Bruce was brought to a special office, filled with people who were clearly not merely office workers. They were the important staff of the Osborn Group, perhaps even the top executives.
A woman dressed in a blue uniform with an ID badge approached Bruce, shook his hand, and said: "Hello, sir, I am in charge of the Osborn Group's San Francisco Medical Experiment Center. You can call me Phalloman."
"Hello, Miss Phalloman."
"Please, have a seat."
They sat opposite each other. Phalloman cut straight to the chase, "I assume you have heard about the changes occurring in the appearance of San Francisco's citizens. The volunteer recruitment currently undertaken by the Osborn Group is in response to this issue."
"Mr. Norman Osborn believes that the citizens of San Francisco could be undergoing an unknowing and grossly unprincipled body transformation. He wants to decipher what this transformation entails and to find a resolution."
Bruce widened his eyes slightly, feeling a bit surprised. After all, he initially suspected that the Osborn Group was behind all of this. However, he also considered that they could be playing the blame game.
Miss Phalloman placed several photographs in front of Bruce. Most were crime scene photos. After arranging the images, she closely watched Bruce's reaction.
Having grown up in Gotham, Bruce wasn't bothered by such photos. He often deals with such scenes every day without feeling the need to capture them in pictures.
Unable to elicit a reaction, Phalloman began speaking: "These are incidents of severe conflicts that have occurred recently within San Francisco. Most started as minor conflicts but escalated into homicides."
"Perhaps you have noted that the test subjects, like you, have become extremely irritable. We suspect that this mysterious virus, that significantly improves the appearance of people, affects their psychological state and emotions. Do you have any insight into this?"
Bruce shook his head. Phalloman sighed and withdrew the photos, saying: "So far, we have not observed any instances where the virus significantly enhances human strength. The majority only experience a marginal increase in strength parallel to their muscle development."
"So, sir." Miss Phalloman crossed her fingers and, with a direct gaze, asked Bruce: "Where does your strength come from?"
She turned to grab a medical report from a nearby shelf and continued, "Based on the test results, you are not a mutant, nor do your muscles suggest the presence of such strength. So where does it come from?"
"I don't know." Bruce shook his head truthfully.
"Sir, you must understand the severe consequences this transformation could bring," Phalloman said, her brows furrowing. "Even if there is only one like you among a hundred people, chaos will ensue."
Bruce offered no response, consumed by the thought that if this virus managed to bring everyone's looks and physiques to an equal level, would everyone then support the spread of the virus?
While there would certainly be skeptics, likely, those most opposed would be those who are already blessed with good looks and figure.
Bruce had to admit, when he saw people, who could barely do a single correct exercise, easily lift weights that he couldn't, he felt somewhat discontented.
Though his looks were natural, his physique was built through his own efforts; through hard work, sweat, and strict self-discipline. If all it took was catching a virus to achieve the same body and strength as him, what would be the point of his hard work?
Additionally, a good appearance can be a ticket to certain social classes. Only those with enough spare time and money can maintain their appearances to remain beautiful and strong. This indicates one's social status.
Would the elite class, having spent a lot of effort maintaining their appearances, allow a random homeless man on the street to be more beautiful and stronger than they are?
If not, what price would they expect for this artificial beauty?
No price would be appropriate. If it's too cheap, they will fear an influx of people from lower classes. If it's too expensive, they would become the group of people unable to afford it, restricted from entering a higher circle.
Bruce couldn't pursue this line of thought any further. These abstract imaginations gave him a headache.
"If one in a hundred people can become as strong as you," Phalloman said, "the military wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice the other ninety-nine to create a super soldier."
"They have not abstained from such practices before. They have just not succeeded in mass-producing such results. If they succeed this time, a world war is not far off."
Bruce furrowed his eyebrows deeply. He only considered the changes in appearance and overlooked the natural strength enhancement that comes with increased muscle mass.
Even if not everyone experiences such terrifying strength increase as he does, just a 30% increase in strength in the weakest homeless man would be reason enough for some ambitious individual to prepare thousands to wage an aggressive war.
'This is troublesome,' Bruce sighed inwardly. The mysterious Ultimate Iron Man's whereabouts were unknown. If a world war really broke out, he certainly wouldn't survive a nuclear bomb.
"I hope you will cooperate with us," Miss Phalloman stood up and said, "First of all, we need to go to New York. Mr. Norman Osborn wishes to meet you in person."
Wait... I still have a daughter, Bruce thought to himself. However, just as he was about to voice his thought, he felt a pang in his heart that left him speechless.
