First encounter with Pym, first glimpse of the suit
At three in the afternoon, the sky was so overcast it looked like someone had overturned a pot. Ye Mo squatted on the roof of an abandoned apartment building in Brooklyn's East Side, a hot sheet of metal under his buttocks, a modified pair of binoculars beside him, the lens pointed at the inconspicuous appliance repair shop across the street. He took off his silver half-rimmed glasses, wiped them, and put them back on, pretending to be an amateur photographer taking pictures of the street scene—these days even homeless people are better dressed than him, but he still needed a reason to stand there.
The "X-7 Operation Draft" in his backpack was still warm, but the line written in red ink in the corner of the first page, "[Next Phase: Introducing Key Personnel]", had dried completely, like a ripped hole. He didn't rush to take it out to read it, but instead took out a bottle of mineral water and took a sip; the water was so cold it stung his throat. The weather app said there would be thunderstorms this morning, but there hadn't been a sound yet, and the air was so stuffy you could wring oil out of it.
He knew Scott Lang would come to this shop today. Not by calculation, but by deduction. His ex-wife had moved once, and his daughter's elementary school was nearby. For someone just released from prison, needing to earn money, and avoiding background checks at large companies, where else would he go but here to repair appliances? And Hank Pym —that eccentric old mad scientist—had been anonymously coming in every two weeks for the past three months to repair an old oscilloscope that was never plugged in. Nobody knew about this except Ye Mo. Three days ago, he hacked into a peripheral backup node in Stark Industries' old archives, found a device transfer record marked "Pym Tech - Decommissioned," and followed the trail to the shop's name.
He wasn't a hacking genius, but he had a system that allowed him to absorb fragments on the spot by contacting Mutants abilities. Although he couldn't use it right now, his mind couldn't stop. Information was like oxygen, especially when you were working without wanting to be discovered.
Through the telescope's view, the repair shop door opened. A man in faded overalls walked in, with a buzz cut, stubble, slightly hunched shoulders, and a slight lurch on his left foot—an old injury. Ye Mo's lips twitched, but he didn't laugh. It was him, Scott Lang, an ordinary person who followed the script, yet always made extraordinary decisions at crucial moments.
Two minutes later, another figure appeared on the street corner. The old man was wearing a dark gray trench coat with the collar turned up, carrying a worn-out toolbox. He walked slowly, but each step was almost perfectly even. He didn't look at the sign when he entered the shop; he went straight to the innermost counter, put the toolbox on the ground, and moved so quietly that it was as if he was afraid of waking something.
"It's here," Ye Mo said softly, his finger resting on the telescope's focusing wheel as he slowly zoomed in on the image.
Pym sat down and began fiddling with the oscilloscope, his fingers gently turning the knobs, his gaze so focused it was less like he was repairing a machine and more like he was listening to a song only he could hear. Scott stood at the counter talking to the shop owner, a resume in his hand, his tone calm and unpretentious, neither exaggerated nor obsequious. The shop owner pointed to the electrical box in the back room, said something, Scott nodded, turning to walk inside.
Right now.
Ye Mo pulled out the remote control hidden in the side pocket of his backpack and pressed a concealed switch with his thumb. This was a trigger module he had soldered himself the night before, connected to a set of old wiring connectors in the corner of the ceiling in the repair shop. The current short-circuited instantly, and with a snap, all the lights in the shop flickered and then went out.
The store fell silent for a second.
Then came the shop owner's complaint. "Damn, another power outage? This lousy wiring is bound to cause problems sooner or later!"
Scott didn't speak, but bent down and opened the distribution box. He reached inside and felt a few wire ends, his brow furrowing. "The live and neutral wires are reversed, and a non-standard relay has been added... This isn't a repair; it's just a makeshift solution." He spoke calmly, as if reading from an instruction manual.
Right behind him, Pym stopped what he was doing, turned around and glanced towards the back room. His gaze didn't fall on Scott, but stared at the half-open electrical box for a full five seconds. Then, he stood up, picked up his toolbox, and walked over.
"You understand circuits?" The voice was hoarse, with a slight Midwestern accent.
Scott turned around, paused for a moment, and said, "I used to do this."
"Take a look at this," Pym said, pushing the oscilloscope in front of him. "It shouldn't be crashing. The signal input is normal, the power supply is stable, but it just won't start."
Scott crouched down, unplugged and replugged the probe, pressed the reset button, and the screen lit up briefly before going dark again. "Ground loop interference, probably a broken shield." He removed the back cover and ran his finger along the cable. "Here, the connector is oxidized. Replacing the connector will fix it."
Pym stared at him for three seconds, then suddenly smiled—a very brief laugh, almost imperceptible. "You've repaired precision instruments?"
"Maintenance of military-grade radar, that happened seven years ago."
Pym didn't ask any more questions. He simply took a miniature welding torch and a small roll of copper foil from his toolbox and handed them over. "Try it."
