Chapter 389

"Multiple personality disorder?" In Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, Stark and Rogers exchanged glances, then turned together to look at Charles, who had named the condition.

"Tony, I remember telling you before that Schiller is a mental patient."

Rogers turned to look at Stark, who rubbed his nose and said: "I thought that was just an adjective—you know, sometimes he's a bit…"

He sighed and said: "Alright, I knew it—he's never been quite right, there's this…"

Stark turned his palm over, as if struggling to find a word to describe that state; after a few seconds, he said: "... he feeling of desperately trying to pass as an ordinary person, but overcompensating because his imagination of ordinary life is pathetically thin."

"Is it really that exaggerated?" Rogers recalled and said: "I think he seems normal enough."

"You know what? Peter still thinks his good doctor is just an ordinary person." Stark shook his head. "Even if he's not a mental patient, he's definitely a damn liar."

"What I'm more curious about is, if he really has dissociative identity disorder, why haven't we seen any other personalities emerge before?" Rogers asked Charles.

"Typically, patients with dissociative identity disorder develop alternate personalities after some kind of trauma. Perhaps certain triggers have caused his other identities to surface."

"Trauma? What kind of trauma has he recently experienced?" Stark rubbed his chin. "It's possible the Hydra influenced him, but I still feel that's not the right answer…"

"Actually, you could try another method." Charles reminded him: "Don't you remember? You asked me to your lab to calibrate the personality analysis module for your AI assistant, to provide psychological and behavioral support."

"I have to admit, you've made truly remarkable progress in artificial intelligence. I don't feel like I'm talking to a machine—I feel like I'm teaching a real person."

"JARVIS is a good student. In learning, he has a natural advantage. His comprehension and associative abilities have already surpassed what any intelligent life form should possess—he's achieved true mastery."

"If he had a body, I think he could easily earn several doctorates—and maybe even teach at a prestigious university."

Facing Charles, Stark rarely failed to emphasize his own genius; instead, he said with mild surprise: "I just hoped he could help me analyze suspicious individuals. If he's really this capable, am I now carrying a portable psychology expert?"

Charles shook his head: "In terms of theoretical knowledge, he certainly qualifies as an expert. But you must understand—in psychotherapy, empathy is crucial. His understanding of psychology and behavior is based largely on rigid logic. Emotionally, he hasn't reached that level. So don't expect him to solve your psychological problems on demand."

Stark smiled: "I remember how a certain unscrupulous doctor extorted millions from me. Now the tables have turned—I can let JARVIS treat him."

Charles smiled too: "I imagine that scene would be amusing. But don't get your hopes up. Schiller is surely aware of his condition—or perhaps…"

Charles gave a strange expression. Stark pressed: "What?"

"Based on what I know of him, his condition may lie beyond JARVIS's capacity to treat."

"Alright, I was just joking." Stark spoke lightly. "Besides, if things really go wrong, at least you're still here, Professor, aren't you?"

Charles's expression grew even stranger. He paused, sighed, then said: "In fact, his condition may also lie beyond my capacity to treat."

Stark waved his hand, assuming Charles was being modest. Since meeting this X-Prophet, even Stark had to admit: Charles was a man of noble character, nearly flawless—powerful, gentle, humble, courteous. You almost never heard him boast. So Stark assumed Charles was merely being politely modest.

But soon, he realized he was wrong.

Another morning. Schiller stood beside the SHIELD cafeteria's buffet station, selecting bread with a bread clip. He heard a mechanical clicking behind him and said without turning: "I didn't know your armor needed to eat."

"Hey, you don't even turn around? Look at my armor—just born from Tony Stark's lab, a beautiful piece!" Stark spread his arms. Passersby from SHIELD turned to stare, for the new armor he wore was truly stunning.

The Mark suit he wore during the Civil War had been decommissioned—its energy depleted, its exterior heavily damaged. Now he wore a brand-new Mark suit, freshly manufactured, gleaming brightly.

Natasha happened to pass by and whistled at Stark. He immediately turned, pointing at her with his arm, signaling she had good taste. The surrounding agents began cheering. Stark shot into the air with a "whoosh," and the cheers grew louder. He waved his arms like a celebrity.

