Chapter 691: U: The Infinite Event (Seven)

"Tap, tap, tap…"

The heel of a leather shoe struck the cold floor with a crisp sound; the iron door creaked open, and a man in a suit stepped out.

He approached, shook hands with the figure in a white lab coat, then entered the room alongside the white-coated doctor.

As the lights gradually brightened, what appeared inside was not a warm ward or medical equipment, but iron bars like those of an interrogation room.

Inside the bars lay a hospital bed, its occupant clad in a patient gown, limbs secured to the bars; seeing this, the man in the suit turned his head away, lips drooping, as if unable to bear the sight.

The clack of high heels echoed, accompanied by the jingle of a keychain, as Natasha entered the room; she glanced at the two and said, "What are you two whispering about?"

She stepped forward, unhooked the keychain from her waist, unlocked the gate of the iron bars, and all three entered, approaching the bedside.

At the head of the bed stood a peculiar device, its display showing a cascade of complex readings; the white-coated doctor pulled out a medical chart and recorded the data, while the man in the suit covered his face and said, "... re we really doing the right thing? He looks so much pain..."

At these words, Natasha, who had been adjusting the curtains, turned to look at the patient on the bed.

The patient's appearance was bizarre: no hair, eyes deeply sunken into their sockets, skin a pale, cold hue; his mouth half-open, eyes shut, body trembling, fingers tracing circles on the sheet as if writing symbols.

"Schiller... we're going to hell," Colonel Coulson breathed deeply. "This is inhumane—we shouldn't be doing this..."

Schiller, who had been diligently writing in the chart, paused his hand; he turned to look at Coulson but offered no explanation. Soon, Coulson's communicator beeped—Nick Fury summoned him away.

After he left, Natasha moved to the other side of the bed, staring at the patient. "I still don't understand why Nick is hiding this from him—he'll feel guilty."

"Don't you think it's nearly impossible to make someone like Coulson understand that every S. . . . . . agent is a Hydra, and every Hydra is now a S. . . . . . agent?"

Natasha sighed. "Honestly, I don't know how you pulled this off. Poor Coulson still thinks we're using dying S. . . . . . agents for human experiments."

"In a way, he's not wrong," Schiller said, leaning over to gently smooth the patient's sheets; as he drew near, the patient trembled violently, teeth chattering, desperately trying to pull away—but his bound limbs left him no escape.

Schiller straightened up. "He's Hydra. But he also gave S. . . . . . invaluable service. Without them, Nick couldn't have found ten competent agents."

"That's why I'm working so hard to save him. If the experiment succeeds on him, many Hydra agents disguised as S. . . . . . agents will be saved because of him. This sacrifice is worth it."

Natasha lowered her gaze and followed Schiller out of the ward. In the second room, Schiller, as usual, recorded the machine's readings, tidied the disheveled bedsheet, spoke to the air as if asking the patient how he felt, ignored the patient's terrified eyes, then turned and left for the next room.

There were about twelve rooms in total, each holding one patient, all in nearly identical states: no body hair, skin a pale bluish-white, expressions identical—when they saw Schiller, they reacted as if seeing a ghost.

After finishing the rounds, Schiller returned to his office in the S. . . . . . base. His desk was piled high with files, most related to the current experiment.

Natasha stood across from him and asked, "How's it going? Any progress?"

"I don't understand the drug trials, but the patients' mental states remain deeply problematic."

"Patients revived by the drugs show varying degrees of psychosis: GH-209—normal nervous system, but severe visual and auditory hallucinations; GH-211—intense paranoid delusions; GH-215—non-linear memory disorder; GH-221—stress-induced aphasia..."

"Also, all of them exhibit logorrhea; some draw endless meaningless symbols..."

Schiller set down the files and sighed. "Instead of hovering over my work, why don't you push Nick to find a competent chemist? Over two hundred trials, no progress. Can't you look for answers beyond me?"

Natasha shook her head gently. "This experiment can't be made public. Don't forget—no one else knows that most S. . . . . . agents are Hydra."

