"Stop pretending to be dead, we don't have much time." Schiller shouted to the agent lying on the ground.
The other party made no movement.
"Get up, Blue Dog."
The other party suddenly sat up, and then looked at Schiller with a somewhat suspicious look. The word "blue dog" is usually used to scold American police, but occasionally it is also used to scold agents because their uniforms are all dark blue.
Anyone who would use this word to curse police agents doesn't have to think twice to know who they are.
"Who are you?" The other party still followed the same agent's logic of doing things. Regardless of the cause, process and result, he first suspected the other party's identity.
"Just an ordinary medical student, don't be stunned, come here and help me." Schiller bent down and lifted Garrett up.
"Did you kill him?"
"Not yet, he's not dead."
The agent's eyes widened, looking at Schiller in disbelief, and then at Garrett's throat, which had been completely stabbed.
Schiller sighed and said while moving the person up: "He dares to pursue you so blatantly. Do you think he is an ordinary person?"
"You mean he's actually a superpower?"
"I mean, he is the kind of person who would be stupid enough to put hundreds of chemicals into his body and transform himself into a human or a ghost, just so he can live longer."
The agent choked. The moment Schiller picked up Garrett, he knew that he was not dead. Of course, it was normal that he was not dead, otherwise he would not be able to meet him again in the future.
Garrett in the comics is an anti-hero, but obviously Garrett in Schiller's universe is more like the TV series version. In the TV series, he pricked himself with a lot of needles, just like Nick and Natasha.
If he survives for a long time, it will be difficult to kill him using ordinary people's methods.
Fortunately, he at least followed the rules that a carbon-based creature should have. After losing a lot of blood, he passed out. Schiller dragged him towards the church. The agent with an injured leg was still able to stand up and limped along.
behind him.
"What are you going to do?" the agent asked him.
"I thought you were going to call the police if you yelled." Schiller said a cold joke and dragged the person towards the back of the church in a hurry.
The agent opened his mouth and continued: "I have been defined as a defector, and I won't end up well if I go back now."
"That's just right. Open the cellar door for me and throw him down."
"Just leave him here, won't there be any problem?"
"Of course there will be, but I think the person who can be hunted down by him personally will not be so stupid that he can't escape his sight for more than ten hours."
"I mean you," the agent said. "You look like a normal person."
"Have vision." Schiller praised, but he threw Garrett into the cellar very neatly, clapped his hand and said, "Don't worry about me, just run away."
The agent looked at him very puzzled, but Schiller's eyes fell on his injured leg. He said, "Come on, I will help you take out the other bullet. After bandaging it, the problem will not be a big deal."
Although the agent felt baffled and didn't know where this kid got his confidence, but when he thought that his career as an agent was basically over, he said while watching Schiller bandage his injured leg.
"I have to remind you that he and I are not from the same faction. I mean neither an organization nor a side. He...forget it, knowing too much is not good for you."
"In short, he is not a person who will act according to the rules of the secret service organization."
"This is the first time I heard that the secret service organization has rules." Schiller said still calmly: "Isn't this profession born just for not following the rules?"
The agent laughed, then coughed twice and said, "It seems like you know this business quite well. You are right, but, well... that guy just now was particularly disobedient to the rules and the established rules in the industry.
"
"Are you trying to say that it's because of this that you were chased so embarrassingly by him?"
There was an embarrassed expression on the agent's face, but seeing that Schiller had reached the final step of bandaging his hand, he knew he had no time, so he made a serious gesture and said.
"I'm serious, kid. Although it's common for spy organizations to be undercovers for each other, his background is particularly extraordinary and he's not on the same side as almost all of us, so don't expect that if he wants to target you, there will be
What kind of messenger of justice rushes out to save you?"
"How many of them are there?"
"There are many more than you think, and most of them are shameless, nasty, and unscrupulous."
"More shameless than me?"
The agent was about to nod, but suddenly thought of what this young man had just done. He didn't even hesitate for half a second before he launched an attack. He was cruel and devoid of any emotion, and was as ferocious as a primitive beast, stabbing someone's throat.
In an instant, the cruel beauty of violence is vividly reflected.
"Who are you?" he couldn't help but ask, and then he looked at Schiller's face carefully, as if he remembered something, but he quickly chose to remain silent.
Schiller was also observing his reaction, because he also wanted to determine some things, such as how much of the superego's background story had been copied.
If he copied a lot, he would have to find a way to get past the past, or at least find a valid reason, otherwise it would be bad if Nick found out later.
"It seems that I worry about you in vain." The agent said: "But I still have to remind you, don't confront them head-on. Otherwise, no matter who you are, you will suffer."
"Thank you for your kindness." Schiller tied the bandage into a knot and said, "Okay, your life and death escape countdown is about to begin. Please, sir."
Before the agent limped out of the church door, he looked back at Schiller, who was standing in front of the image of Jesus with his head bowed in prayer, his low voice covered by the distant thunder.
In front of the rain-soaked cold steps, behind the long traces of blood, under the high and sharp dome, surrounded by the hoarse cries of crows, the agent heard a low, faint Russian voice.
When Garrett woke up, he found himself lying in a body of water, with more water seeping in through the cracks in the cellar door. His neck was in great pain, but the wound was almost healed.
