Chapter 48: Off-Field Technical Guidance

Shieler and Stark stood together before a damaged Mark 2 suit.

Stark said: “Listen, the problem right now is that the braking system is completely destroyed; before any modifications, we need to fix it first.”

Saying this, he picked up a wrench and stepped forward, beginning to bang and tap on the suit.

Shieler stood behind him and said to the symbiote in his mind: “No, you can’t eat his brain.”

“But his head looks delicious, really delicious, smells amazing.”

“But…”

Shieler crossed his arms, one hand pressing his forehead, rephrased his words, and said: “You can’t just eat people’s brains because…”

Shieler paused for a long time, thinking: Well, this species may look bizarre, but their taste is surprisingly consistent.

“Eat his brain, we can make our own,” the symbiote said.

“No!”

“Fine…”

Stark remained oblivious, fiddling for a while, then tapped the nearby railing with his wrench, moved to another spot, and continued tinkering while saying: “Magic armor? That sounds great. I think it’s some kind of special atomic force—what do you think is its best application? Oscillation? Or extreme compression?”

Shieler asked in his mind: “...Best application? Oscillation or extreme compression?”

“Decomposition and reconstruction,” the symbiote said.

“Decomposition and reconstruction,” Shieler said.

He placed his hand directly on the still-unrepaired joint; a large section of components flashed, then returned to place—brand new.

Stark stood up, eyes wide, arms crossed: “This so-called magic of yours looks far stronger than the zero-gravity trick you demonstrated.”

“I’m awesome I’m awesome I’m awesome I’m awesome…” the symbiote began screeching again inside Shieler’s mind.

Shieler said: “Fine, fine, you’re awesome.”

He had to admit, the symbiote was still more useful than magic—his current magical ability was only low-tier, good enough to scare people, but when it came to real action, he still relied on the symbiote.

“Shrink the armor, can make it very small,” the symbiote said inside Shieler’s mind.

“Shrink the armor,” Shieler said.

“I’ve already considered this—my Mark 5, in later versions, was meant to compress into a briefcase, but it’s still not fully developed, so I can’t carry it around freely yet.”

“I think the briefcase plan is too conservative.”

“Even smaller?”

“Of course.”

“How small do you think it can get?”

Shieler asked the symbiote in his mind: “How small do you think it can get?”

“A bottle of fear toxin.”

“Compress it down to the size of a small bottle of fear toxin?” Shieler asked.

“I want to drink it,” the symbiote said.

Shieler rolled his eyes—he was haggling now.

After the symbiote happily finished a bottle of wine, he said: “A cigarette can be compressed to the size of a cigarette.”

After Shieler told Stark, Stark excitedly paced around the room, saying: “This is truly atomic-level structure and reassembly—if so, maybe it can be even smaller than a cigarette, perhaps even nanoscale…”

“Can it be smaller than a cigarette?” Shieler asked in his mind.

“Yes, but it will explode when deployed,” the symbiote said.

So Shieler told Stark: “Actually, it can be made smaller, but I can’t guarantee the deployment is safe.”

Stark said: “Anyway, let’s get started—create a technology that leaps ahead of its time, then I’ll hand all my old armors over to the military—they can deal with the trash, and I’ll save on e-waste disposal fees. Pepper will be happy.”

“The benefits of being instantly armed are endless!” Stark clenched one fist and pounded it against his other palm: “I could even fit the full JARVIS system into a smartphone—a phone with such a powerful AI assistant, can you believe it?”

Shieler said: “...God bless JARVIS.”

After a while, Stark took the slightly worn Mark 2 down from its rack; before he could even look closely, a swirl of gray mist passed—and the Mark 2 vanished.

Then Shieler reappeared, holding a metallic cigarette, which he handed to Stark. Stark: “That’s it?”

“What else do you want?”

“Shouldn’t there be some incantation… I mean, rituals, a wand…”

“No need—that’s too low-tier,” Shieler said.

Stark blinked, suddenly filled with boundless wonder about magic.

But later, this expectation nearly drove Strange insane—he was just a sorcerer, how could Iron Man treat magic like an omnipotent god? Every time he did anything, Iron Man just said, “Let’s leave it to the omnipotent magic!”