Schiller finished selecting his bread, added a small piece of cheese, then took a beef patty and lettuce, and walked straight to a table without looking back.

When the crowd dispersed, Stark landed. A blue analysis panel appeared in his vision. He asked: "Well, JARVIS? Any results?"

"Insufficient behavioral data. Further collection required."

"Alright…" Stark turned back to get his food. Afterward, he sat across from Schiller. The faceplate lifted with a "click." Schiller looked up at him and said: "You said yesterday your anxiety wasn't flaring up—so why are you eating lunch in full armor today?"

"Is there a necessary connection?" Stark asked, puzzled.

"Of course. You used to wear your armor constantly because your anxiety brought panic and unease. You treated the mechanical armor as a psychological crutch—that was your way of coping."

"Uh… this time it's not because of that." Stark denied it. But mentioning anxiety triggered other thoughts. He ate while asking: "By the way, how did my anxiety actually get better? I can't even remember when it started improving."

"If you want, I can send you his medical records. I've always thought his analysis of the cause was overly verbose, but it should be sufficient for a layperson." Schiller spoke while wiping his sleeve.

"He?" Stark stared at Schiller. "Who are you referring to?"

"My other personality. Who else? You and Steve Rogers must have rushed to Professor Xavier overnight. He told you I have dissociative identity disorder."

"So even though your personalities differ, your telepathy is shared."

"It's not telepathy. It's just psychology."

Stark noticed that this self-proclaimed alternate personality of Schiller spoke with a different tone and facial expression than the Schiller he knew. His voice was colder, deeper, his expressions more restrained. Stark watched him for a moment and realized his blinking rhythm was perfectly unchanged.

Then his gaze dropped to Schiller's tray. After yesterday's egg-torture, today he was doing the same with the beef patty—moving it from left to right, then right to left, finally setting it aside with clear disdain.

"Aren't you eating it?" Stark frowned.

Schiller shook his head.

Stark asked: "Then why did you take it?"

"Because the eggs are gone."

"Why, if the eggs are gone, must you take a beef patty—and then not eat it, just move it around?"

Schiller pressed his lips together, showing a faintly impatient expression—as if unable to communicate with Stark at all. He said: "Because I need something round. Understood?"

Stark didn't understand at all. But he understood one thing: this personality was definitely sick.

"You know, in my world, no one cares about these trivial details. You look at me like I'm insane—but I'm normal. I'm just not adapted to your society." Schiller ate as he spoke.

"Your world?" Stark grew more confused. He had never encountered such a strange mental patient. Curious, he asked: "So what's your background? Do your memories share? Can you communicate?"

"Why not ask the artificial intelligence that's about to tell you the answer?" Schiller said without looking up.

At that moment, JARVIS's voice sounded in Stark's ear—but not the usual stream of data reports. Instead, it was hesitant: "Sir, I suspect there's an issue with my behavioral analysis data…"

"What's wrong?"

"I've generated specific analytical data—but it doesn't look like data that should exist."

Stark spread soft cheese onto his bread. "Don't panic. This system still needs calibration—glitches are normal. Just tell me the data."

"Behavioral logic analysis complete. Possibility of autism spectrum: 58%. Possibility of antisocial personality disorder: 22%. Possibility of Asperger's syndrome: approximately 11%. Other composite disorders: approximately 9%. More importantly—the behavioral logic is completely inconsistent with the recorded data of Dr. Schiller…"

Stark didn't react to the unfamiliar medical terms. But JARVIS added: "I believe the system's analysis results are flawed…"

"From the data, I cannot determine which of the two personalities is the dominant one. This contradicts the symptoms of dissociative identity disorder. Neither of the two personalities that have appeared is sufficiently fragmented or subordinate—they're both too complete, too independent."

JARVIS attempted to explain the concepts to Stark. Stark listened carefully and understood most of it. He summarized: "You mean, comparing these two personalities, we can't tell which is the primary one. This isn't multiple personality disorder—it's more like two souls sharing one body?"

"Wait…" Stark narrowed his eyes. "Do you remember what Steve told us before? If one day he becomes unfamiliar, we can't rule out Hydra influence…"

As he spoke, Stark casually lifted his gaze to observe Schiller—and just then, he caught those familiar eyes across the table, watching him with a faintly cold gaze.