.
Schiller doesn't want to deal with them at all, otherwise the butterfly effect may affect the subsequent series of events, but John Garrett is basically fine. He is a marginal character and has too few scenes. Even if they meet in the future, he will not
Live too long.
Schiller opened the trunk and retrieved the medical bag. When he was about to close the trunk, he glanced into the car. It seemed that Garrett was not here for anything serious this time. There were no cameras in the car.
He stretched his hand to the side and pressed it on the toolbox beside him.
With a snap, the trunk was closed. When Schiller turned around, he seemed to feel that the sun was too dazzling. He took off his glasses, folded them and put them into his coat pocket.
"What are you waiting for?" The aggressiveness and caution shown by Garrett made Schiller only think it was ridiculous. Although it was still early, this kind of agent was still too traditional.
"If you just want to bandage the wound, bandages are really 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 started to use the things in the medical kit to open the wound.
screwdriver sterilization,
Garrett originally pointed a gun at him, but because the fence was a railing, the outside could see what was going on inside. Cars would pass by from time to time, so Garrett had to squat down, but the hand holding the gun was always cautious.
Ready to go.
Schiller was ready, and the moment he opened the wound, the man lying on the ground twitched, and Garrett immediately raised his gun.
What kind of shameful thing did you do to get so startled? Could it be to silence him? Schiller looked at the man lying on the ground. He did not look like a criminal with super powers. He smelled like an agent.
It's too obvious.
It seemed that he had unfortunately witnessed an extermination operation, Schiller thought as he methodically pried off the bullets. He knew that Garrett did not want the bullets of standard equipment to stay in this man's wounds, otherwise he might be suspected.
That's why he randomly found someone on the street to help him remove the bullet.
Why not kill him first before doing these things? It seems that this man still has spit in his mouth. Schiller tore the pants on his calves a little wider, and when he lowered his head to check the wound,
A familiar symbol was seen underneath this man's vest.
Oh, FBI emblem, you are in bad luck.
The screwdriver corrected his hand with a backhand. Schiller rushed forward suddenly and directly bumped into Garrett on the opposite side. As soon as the opponent raised his gun hand, Schiller rolled him to the left, grabbed his neck, and made a puff.
, the screwdriver penetrated Garrett's throat.
Blood began to splatter, Garrett clutched his neck and let out a huffing sound, curled up on the ground like a shrimp scalded by boiling water, and gradually became silent, but Schiller, as if he didn't notice anything, walked to the side and lowered his head.
Wipe the screwdriver clean.
When he raised his head again, he met the FBI agent's newly opened eyes.
Schiller wiped the blood from his jaw with an alcohol pad.
The eyes that had just been opened were closed again.
Try to adjust your schedule and resume update time