When he heard the Supreme Sorcerer needed preparation to cast, Stark called Strange a “low-tier sorcerer,” making Strange nearly snap his staff.

Regardless of how Shieler’s behavior would later drive Strange to despair, right now he left Stark pleasantly surprised: “How do I turn this into armor? How do I wear it?”

Shieler asked in his mind: “How does he turn this into armor? How does he wear it?”

The symbiote burped, drunk: “Think about it in your mind.”

Shieler said: “Think about it in your mind.”

Stark paused, then hesitantly recalled the Mark 2’s original armor deployment method in his mind.

Almost instantly, the Mark 2 clad his body—no transition, pure atomic-level reassembly.

Stark said: “What’s the principle behind this?”

Shieler asked in his mind: “What’s the principle behind this?”

“Thought disturbance,” the symbiote said.

Shieler told Stark: “Thought disturbance.”

“You mean brainwaves? Or bioelectricity?”

The symbiote inside Shieler’s mind was too drunk to answer, so Shieler said: “Don’t try to explain magic with science—it works, that’s enough.”

Stark’s mind burned with curiosity—he wanted to start researching immediately. He turned on Shieler: “Alright, alright, I get it. Your magic. Wait—I’ll use it better than you someday.”

Then he showed him the door.

Shieler was practically escorted out of Stark Tower, but he wasn’t angry—Stark always acted like this once his experimental itch kicked in.

He returned to the clinic to find Steve waiting. Steve greeted him: “Nick sent me to fetch you—he wants to see you. I think it’s about Stark.”

Shieler shouted into the air: “Ten million dollars an hour—how’s that, Director Nick?”

“You’re gouging me,” a voice suddenly came from Steve’s waistband.

Shieler shrugged: “Fine, I was going to invoice you a hundred million.”

Silence on the other end, then: “Add fifty million in late fees…”

“Deal,” Shieler said.

Soon after, Shieler arrived at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s international reception center. Nick, wearing an eye patch, shook his hand, then they sat facing each other. Coulson poured them coffee—espresso for Shieler.

Shieler downed his coffee in one gulp, but Nick sipped slowly. Shieler spoke first: “Business first, or invoice first?”

“Invoice first,” Nick said.

After a while, Nick asked: “I know Stark gave the armor tech to the military, but that’s not important—we don’t want those armors.”

“You want him.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded by his father.”

“If you bring that up now, you’ll never get him to join.”

“And if you want him to join, go talk to him yourself—don’t come to me. I’m just a psychologist, not his father.”

“We’re not asking you to persuade Stark—we know he won’t listen. What do you think of our idea? A team of specialists?”

“It’s decent, but it depends on who they work for.”

“Not for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Then who does S.H.I.E.L.D. work for?”

Nick frowned, swiftly changed the subject: “Alright, we’d like to invite you to join…”

“You said it’s a team of specialists—I’m just an ordinary guy. My long jump has never exceeded three meters.”

Nick opened his mouth—he felt Shieler was treating him like a fool.

“Listen, we don’t care how you vanished and reappeared hundreds of meters away, or where that yellow rat with a Canadian accent came from, or how uncannily accurate your psychological analysis is—but a neurologist personally told us you threatened him with a floating pen…”

Shieler said to the symbiote in his mind: “You can’t eat anyone’s brain anymore—except Strange’s.”

Shieler said: “Do you believe magic exists?”

“Some scientific forces created these specialists—so I believe other forces created others. Are you one of them?”

“No, I’m just an ordinary man. But I can trade you an intelligence for my freedom.”

“About what? Magic?”

“Yes. I believe you have satellite access permissions—check where a missing New York internet connection leads.”

Nick frowned, but Shieler said no more.

The New York Sanctum’s wireless network still relied on modern internet infrastructure, not any magical network—only magic concealed the access route.

If Nick bothered to investigate, he’d find traces.

Shieler didn’t refuse outright because, in future major events, he’d need the Avengers to save the world—he wouldn’t waste his own energy fighting lizard men or Red Hulk.

At most, he’d offer minor help for his own safety, so he needed to stay connected with these superheroes—so he could later be a refreshingly unorthodox… shit-stirrer.