"Stop playing dead, we're running out of time," Shiller yelled at the agent lying on the ground.
There was no response.
"Get up, blue skin dog."
The agent sprang up abruptly then looked at Shiller with suspicion. The term 'blue skin dog' was usually used to insult American police, but it was occasionally used against agents, since their uniforms were also dark blue.
Anyone who would use this term against police or agents didn't need to be speculated about regarding who they were.
"Who are you?" The agent stuck to standard agency operational logic, not asking about causes, processes, or consequences, but first questioning Shiller's identity.
"Just a regular medical student. Don't space out, come and help me," Shiller said as he bent down to lift Garrett.
"Did you kill him?"
"Not yet, he's not dead," Shiller replied.
The agent's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked from Shiller to Garrett's completely punctured throat.
Shiller sighed, lifting the body as he said, "The guy so brazenly chasing you down, do you think he's ordinary?"
"You mean, he's actually a superpower user?"
"I mean, he's the kind of idiot who would pump his body with hundreds of chemicals, making himself neither human nor ghost, just for the sake of living longer," Shiller explained.
The agent choked up a bit when Shiller picked Garrett up. He knew the man wasn't dead, which was normal. Otherwise, he couldn't possibly meet him again in the future.
In the comics, Garrett was an anti-hero, but clearly, in Shiller's cosmos, Garrett seemed more like something from a TV show. In the series, he had injected himself with plenty of needles, trying to live as long as Nick and Natasha. It seemed difficult to take him down with ordinary means.
Fortunately, he still followed the rules that a carbon-based life form should have. After losing a lot of blood, he passed out. Shiller dragged him towards the church with the injured agent, who could still stand, limping along behind him.
"What do you plan to do?" the agent asked.
"I thought you'd scream and shout to call the police," Shiller made a dark joke, calmly dragging the body toward the back of the church.
The agent opened his mouth and then said, "I've already been marked as a deserter. Going back now won't end well for me."
"Good, help me open the cellar door and throw him down there."
"Just leaving him there, won't there be problems?"
"Of course, there will be. But I think someone who has been personally hunted by him won't be stupid enough to stay within his sight for longer than a dozen hours."
"I meant you," the agent said. "You seem to be just an ordinary person."
"You've got a good eye," Shiller complimented, and briskly tossed Garrett into the cellar, dusted off his hands, and said, "Don't worry about me, you just run."
The agent looked at him quizzically while Shiller's gaze fell on his injured leg, commenting, "Come on, I'll help you get the other bullet out. After bandaging, it won't be much of a problem."
Even though the agent was utterly baffled about where this young man's confidence came from, considering his agency career was essentially over, he watched Shiller bandaging his leg whilst saying,
"I have to warn you, he and I are not on the same side, meaning we're neither from the same organization nor the same camp. He... never mind, knowing too much won't be good for you."
"In short, he's not someone who plays by the rules of Special Agent Organization."
"It's the first time I've heard about a Special Agent Organization having rules," Shiller said with detachment. "Isn't this profession born from not following rules?"
The agent laughed, then coughed twice, and said, "Looks like you know quite a bit about the business. You're right, but, well... that guy especially doesn't play by the rules, not even the unspoken ones in the industry."
"Are you saying that's why you ended up being chased so desperately by him?"
An awkward expression appeared on the agent's face, but seeing Shiller's bandaging nearing completion, he knew he was running out of time and thus sternly stated,
"I'm serious, kid. Even though it's common to have various undercovers in the agency, his background is particularly remarkable, and he's almost not on the same side as any of us. So don't expect any Justice Messengers to come to your rescue if he decides to target you."
"Are they numerous?"
"Far more numerous than you can imagine, and most of them are shameless and unscrupulous."
"More shameless than me?"
The agent was about to nod but then recalled what the young man had just done. He didn't hesitate for even half a second before lashing out with brutal emotionlessness, his violence more akin to a primal beast, displaying a chilling aesthetic of violence as he punctured someone's throat.
"Who exactly are you?" he couldn't help but ask, then he took a good look at Shiller's face as if he remembered something, but quickly chose to remain silent.
Shiller was also observing his reaction because he needed to verify some things, like how much of the Super-Ego Manuscript's backstory had been copied.
If a lot had been copied, he'd need to find a way to muddle through past events, to at least concoct a legitimate reason, or it could be trouble if Nick found out later.
"Looks like I've been unnecessarily worried about you," the agent said. "Still, I have to warn you, don't confront them head-on. Otherwise, no matter who you are, you're in for a rough time."
"Thanks for the advice," Shiller said as he tied off the bandage. "Alright, your countdown to a life-and-death escape begins now. Please, sir."
Before the agent hobbled out of the church's main door, he looked back at Shiller one last time, who was standing in front of Jesus' image, praying with his head bowed, his low voice obscured by the distant thunder's roar.
Before the rain-soaked, icy steps, behind the long trail of blood, under the tall, sharp dome, amid the croaking of ravens, the Agent heard a deep, faint Russian whisper.