There was still only a fleeting afterimage in front of him. The movement was so fast that he could not see clearly and had no time to react. He could not connect this afterimage with the figure of the young man with gray eyes, who was a student.
, the former is a thug that he cannot see through.
He took a deep breath and sat up, tracing every detail of Schiller's facial features in his memory. Suddenly, as if he remembered something, he jumped up from the ground and tightly grasped the door under the cellar door next to him.
ladder.
After a few dozen seconds, he turned around and climbed up the ladder. There was heavy rain outside the cellar, and the rain washed away all the blood on his body. He knew that there would be no traces here, so he just squinted at the flashing traffic lights at the intersection in the distance.
The overlapping red and green light was so dazzling that people couldn't open their eyes. The smell of alcohol almost condensed into a tangible mist in the hazy light, spreading those roars and screams farther and farther away.
Schiller, who smelled of alcohol, broke away from the dance floor, slowly raised his head and rubbed the lip marks on his jawline with the heel of his palm, and sat in front of the bar with his head lowered, as if he just wanted to catch his breath.
"It looks like those little bitches are making it difficult for you." The red-haired bartender sat across from Schiller and said, "Water cut?"
"No, that's too strong. I've drunk enough. Let's have a glass of juice." Schiller showed a drunken smile.
"Martini." The female bartender came to her own conclusion and said, "At most I can give you some lemon juice, and you won't be able to run away."
"Please, ma'am." Schiller was still smiling, his eyes were a little distracted, he lowered his head with trembling hands and put the cigarette into his mouth, swallowed and said, "There is another one this weekend."
"Rugby party? I didn't expect you to actually go." The female bartender picked up her hair and said, "Rebecca told me that she had no confidence in calling you there. You are too popular. Look in your eyes."
, she couldn’t say those cruel words.”
"Ladies are always very gentle." The pronunciation of the last word can be called charming and lingering, as if he has experienced it personally. Schiller took another sip of the wine that was just handed to him, took a breath and said: "I have a friend who was...
He accepted the invitation and was very unpromising in wanting to go, so I have to accompany him."
"I've never heard of you having such close friends, but it's okay, you can't always mix in women." The female bartender smiled, turned around and went to work, while Schiller drank sips of wine until he brought
Smelling heavily of alcohol, he staggered back to the apartment and fell on the bed.
The door was knocked.
Schiller was still lying on the bed retching, his eyebrows and eyes were knitted together, the whole world was buzzing, but he still managed to stand up and opened the door, and there was Strange outside the door.
"A night of passion." Strange looked at Schiller and said, "Smoking, alcohol, drugs, women."
"All of them." Schiller nodded.
In the somewhat shaky vision, the rain had not completely stopped. After drinking more than half a bottle of whiskey, and then pouring the rest on himself, Schiller held on to the wall and staggered forward.
Under the dim light of the street lamp, not far away was the bright and warm light of the club. A red car parked in an empty parking space, and a curly-haired lady carrying a small handbag got out of the car.
"Oh, God!" She was obviously startled by Schiller who was holding on the wall and vomiting.
"Where are the police?! How could such a drunkard be here... God."
Through the light of street lights and car lights, she saw Schiele's sharp profile, arrow-like eyelashes and a pair of gray eyes underneath, which revealed confusion and vulnerability. They were much more beautiful than her prey tonight.
She walked up and supported him.
"What's wrong with you, sir?" The long eyelashes combed with mascara flickered up and down, and the eyes full of desire looked up and down, as if they were appraising a piece of meat.
"I'm lost...where is Columbia University...?"
"Are you a student?"
"Yes, from the medical school, dormitories No. 2...3? I forgot."
"It's not good to go back to the dormitory drunk like this. Let me help you get into the car."
The two figures staggered towards the car. Schiller held the car and stopped. The woman walked over to pull the door. When she came to help Schiller, he pressed her against the car.
"Too rude, sir." There was not much anger in her tone, only a smile of desire. She raised her neck, and her white neck and chest were connected in a line.
"Your school is not far from here, should I take you back?"
"Going back to where?"
The woman completely held Schiller's chin with one hand, and the next second she covered her mouth and nose with one hand. The woman's eyes widened, but soon she felt something piercing her neck.
The medicine slowly flows into the skin, and the vision begins to become hazy and dreamy.
"Go to sleep." These were the last words she heard before her consciousness disappeared.
The red car passed the bright lights of the mansion and drove into deeper darkness, then whiskey, whiskey, tequila... until the last glass of lemon martini.
It was indeed a passionate night. Schiller sat down on the bed, while Strange looked at the scattered room with disgust, and glared at Schiller who was about to light a cigarette again.
"You can't smoke in public places," he said.
"Get out, this is my private space." Schiller kept moving his hands until he drove Strange out with the smell of smoke.
"There's a party tomorrow, aren't you going to prepare?"
"What are you preparing for?" Schiller asked, holding a cigarette in his mouth.
"Uh... don't you need to prepare for the party..."
Schiller, who was smoking a cigarette, snorted, raised his face without hiding the sarcastic smile on his face, stared straight at Strange and said: "This poor little guy who has never been to a party really needs to prepare."