Rogers' Troubles

Compared to Gotham, New York did not get much rain. The weather here was generally clear, but there were always a few exceptions each year.

On this day, before dawn had even broken, a fine drizzle began to fall over New York.

That was not good news for the people of Hell's Kitchen. As Manhattan's largest Slums, it enjoyed no municipal benefits. There were no diligent street cleaners, and the rain only turned the roads muddier. Unless you wanted to ruin your sneakers, you had no choice but to put on heavy rain boots.

The stench of garbage and dust became even more pronounced in weather like this. Schiller shut the first-floor windows. There were always a few drunks vomiting in his back alley, and the smell was unbearable.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang brightly. Schiller glanced at his watch. It was 6:30 in the morning. Even in fast-paced New York, that was far too early.

Schiller went downstairs and saw a tall blond, blue-eyed man staring at the desk calendar on his bar counter.

Schiller said, "It seems Natasha really did book me an extraordinary client. These days, there really aren't many people who get up before seven."

The man said, "Then I'm glad I found a kindred spirit here."

Schiller took out the file Natasha had delivered the night before. He looked at the photograph in it, then sized the man up and down. "Steve Rogers. S.H.I.E.L.D. put no limit on your appointment time. They're being so generous that your problem must be quite serious."

Steve shrugged. "They think every problem is serious, including me running out without breakfast."

Schiller tapped the table, signaling for him to sit down. "Then you made the right choice. Perhaps S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't tell you that if you happen to come by at mealtime, I don't mind treating you to a meal."

Steve smiled, his handsome face looking both dashing and open-hearted.

Schiller made an American breakfast: toast, fried bacon, two sausages, two large hash browns, and two cups of coffee.

Steve was not actually hungry, but the breakfast smelled far too good. He picked up a slice of toast and asked, "Do you have any butter?"

Schiller gave him a rather surprised look. "Oh, only strawberry jam."

Then he looked Steve up and down again. "You seem like an old-fashioned man. Not many people put butter on toast these days."

Steve said, "That's fine. I'm just not used to having such sweet jam for breakfast."

"Then have some salsa. I made it myself."

Schiller took out a jar and handed it to Steve.

Steve glanced again at the coffee cup, which was about the size of a bottle cap, and the richly flavored espresso inside. "I'm sorry, but could I have an Americano?"

"An Americano? You could just say you want the water I use to rinse my cups," Schiller said.

Elsewhere, Natasha, who was monitoring the conversation, said into her communicator, "The subject calls Americanos dirty water. Suspected Italian ancestry..."

Steve did not get angry. He merely waved a hand. "Hey, don't say that. I just think espresso isn't good for the heart."

Before he had even finished speaking, Schiller downed two shots of espresso in a row, then took a huge bite of chocolate. The Symbiote happily hummed a tune in his head.

Schiller sat across from Steve, and the two began eating breakfast together.

"At first, when Nick told me to come to the Slums and find a psychologist myself, I couldn't understand it. Were S.H.I.E.L.D.'s own Doctors not good enough?" Steve said.

"But now, I've realized the atmosphere here is much better than those blindingly white Psychological Counseling Rooms at S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Compared to a Psychological Counseling Room, that place feels more like an interrogation chamber."

"Who could judge you?" Schiller asked. "Judge Captain America?"

Steve smiled somewhat helplessly. "That's ancient history now. Me included."

"I imagine S.H.I.E.L.D. also very much wanted you to see one of their own psychologists, but they probably knew themselves that they couldn't solve your problem."

Schiller set down his fork. "Did you walk here through the streets outside? What did you think of this place? I mean this Slums."

Steve pressed his lips together. "I don't know how to describe it. It's terrifying, because nothing here has changed at all."

"In the era I lived in, the Slums were the same. Filthy, foul-smelling gutters full of drunkards' vomit. Drunks who had already drunk themselves to death slumped against street corners, and gangs could not even find a cent in their pockets. Even children habitually searched people's pockets, never learning anything good."

"Many years have passed, and it's still the same here. Nothing has changed."

"What sort of change did you think should have happened after several decades?" Schiller asked, taking a bite of toast.

Steve spread his hands. "Even if we couldn't eradicate the Slums, we should at least have made them smaller, or made life there better."

Schiller shook his head. "You won the war, Captain America. You truly defeated those fascists. We won, and that just war ended many years ago."

"You believed victory should bring many benefits: a more prosperous society, better lives for people. For those who had suffered so much, you were willing to fight until the very last moment, and you truly did."

Schiller gently shook his head. "Yet when you woke up again decades later, you found that the world was not like that. It had not become what you envisioned before your death. A world stripped of black had not become white. It had become gray, a color you couldn't understand."