In less than ten minutes, the machine was back to normal. Pym tested the waveform output three times, and all three met the standards. He closed the equipment, looked at Scott silently for a while, and suddenly said, "I have a project that needs a temporary electrician. Ergonomics test, three hours, two thousand dollars, cash."
Scott didn't agree immediately; instead, he asked, "Where should we test it?"
"The back room, the secret chamber."
"Can I record this, just in case?"
Pym grinned. "Sure, but I'll record you too."
make a deal.
Ye Mo squinted on the rooftop, his fingers unconsciously tapping the telescope stand. He knew what was going to happen next— Pym would take Scott into a secret room, dress him in that silver-gray prototype suit, and without explaining the principles, simply say it was a "stress test of a wearable mechanical exoskeleton." He would monitor vital signs, record nerve reaction speed, and observe muscle coordination. This was the standard procedure for selecting a successor: cautious, ruthless, and merciless.
But what he didn't know was whether Scott would wear it.
Three minutes later, the two entered the back room. The door closed, and the curtains were drawn. Ye Mo switched devices, activating the high-magnification audio pickup mode, and used the micro-vibration frequency of the ventilation ducts to determine internal activity. He saw the vent filter shake slightly a few times, the rhythm irregular, indicating that someone was moving around. The heart rate monitoring patch hadn't connected yet, but he could estimate that Scott's heart rate was around 100, neither high nor low, falling into the category of "tense but under control."
He took off his glasses, took out another handheld terminal from his backpack, and opened the pre-programming program for the Telepathy module. The interface was simple, with only a green button that read "Standby," and a line of small text next to it. "Cooling down normally, connection delay < 0.3 seconds."
He didn't light it.
It's not that it can't be used, it's that it can't be used now. Pym is a very suspicious person, and there might be an anti- Mind Stone detection field in the lab. Besides, Scott hasn't really gotten into the core mechanism of the suit yet, and rashly intervening would only alert the enemy. What he wants is to go with the flow, not to forcibly change fate.
The terminal screen went dark, he put it back in his inner pocket, and picked up the binoculars again.
Ten minutes later, the door to the secret room opened.
Scott emerged, still dressed, but his expression had changed. It wasn't excitement or shock, but a restrained feeling, as if he'd touched something he shouldn't have. His left hand unconsciously rubbed his right wrist, where a cheap digital watch had been worn, but was now gone. Pym followed behind him, carrying a sealed bag containing the remains of the watch.
"Same time tomorrow," Pym said, "Bring your ID and sign the agreement."
Scott nodded. "I can consider it."
"You shouldn't even consider it." Pym turned and closed the door. "You've already been chosen, you just don't know it yet."
The door clicked shut.
Ye Mo sat up straight on the rooftop, finally revealing a slight smile. It wasn't because the plan was going smoothly, but because he had seen the look in Scott's eyes the moment he left—not greed, not excitement, but a wary look mixed with a hint of eagerness. Like a Beast that had been trapped for many years, suddenly smelling the scent of freedom.
He put away his binoculars, slung his bag over his shoulder, and started walking down the fire escape. His footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell, a steady rhythm. Reaching the second-floor corner, he stopped, pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket, and quickly scribbled three lines in pencil:
The target has been connected to key technology nodes.
The bootstrap path is as expected
The next stage requires improving the accuracy of collaboration.
After finishing writing, he folded the paper, stuffed it into a waterproof bag, and put it in the inner pocket of his backpack. Then he took out his phone, opened the map, and moved the location to an old residential building three blocks away. It was the safe house he had rented last week, with windows facing the back alley of the repair shop, equipped with remote listening, thermal imaging, and signal relay equipment.
He walked out of the apartment, crossed two streets, stopped in front of a secondhand furniture store, bought an old sofa and a floor lamp, paid by scanning a QR code, and asked the owner to deliver them to his address. He then went around in circles, sneaked into the building through the back door, climbed to the fourth floor, and pushed open the unlocked door.
The room was empty, the paint was peeling, and the floorboards creaked. He walked to the window, opened a crack in the blinds, set up his binoculars, and pointed the lens at the back door of the repair shop. Four surveillance images lit up simultaneously on the screen: the doorway, the alleyway, the ventilation vent, and the roof antenna.
Everything is in place.
He sat on the floor, leaning against the wall to rest, his headphones plugged into the terminal, and turned on live audio reception. The channel was silent, with only a faint static. He knew there would be no sound tonight; Pym would go back to analyze the data, Scott would go home to contemplate life. But it didn't matter.
The important thing is that the gears have started to turn.
He closed his eyes, and a system notification sounded in his mind, "Telepathy module ready, stable."
He didn't respond, but silently repeated a sentence in his mind:
"Just wait, next time we meet, we'll teach him how to Wall Phasing without hitting his head."
Outside the window, a dark cloud slowly obscured the sun, dimming the light. The pancake stall on the street corner closed up shop, and the proprietress pushed her cart away. A sparrow landed on a telephone pole, pecked at the metal connector twice, and flew away.