Chapter 143

On the roof of Stark Tower, Schiller sealed a jar containing a mass of black slime; the gray mist and Venom were communicating via brainwaves, and Venom said, "Don't you feel any guilt deceiving such a naive kid?"

"Sounds like you're no better than an accomplice—if his inner negativity weren't so scarce, unable to trigger the Fear Black Tide, I wouldn't resort to this tactic."

"And…" Schiller paused, then said to Venom, "I've realized you have real potential as a filmmaker—the scene you fabricated of Stark's death really terrified Peter."

"I know that bastard too well—he's always relied on the same trick; it'll come true eventually."

Schiller sighed, more like he was relaxing, and said, "Their early arrival from the multiverse did catch me off guard; if I hadn't used this trick to scare them off, there'd be no peace for us ever again."

Venom said, "Our deal is done. Now you can let me choose my own host, right?"

"Of course, but given your danger and unpredictability, you can only pick from hosts you've already bonded with."

"So, who will you choose? Stark? Bruce? Or…"

"REPORTER!!!! I choose that reporter!!!!" Venom bellowed loudly.

"Oh, I'd almost forgotten—you once possessed a human reporter. Fine, I'll courier you to his house tomorrow."

"But as we agreed, don't switch hosts lightly, and don't go around eating people's heads—or I'll let the gray mist bite you."

Venom emitted a nasal sound nearly identical to Stark's, brimming with reluctant resentment.

After standing on the rooftop for a moment, footsteps approached behind them; Nick arrived and stood beside Schiller. Nick said, "That was quite a spectacle, wasn't it?"

"What? Did it exceed your expectations, Director?"

"I'm no director. Just like you—do you plan to call yourself a stagehand?"

"Isn't that what you are?" Schiller didn't turn to look at Nick, his gaze fixed on the lights of New York's skyline. "Don't tell me the growing spread of Bat-God worship among vampires is just coincidence."

"And don't tell me the prophecy of the Bat-God's arrival, surfacing right before the moderates tried to manipulate the election, is just coincidence."

"Who knows? The world is full of coincidences."

"Yes—the SHIELD-exclusive kind, where final interpretation always rests with you."

"Let's talk good news," Nick crossed his arms. "The bats infected with the Lizard serum are unusable, right? Raw materials are growing scarcer—we're hitting production bottlenecks…"

"Where did you pick for the sanatorium?"

"Still Manhattan. You know—it's closer to their residences."

"But there's no time to build a new one. There's an old bank from the 1930s there; its new owner defaulted on inheritance taxes and vanished. Construction starts tomorrow."

"How much usable bat material remains?"

"Police and SHIELD agents suffered heavy casualties on the battlefield. Less than one in ten can be deployed for pursuit, and many are untrained recruits who can't even hold a gun steady. Freezing gun fuel is low too—we're out of options…"

"So how many did you report?"

"Only twelve left. We have only twelve precious bats carrying the immortality factor," Nick shrugged.

"Too many," Schiller said without hesitation. "Reduce it to two. Connors has excellent long-term freezing tech. Freeze the other ten and store them in SHIELD's warehouse. Sell them slowly once prices rise a thousandfold."

"Isn't that a bit exaggerated? Thousands of armed police and hundreds of SHIELD agents, and after the bats' defeat, you only captured two?"

"Thousands of police and hundreds of agents? You're underestimating how brutal this war was. By the final pursuit, only ten armed police remained, and just one agent. Does that sound exaggerated now?"

"Alright, but Natasha, Coulson, Hawkeye, and Daisy will all be deployed soon—who do you plan to sacrifice?" Nick asked.

"Don't even think of using injury as an excuse—Hawkeye's been injured over eighty times this year, using four times his insurance quota; Daisy's been critically wounded over twenty times…"

Schiller rubbed his forehead. "It's not even summer yet, and you've already burned through all their allocations. Don't you plan to keep any buffer for emergencies?"

"Emergencies? SHIELD faces emergencies every day."

"Alright—if you're willing to raise my fee a little, I'll convince Osborn and Stark to take on the Brooklyn Bridge reconstruction project."

"Under the guise of charity? There's little room for maneuver here—everyone can see a bridge being built."

"If this scale of charity doesn't satisfy you, then launch a larger one—you're far more familiar with that system…" Schiller waved his hand.

