Schiller walked over, picked up the old-fashioned record player, gave it a pat, and said, "Hmm... it might be broken. These old antiques are always a little unreliable."
Daredevil could not see, but the music from earlier had genuinely scared him. He said, "I never knew an old antique like that could make such a huge racket..."
Peter said, "Looks like it's just like Steve—an old guy who refuses to admit he's old."
Schiller viciously warned his Symbiote in his mind, If you turn the music up that loud again, you can forget about drinking ever again!
Instead, the Symbiote chattered excitedly in his mind. It took Schiller quite a while to figure out what it meant.
The Symbiote told him that until last night, it had not actually reached adulthood. It had only been a juvenile Symbiote.
Normally, Symbiotes did not distinguish between adulthood and childhood. But this special Symbiote personally created by the Symbiote God was very different. It needed energy to nourish itself in order to grow.
Just last night, the Symbiote discovered that it had unlocked its genetic archive—the code inscribed in every Symbiote's genes. This code allowed it to possess the abilities of other Symbiotes, such as splitting and reproducing, infiltrating other objects to control them, and even imitating or creating things out of thin air.
Schiller could clearly sense that the Symbiote had become far more coherent when it spoke. At last, it no longer sounded like the broken record player it used to be.
The Symbiote told him this was because its genetic code contained the language of the Symbiote species—the same language the Symbiote God used when cursing people out. It had not known it before.
Hearing that, Schiller tried saying, "Nattaru?"
Almost instantly, Schiller felt brainwaves filled with shock, anger, grievance, and all sorts of tangled emotions flood through his mind. The Symbiote seemed utterly stunned.
Only after the Symbiote explained did Schiller learn that their language differed from human language—and from every other language in the world.
The language of the Symbiote species was the language of catalog sequences. Every syllable they produced was actually an index for a huge amount of content, while the true content was inscribed in their genetic archives and could only be understood by Symbiotes.
The contents carved into their genetic archives were not texts humans could understand, but codes that required special organs to decipher. It was an extremely unusual encrypted language. Any race other than Symbiotes could hear them speaking, yet would be completely unable to understand what they were saying. That was because what Symbiotes spoke was actually the index to the codes in their genetic archives.
Take the word "Nattaru," for instance. Though it had only three syllables, when those three syllables were entered into the sequence of a Symbiote's genetic archive, they represented brainwaves lasting nearly dozens of minutes.
And the content represented by that syllable was the sum total of every insult in the Symbiote language—far filthier than the foulest words in any language on Earth.
The Symbiote said, "That word! Gets you beaten up!"
Schiller thought about it. Clearly, his collection of useless knowledge had grown again.
Venom was either on Deadpool or in a S.H.I.E.L.D. culture dish now. The other Symbiotes had not appeared yet either. Even if they did appear, why would Schiller curse at them? He was not the Symbiote God.
When Steve arrived at noon, he had missed lunchtime. Seeing Peter looking dejected, he asked, "You still haven't finished your homework? Was pulling an all-nighter yesterday not enough?"
"An all-nighter from hell," Schiller said. He pointed and added, "You'd better ask those two controllers what they went through yesterday. I could hear them mashing out skills from two streets away..."
"Don't say it like that. It makes you sound too much like an old antique," Pikachu said.
Steve waved a hand. "All right, quit derailing us. Let's talk business. I may be heading out on a mission soon. It's nothing major, but I want to take Peter with me so he can get some training."
"You'll have to ask Stark about that. Peter signed a contract with him first, after all."
"That rich bastard plans to keep Peter cooped up in those suffocating labs forever? What does he want to turn Peter into? Some sissy like himself?" Steve said.
Schiller said, "I happen to be leaving for a while myself. Before then, I'll go see Stark once more, but I'm not sure whether he'll agree to hand Peter over to you. You know, the two of you don't exactly have a favorable impression of each other..."
"You're leaving? Where are you going?" Steve asked.
Schiller shook his head without speaking. In the end, Matt said, "I think Peter really should go with the Captain for a trip. It's not favoritism. It's just that Peter seems never to have left the town where he grew up. A boy shouldn't be like that."
"I'm heading west. Come to think of it, it's been a long time since I was last there, but I remember the scenery being quite nice."
Peter was already tempted. Matt was right. Because his family had always been strapped for cash, Peter had never gone traveling in his life. The farthest he had ever gone was the outskirts of New York. And when it came to the West, what American boy did not dream of being a cowboy?
Seeing Peter look at him expectantly, Schiller raised both hands. "All right, all right. I'll convince Stark. But you'd better take it easy. Fieldwork isn't like doing experiments in a lab, Peter. If you get hurt, your aunt will cry a liter of tears."
Peter covered his forehead. He had wanted to go out and cut loose.
Steve said, "You'd better not get your hopes too high. Don't think this is really a vacation, kid. If you do badly, the first one to beat you up won't be the enemy. It'll be me."
"Who are your enemies?" Schiller asked. "Of course, I only want to know things within my clearance level. Beyond that, I have no interest whatsoever."