"If word got out we're experimenting on S. . . . . . agents, Nick's position as director is over. This project is Level 10 classified—only Nick's inner circle knows anything about it."

Schiller tapped the table lightly with the barrel of his pen. "In over two hundred trials, every subject suffered severe psychological trauma, manifesting in various forms of psychosis."

"How likely is it that the drug's raw materials are to blame?" Natasha asked.

"Hard to say. There's certainly a connection—but even two hundred more trials might not reveal the exact extent."

Schiller stood and walked to the window, gazing outside. "The Kree, as the drug's raw material, are fundamentally different from human life forms. Injecting their bodily compounds into humans inevitably causes all kinds of problems."

"Before this experiment began, I warned you—it could cause irreversible damage to the mind and psyche," Schiller said, shaking his head.

"But S. . . . . . needs this technology. Especially Nick," Natasha said, tapping her toe on the floor. "If agents can be revived, he won't have to scour the world for disposable assets."

"Doctor, I know this is inhumane—but they're all Hydra. Think of their past crimes. Isn't it somewhat acceptable?" Natasha leaned against the wall, her posture revealing her curves; Schiller, however, kept his eyes fixed on the files, his brow deeply furrowed.

"You should tell that to Coulson."

Natasha sighed, turned, and left. Soon, outside Nick Fury's office, she knocked and entered.

Nick looked up from his papers. Natasha shook her head. "Still no progress."

Nick sighed. "Schiller isn't a quack. If even he can't solve it, there won't be progress anytime soon."

"Revival isn't simple. If it were this easy, I'd suspect it's a Kree trap." Nick set down his pen, stood, and leaned against the desk beside Natasha.

"Pity—back in the Andromeda Galaxy, the mutants captured only one Kree Councilor, and not even a pure-blood. If we could get a few more, we'd have more raw material."

"I've always wanted to ask—who came up with the idea of using Kree to make revival serum? It makes no sense." Natasha asked, puzzled.

"Remember when we did the Kree Councilor's physical? Not knowing his physiology, we invited several top biologists for consultation—including Dr. Connors, who invented the Lizard Serum."

"Dr. Connors has unique expertise in extracting genes from other organisms, absorbing their advantages, and applying them to humans. He discovered that certain Kree genes grant them hyper-regeneration and shapeshifting—just like lizards, they can serve as serum sources."

"Then how was the revival function discovered?" Natasha asked.

"If these drugs only grant regeneration, what's the difference from the Lizard Serum? The Lizard Serum's progress is far ahead, and its source is everywhere."

"If Dr. Connors hadn't discovered that concentrated Kree serum could dramatically boost human vital signs—even revive recently deceased humans—I never would've launched the TAHITI Project."

Nick widened his eyes, his expression dreamy. "If we could revive endlessly, I'd have infinite staff—and never worry about them dying from overwork..."

Natasha shot him a look, rolled her eyes, and left without a word.

Meanwhile, outside Stark Tower's lab, Connors took the file from Schiller, flipped through it, and said, "Still no progress? If the side effects are this severe, the drug's usability will be severely limited."

Connors closed the file and told Schiller, "Let me repeat—I personally oppose any form of resurrection. If you hadn't asked me to use the Lizard Serum's success to inspire Nick, I wouldn't have joined this experiment."

"Don't rush—we have all the time in the world..."

Connors turned away, sighed, and said to Schiller, "I don't understand what you're doing. You rushed me to point out the Kree could be used as raw material during the exam—but now that the experiment's stalled, you're calm?"

"Schiller, I must warn you—resurrection is a human taboo. You're not seriously thinking of reviving someone, are you?"

Schiller stepped forward, smiled, and patted Connors on the shoulder. "Of course not. One of my clients is just too stubborn—I had to resort to methods beyond deception, under absolute voluntary principles, engaging in friendly, deeper exchanges of interest..."

"Even you have hard-to-deal-with clients?" Connors leaned back, sizing Schiller up. "Who?"

"Death."