"Send war correspondents, film the post-battle ruins, publicize the war's horror, mobilize charities, host fundraising galas—celebrities, elites, brands, parties…"

"If that still isn't enough, declare sanctions against the vampires."

Nick sighed. "So far, our strategy remains conservative. The Security Council won't approve large-scale sanctions."

"If you're willing to give them one of your two precious raw materials, I think they'd be tempted."

"You plan to deceive your own people?"

"Don't talk nonsense. There were only ever two. The other ten are SHIELD's emergency reserves—just not yet liquidated."

On Stark's rooftop, Schiller and Nick stared together at the glittering night view of New York. Inside Stark Tower, Stark lay on his hospital bed, wrapped like a mummy. He watched Peter pacing back and forth. "Hey, stop walking. You're making me dizzy."

"When's that doctor going to show up? It's not even rush hour!"

As Peter finished speaking, Strange's voice appeared at the door, accompanied by footsteps. "I wish I were looking at a corpse named Stark right now."

He entered, looking half-asleep—clearly dragged from bed in the middle of the night. He irritably adjusted the nearby monitoring equipment. Peter leaned in, peering anxiously. "Doctor Strange, is Mr. Stark going to be okay? He's badly hurt…"

"If he were truly badly hurt, you'd be seeing a priest, not me."

Strange roughly yanked out Stark's pillow. Stark's head slammed into the bed frame. He screamed, "You heartless quack! Are you trying to kill me?!"

"I'm heartless, but I'm certainly not incompetent."

Stark muttered, "All doctors are the same…"

"Alright, examination's done. You're fine. You'll live until you die. Pay me, then send me back to sleep."

Stark sized him up. "What did you check? You turned the machines on and off. Don't think I don't know how this works. Who do you think you're fooling? I'm Stark. Don't try to trick me."

Strange snapped, "Then check yourself. Send me back to bed."

"Don't leave yet. I have a big business proposition for you." Schiller appeared at the door, handing Strange a proposal. Strange glanced at it and said, "Stark-Osborn Joint Pharmaceutical Company, Chief Consultant Appointment Letter?"

"What the hell is this company?" Strange frowned. "I didn't know Stark and Osborn teamed up—especially in pharmaceuticals?"

He flipped through the letter. "And I'm a neurosurgeon—I don't do drug sales."

"Flip to the last page. Look at the number."

Strange lifted his eyes to Schiller, skeptical, then turned to the final page and focused on the figure.

In one second, he snapped the letter shut. He cleared his throat, straightened his collar, and stuffed it into his briefcase. "I'm currently contracted with New York Presbyterian Hospital. My contract hasn't expired. I can't violate my professional integrity."

"I know. Of course I know. I'm a man of integrity too," Schiller smiled. "The staff coffee lounge upstairs is still open. Let's discuss it there."

After the two doctors left, Stark and Peter stared at each other. Stark said, "So… what about my examination?"

At that moment, Connors entered, having heard Stark's words. "Though it's been years since my last clinical trial, I can still give you a check-up."

"Oh no! Wait! No need—I'm fine!"

"Don't worry—I have extensive battlefield medical experience." He walked over and lowered the upper half of Stark's bed. Stark jolted and cried out in pain.

Peter hesitated, about to intervene, but Connors glanced at him and said, "Peter, Dr. Eason is calling you up—something's come up."

Peter paused, glancing at Stark, bandaged from head to toe, then at Connors, whose scales hadn't faded. Then, under Stark's furious stare, he bolted out the door.

Stark pounded the bed with his only movable left hand. "That heartless kid! If it weren't for saving him, how would I be this badly hurt?"

Connors held up a diagnosis report. "There's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

fantuan.

"Don't play games. Tell me both."

"Good news: your spine and nervous system are fine. Bad news: the problem is with the thing in your chest."

Stark stiffened. "The thing in my chest is fine too."

"Eason explained the basic principle of your chest reactor. Though my specialty is biology, I have some knowledge of mechanics and physics. Your medical report shows this device is seriously problematic."

"You used too much palladium to boost power for your armor. Right now, if you don't find a solution, you'll eventually die of poisoning."

Stark turned his head away, clearly unwilling to discuss this. Connors set the report down, locking eyes with Stark. "You know this better than anyone. But you refuse to change. I'm sure your old friends warned you—but you're the most stubborn person I've ever met."