Steve pursed his lips and fell silent. Schiller said, "I know your problem is nothing like what S.H.I.E.L.D. thinks. Sleeping too long and being out of touch with society are not minor issues like not knowing how to use a phone, liking the radio, or keeping too regular a schedule."

"For Captain America, as long as he wants to learn, there is no tool of modern society he cannot master."

"And if he can't master it, the only reason is that he doesn't want to."

"You are resisting this era. You do not want to accept it, nor do you want to accept the fact that the result of everything you fought so hard for was not as beautiful as you had hoped."

Steve said bitterly, "I've done my best. Even if the outcome isn't good enough, I'm trying to accept it. But what hurts me most is that during the war, if people were suffering, I could strike at my enemies. No matter the cost, I could defeat them. But now, people are suffering, and I don't even know who the enemy is."

"Perhaps you have considered that your era is over, and so is the era when you bore responsibility for everyone. You no longer need to be a War Machine."

"Then what should I do? I should at least do something, shouldn't I?"

Schiller said, "Captain America, you are so compassionate that even if I advised you to pursue your own interests—draw some comics, exercise a little—you would not set aside these people's suffering to focus solely on enjoying yourself. You are not that kind of person, so I won't give you such useless advice."

"I believe S.H.I.E.L.D.'s psychologists have told you the same thing, haven't they? Is there anyone in this world who doesn't know how to enjoy life? They sincerely think that way. They think if they were in your position, they would have flown to Hawaii for a vacation already, with S.H.I.E.L.D. footing the bill."

"Ordinary people cannot understand your excessive compassion and sense of responsibility. Naturally, you need not worry over their lack of understanding."

Steve agreed deeply. He felt that someone finally understood him, and he complained, "They think I have plenty to do: work out, watch movies, play video games. But those aren't the things I need to do. When I show resistance, they think I'm just too outdated to know how to enjoy those things."

"But perhaps you can approach it differently. Stop seeking understanding from ordinary people. The world is vast. You may not be one of this era's good people, but every era has good people. You can go find them. Those who, like you, have once saved the world or are saving it now are the ones who will understand you."

Schiller said, "And the good people of this era are not free of trouble either. They haven't lived as long as you, nor are they as experienced. They may possess strength but not know how to use it. They may burn with passion but lack skill. Or they may be scattered and insufficiently united."

"You can go find those people. Your era is over, but the Earth still turns, and there are still people continuing to fight to save this world, aren't there?"

Steve sighed. "I'm just an outdated old soldier who doesn't want to leave the front lines. You're right, Doctor. Now is the time for those new recruits to go to war."

"But I have some doubts. Can I really be of help? After all, the rules by which this world operates seem completely different from those during the war."

"There is someone I absolutely must recommend to you. He's a lucky kid, and his experience is very similar to yours. He used to be a nerd bullied at school, but one day, he suddenly gained tremendous power. Now he leaps around the city without doing a single proper thing."

"You know how dangerous it can be to suddenly gain enormous power. It is no exaggeration to say that his power is still growing. Even dozens of highly trained special forces soldiers might not be his match."

Steve immediately became restless. "Indeed. Right after I completed my transformation, I couldn't control my strength either, and I accidentally injured two medical staff. Where is he now? Which hospital?"

"He's still in school. His final exams are coming up, and he's studying."

"My God, how can he still be in school?"

He slapped the table angrily and said toward the surveillance device on it, "Hey, Nick, what are you doing? How can you let an enhanced soldier stay in school? If he can't control his strength, how many people could get hurt?"

Steve stood up, but Schiller waved him down. "I told you, he's a lucky kid. Unlike you, he wasn't altered by drugs. It is a special mutation. His strength will increase gradually rather than suddenly becoming uncontrollable all at once."

"What I mean is, this kind of adolescent kid—you know, arrogant yet sensitive, impulsive yet cowardly—needs someone to teach him properly. Preferably someone who can show him how dangerous society can be."

Steve clenched his fists. "Exactly. I've seen plenty of recruits like that. They want to charge into battle on nothing but hot blood, then see bombing runs and grenades and start screaming in terror. They have a long way to go."

Schiller said, "He will probably finish his exams tomorrow night and definitely come wandering around. You can stop him and give him a beating. Don't worry, his mutation is powerful. Taking a beating won't be a big deal."

Steve even began rubbing his hands together eagerly. It reminded him of his days on the battlefield, when young recruits would howl after being disciplined by their captain. Watching rookies get put in their place had been one of the few moments in his military career that made him feel relaxed and happy.

Author's skit:

Schiller: I only drink espresso.

Natasha: He definitely isn't American!

Schiller: I only dip Chiaotzu in strawberry jam.

Natasha: He definitely isn't Chinese!

Schiller: I only drink Fukushima mineral water.

Natasha: He definitely isn't from Earth!