Steve said, "They're not particularly difficult to deal with. S.H.I.E.L.D. discovered some secret spies in the West. Though calling them spies may not be accurate. They're more like an Assassin organization."
"They call themselves Ninjas. They come and go like shadows, and no one knows who hired them. They killed a State Senator. That alone wouldn't have been a big deal, but it seems their leader has bigger plans. And I happen to need a warm-up."
Matt stood up. "It's The Hand. Elektra told me their organization came here looking for dragon bones, but they never made much progress. So they started taking jobs locally and committed many murders..."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. may not be unaware of this. The fact that they haven't made any major moves means the situation should still be under control," Schiller said. "More importantly, if S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to learn about the conspiracy behind them, they'll have to be patient."
Matt sat down again. He knew S.H.I.E.L.D. had been watching him and his girlfriend Elektra for a long time. Their lack of action now did not mean they would never act. Elektra was, after all, an Assassin of The Hand and also worked for Kingpin. Matt had to find a way to get her out.
Schiller patted his shoulder. "I know what you're worried about. You have nothing to fear from the truth, but your girlfriend may not. You can't bear to have her become an informant to save her own life, because that would be dangerous too. But I can give you some advice."
"Though I don't know what dragon bones are, they must be something valuable. Otherwise, The Hand wouldn't be going to such lengths to find them. Do you think Kingpin might like something that valuable?"
Matt quickly understood what he meant. They might both be bad guys, but that did not mean they would necessarily join forces. Especially when their interests clashed, Elektra might find an opportunity to get away.
After Steve left, Schiller was picked up by a private car and taken to Stark Tower. Stark was once again holed up in his lab, desperately tinkering with those suits of armor. When Schiller saw him, he shook his head and said, "At this rate, I won't be the one turning into a vampire. You will."
Stark viciously twisted a wrench. "You have no idea what the Army people came to tell me yesterday. Ha, they want my armor. Guess what they want to use it for?"
Schiller did not answer. Stark fell silent for a while, then stood up. He tossed aside the wrench and looked at his armor. "You were right. Just because the enemy wants something doesn't mean I should give it up. Now they want to turn my armor into War Machine, so should I dismantle it?"
Stark continued to himself, "Even if I dismantled every suit, what would I get? Would the world become peaceful? Would there be no more wars?... They would only change their methods, and the result would be that those I could have saved would lose their chance."
"I know you don't want to give it to them. You must have rejected them harshly. Then they acted as though they were making a concession and said, 'Fine, we don't want your armor. Some ordinary weapons will do.' Right?"
Stark pressed his lips together. He knew Schiller was right. That was those people's usual trick.
"Do I really only have S.H.I.E.L.D. to choose from?" Stark asked.
He walked over from the workbench, pulled over a chair, and sat down. Leaning wearily against the backrest, he said, "What exhausts me most is knowing that every road is a trap, yet still having to choose one."
"I don't know whether Howard knew things would become like this when he founded S.H.I.E.L.D. But I think he did, because he was smart. Just as smart as you, Stark. Yet he still chose to do it."
"You'd rather I side with S.H.I.E.L.D. too? If I chose S.H.I.E.L.D. now, it would indeed save me a lot of trouble. As long as S.H.I.E.L.D. refuses to budge, no one can take my armor from me. But I always feel this decision will bring me even bigger trouble."
"Do you have a third path?" Schiller asked.
"I don't think I do, but you didn't have to put it so bluntly."
"You really don't have a third path. But you have another option: don't choose."
"But..."
Before Stark could argue, Schiller said:
"You've fallen into a mental trap. You think you must truly choose one side, but that isn't the case. You can keep dragging things out without choosing. If one side pressures you, give them a hint—for example, that the other side has offered better terms and you're tempted..."
Schiller said, "Haven't you noticed? This is entirely a buyer's market. You won't choose someone because they put more pressure on you. You'll only choose whoever offers better terms."
"And who could offer terms tempting enough for Stark, the richest man in the world? As an unprecedented tycoon and scientific genius, I doubt anyone would question it if your asking price were a little higher."
Stark showed an extremely complicated, conflicted expression. He said, "You mean... I should act like a woman stringing along two boyfriends at once, pretending I'll go with whoever performs better, while actually choosing neither and simply enjoying their attentions as a matter of course?"
"I have to say, Stark, that damned analogy perfectly reflects your damned character," Schiller said.
Instead of feeling ashamed, Stark proudly spread his hands. "Who understands women best? Me. The charming Stark."
Schiller said, "Jarvis, the surveillance cameras in Pepper's office were working yesterday, right? I can't wait to see the heroic bearing of Mr. Stark, the man who understands women best."
"Damn it... Jarvis, you weren't broken yesterday? You had the camera on?? Hey, don't—don't bring up the screen. All right, I admit it, there are some women I don't understand. The foremost among them is Pepper."
Jarvis beeped twice and said, "Miss Pepper has been connected for twenty-three minutes."
Stark shot straight out of his chair.
"Just joking, sir," Jarvis said. Schiller continued, "Who understands women best? Jarvis!"
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