Bruce couldn't explain the sudden onset of this strange sensation. All he knew was that he felt a tightness in his chest, a chill running down his spine, and cold sweat dripping down. It felt as if something terrible was about to happen.
Never mind, it's probably better that Aisha was kidnapped by that mysterious person. At least for now, he seems to be reasonable. On the other hand, this so-called Norman Osborn appears to be desperate.
His conclusion was confirmed when as soon as he stepped out of the office, he was informed that a plane was waiting for him.
Before boarding the plane, Bruce had a few more tubes of energy gel, which left him feeling physically powerful and made his hunger dissipate. He then asked for more to carry with him.
Once on the private jet, Bruce still didn't feel hungry, nor was he tired. He felt quite energetic, perhaps even a bit too energetic.
Batman never thought in his life that he would be chatting with flight attendants, let alone with four flight attendants and a male flight attendant.
Bruce knew that he didn't have much in common with these people; he already knew there was no Gotham in the cosmos, and his era, region, and class were all different from those of this group. What could they possibly talk about?
Yet, they chatted about gossip headlines from the web for two hours. Neither party found it dull; everyone actually thought the others were quite funny.
When it was time to deplane, all four left little notes for Bruce, they even added each other on Facebook.
After deboarding and getting into a private car, Bruce started chatting with the driver, mostly about his first visit to New York. They chatted all the way, and using his two daughters as an excuse, the driver managed to get Bruce's contact information.
For Batman, this was not just the opening of the floodgates, but completely knocking the floodgates over.
Interestingly, Bruce noticed that when he focused on something, time seemed to slow down, and the same thing happened when he spoke.
He felt like quite a bit of time had passed from processing his thoughts and clarifying his linguistic logic to speaking, but that was not the case in reality. He was practically responding immediately after the other party finished speaking.
Once the plane landed and signal was back, Bruce finally remembered to check his messages, where he found the text from Stark asking about his current situation.
Bruce thought for a bit, determining what could be said and what could not be said, then he began replying to Stark in rapid succession of text messages.
Even though his thinking speed and language organization ability had improved, he hadn't managed to create any groundbreaking work. Shit was still shit, it just came out faster.
Stark was busy hacking into the Osborn Group's network when his cell phone beeped twice. He knew immediately that Bruce had replied.
But Stark wasn't used to dealing with other matters when concentrating on work, so he left it untouched.
As a result, the text notification rang for a full 20 minutes. By the time Stark couldn't stand it anymore and checked his phone, there were over 200 unread messages.
You'd better have something important to say, Batman, thought Stark through gritted teeth. Either tell me World War III has broken out or the Earth is about to be destroyed. Otherwise, this is outright harassment.
Then Stark began his task of looking for a needle in a haystack. Three minutes into reading the messages, he named this task accordingly.
It wasn't that Batman was just harassing him. Each of his messages was addressing something serious, but the useful information was pitifully scarce.
Stark really couldn't wrap his head around it. How could you write over 4000 words about a single afternoon's events, including any random thoughts?
And if you're going to write that much, why couldn't you finish it all in one go? Why did you have to split it into over 200 messages?
If you're going to divide it up, why not group all the points related to a particular topic together, and then supply a table of contents?
Is this meant for people to read?
Nick turned to Shiller, who was next to him, and said, "You just laughed, didn't you?"
"I did not."
"You laughed, Professor," Nick insisted. "That's not too good, you know that neither Stark could ever cut it as a professor."
Shiller covered his mouth with the back of his hand, cleared his throat and said, " ... I think he has the talent for it, he would make a good teacher."
"Your argument would be more convincing if you lowered your smile first." Strange grumbled. Then, as if reflecting, he said, "Ever since the Kamar-Taj Magic Academy was established, I haven't look at the homework of those little wizards yet ..."
Loki grabbed Strange's arm and, with a very sincere gaze, told him, "They write well, but you're better off not reading it."
Strange narrowed his eyes.
Loki held onto Strange's arm even tighter and said, rather faux cheerily, "The world needs the Kamar-Taj, but it also needs the Supreme Magician."
Now Strange looked even more skeptical. Loki sighed deeply, turned to look at Strange again and said.
"If you insist on reading, promise me one thing. First, get a internal medicine license so you can prescribe medication. At least then you'd know what drugs to prescribe for high blood pressure."
"Stop joking around. If he knew what prescriptions to write, he wouldn't have become a surgeon."
Strange glared at Shiller.