When Garrett woke up, he found himself lying in water, with even more seeping in through the cracks of the cellar door, his neck was very sore, but the wound was healing fast.
Before his eyes was only a fleeting shadow, moving too fast for him to see clearly, let alone react; he couldn't connect this shadow with the figure of the gray-eyed young man, who was a student—the former was an inscrutable thug.
He took a deep breath, sat up, and traced in his memory every detail of Shiller's features. Suddenly, as if remembering something, he sprang up from the ground and tightly grasped the ladder beneath the cellar door.
A few dozen seconds later, he climbed the ladder; outside the cellar, heavy rain poured down, washing away all the blood from his body. Knowing there would be no trace left, he squinted towards the flashing traffic lights at the distant intersection.
The overlapping red and green lights dazzled the eyes, the smell of alcohol almost solidifying into a tangible fog in the dim light, carrying those howls and screams farther and farther away.
A drunk Shiller extricated himself from the dance floor, slowly lifted his head to rub off the lipstick marks on his jawline with the heel of his palm, and, lowering his head, sat down at the bar, seemingly just trying to catch his breath.
"Looks like those little bitches made it hard for you," the redhead bartender said, sitting across from Shiller, "Diluted with water?"
"No, that's too strong, I've had enough to drink, give me a juice," Shiller said with a drunken smile.
"Martini," the female bartender concluded on her own, said, "At most I'll give you some lemon juice, you're not going anywhere."
"Please, lady," Shiller was still smiling, his gaze somewhat scattered, his hand trembling as he lowered his head to put a cigarette in his mouth, swallowed his saliva, and said, "There's another party this weekend."
"Football party? Didn't think you'd really go," the female bartender plucked at her hair and said, "Rebecca told me she had no confidence in getting you to go, you're too popular. Looking into your eyes, she couldn't speak those harsh words."
"Ladies are always very gentle," the last word was uttered with a suggestive languor, as if from personal experience. Shiller took another sip of the drink she had just passed him and exhaled, "I have a friend who got invited and pathetically wants to go, I have to accompany him."
"Never heard you had such a close friend, but then it's also good, you can't always be among women," the female bartender laughed, turned around, and went back to work while Shiller sipped his drink, until he staggered back to his apartment with a heavy scent of alcohol and collapsed onto his bed.
The door was knocked on.
Shiller was still curled over the side of the bed retching, his eyebrows and eyes scrunched together, the whole world buzzing, but he still forced himself to stand up and open the door, which revealed Strange.
"One night of passion" Strange said, looking at Shiller, "Smoke, alcohol, drugs, women."
"All of it," Shiller nodded.
In his still wavering view, the rain hadn't completely stopped, first pouring over half a bottle of whisky, then sprinkling the remnants on himself, Shiller steadied himself against the wall and staggered forward.
Under the dim light of the street lamp, not far away was the bright, lively light of the clubhouse, and a red car parked in a vacant spot, a lady with curly hair holding a small handbag stepped out of the car.
"Oh, God!" she was obviously startled by the sight of Shiller propped up against the wall, vomiting.
"Where are the police?! How can a drunkard like this be here… God."
In the light of the street lamp and the car's headlights, she saw Shiller's sharp profile, his arrow-like eyelashes, and those grey eyes underneath that revealed confusion and vulnerability, much too beautiful compared to her prey for the night.
She walked up to support him.
"What's the matter with you, sir?" her long mascara-coated eyelashes fluttering, her desire-filled eyes assessed him up and down, as if appraising a piece of meat.
"I'm lost... where's Columbia University?"
"You're a student?"
"Yes, medical school, dormitory 2... no, 3? I've forgotten."
"It's not good to go back to the dorm in this state, let me help you into the car."
Two figures staggered toward the car, Shiller steadied himself on the vehicle, the woman walked over, pulled open the car door, and when she came back to support Shiller, he pushed her against the car with force.
"Too rough, sir," her tone had little anger, only a laugh tinged with desire, as she tilted up her neck, her white neck, and chest in a single line.
"Your school isn't far from here, should I take you back?"
"Back where?"
The woman held Shiller's chin firmly with one hand, and the next moment one hand covered her mouth and nose, her eyes widened, but soon she felt something pierce the skin on her neck, the drug flowing slowly in, her vision starting to blur and become dreamlike.
"Sleep," that was the last thing she heard before her consciousness faded.
The red car passed by the bright lights of the mansion and drove into the deeper darkness, followed by whiskey, more whiskey, tequila... until the last Lemon Martini.
Indeed, it was a passionate night, Shiller sat down on the bed, and Strange looked on disapprovingly at the messy room and glared at Shiller, who was about to light another cigarette.
"Can't smoke in public places," he said.
"Get out, and this becomes my private space," Shiller didn't stop what he was doing with his hands, until he used the smell of smoke to drive Strange out.
"The party is tomorrow, aren't you going to prepare?"
"Prepare what?" Shiller asked, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Uh... don't parties require preparation..."
Shiller, with a cigarette in his mouth, snorted and lifted his face, his mocking smile undisguised, and said to Strange, "Poor little things who've never been to a party indeed need to prepare."