Genius Sets Out Again (Part 2)

When Peter stepped into the laboratory, he still carried the lingering chill of the outdoors. The cold morning wind had reddened his cheeks slightly. He let out a breath and set down his backpack.

The warm air in the lab made a light sheen of sweat appear on his forehead. He took off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. Stark was still a little groggy from waking up. Peter said, "I heard from Doctor Schiller that you’ve been troubled by some things. School happens to be closed today, and I’m not interested in those football games. I think we can solve these problems together, but first…"

He pulled a bag from his backpack, struggling to hold it because it was hot, and said, "I brought the best flatbread from near the school. Good thing I swung here fast enough—it’s not cold yet."

Then he turned and glanced at the coffee machine in the corner. He set the bag of flatbread aside and ran over to it, fiddling with it as he said, "Let’s have some coffee. Doctor Schiller’s espresso is way too bitter. I really can’t get used to it. Let’s see, I’ll have a latte with double milk and double sugar. What do you want, Mr. Stark?"

Stark sat by the window, propping his head up with one hand. His mind was still a little foggy.

Peter bustled around with the vigor and energy unique to his age, like a bustling New York morning. Though he seemed overly hyperactive and a little comical, it was exactly that vitality that made Stark’s heart, frozen through the night, begin to beat again.

Peter held two cups of coffee on a tray in one hand and the bag of flatbread in the other, then dumped everything onto the table at once.

Peter unwrapped the flatbread, squeezed the accompanying sauce over it, and handed it to Stark. Stark did not actually like taking things from others, but he accepted it anyway and took a bite.

Peter and Stark did not actually share the same tastes. Peter liked heavily seasoned food and all kinds of sauces, while Stark preferred lighter flavors. He bit into the flatbread, and the sharp smell of the seasoning overwhelmed the fragrance of the bread itself. To Stark, it was not particularly tasty.

But fortunately, as Peter had said, the flatbread had just come out of the oven that morning. Peter had sped across more than half of New York carrying it, and it still had not gone cold. Paired with the fragrant coffee, Stark felt a warm current surge through his chest. It was as though he had come back to life.

Throughout the entire night, Stark had not felt like crying. Or rather, that emotion had been piling up inside him, unable to rise to his eyes.

Yet this ordinary breakfast made Stark feel as if he had been saved. He had never imagined he could be so moved by a two-dollar flatbread that he wanted to cry.

Across from him, Peter’s table manners were not very good. He had squeezed on too much sauce, and plenty of it clung to the corners of his mouth. As usual, he took a huge bite, then kept chewing nonstop.

The steaming breakfast made him sweat even more. He tugged at his collar, leaving his clothes slightly disheveled.

His appearance and this breakfast were utterly out of place in Stark Tower. The place was filled with cool-toned metal, high-end experimental equipment, and steadily blinking lights.

It was like someone had forcibly painted a streak of color onto cold, orderly mechanical parts.

But Peter was not affected in the slightest. He quickly finished one flatbread, gulped down a huge cup of coffee, then slumped against the back of his chair with a satisfied sigh.

Peter wiped his mouth and said, "This is so good. I used to only get to eat it once a week, because, you know, this place is delicious, but it’s actually kind of expensive. Eating at the school cafeteria costs half as much."

"But I really don’t like the sausages in the school cafeteria, so whenever Uncle Ben gave me spending money, I’d come here once."

"Gwen likes this place too. Now we come here every day after school. I used to complain that there weren’t enough seats, but when I’m with Gwen, we squeeze into a corner by the wall, eating and chatting. Is there anything better than that?"

Stark looked down at his hand. The whole flatbread from before had become nothing but a sheet of wrapping paper, still streaked with some sauce. The coffee at his left hand was empty as well.

"This is my first time eating this," Stark said.

Peter said in surprise, "No way? Flatbread is pretty popular where we live. Almost everyone at school loves it."

"You know Thompson, right? The big football player in my class I mentioned before. He can eat five servings in one go. Last time, he insisted I bring him breakfast. If it weren’t for the extra tip he gave me, there was no way I’d have carried that many bags."

Then Peter said lightly, "But it’s fine. Everything has a first time. So? It tasted pretty good, right?"

Stark smacked his lips. He had to admit that human taste buds simply preferred richer flavors. Those sauces might not be healthy, but they were actually quite tasty.

After breakfast, Peter stood before the lab bench. He had originally wanted to see whether Stark had any new armor ideas, but then he spotted the stacks upon stacks of books and documents.

The exact opposite of Pepper, Peter could understand those complicated experimental data, but he could not understand these long-winded texts at all.

He picked up one of them, read two lines, then covered his eyes and said, "I think I don’t recognize English anymore. Help! It’s like I know every word in here, but they all feel completely unfamiliar…"

"I think one day, you’ll have to learn this stuff too," Stark said.

Peter shook his head. "That’s why my dream was never to start a company or become the richest person in the world or anything like that. I know I couldn’t figure this stuff out. I probably couldn’t even hire a single employee, because I wouldn’t understand what they were thinking. I’d probably be a complete disaster at business negotiations too…"

The hand Stark held the book with stiffened.

Peter’s words reminded him that no one was forcing him to learn these things. He had chosen to preserve Stark Industries himself. If he chose to give up the company and become an independent street hero like Peter, then he would not need to read any of this at all.

As long as he still had that genius brain of his, he could build armor even if he had to scavenge materials from a dump.

Then why had he chosen to save this company? Stark wondered. The pain of learning these things did not seem any less than digging through garbage.

Then Stark thought of Pepper, Obadiah, and his father.

Just then, Jarvis reminded him, "Mr. Steve is here to see you."

"Close the door. Refuse the visit."

But it was already too late. Steve had appeared at the laboratory entrance. With his arms folded, he said, "Schiller said you seemed to have run into some trouble, so I came all this way to laugh at you."

"Shut up, or I’ll put on the armor and beat you up right now."

"I still haven’t settled the score with you for blowing me up with your armor."

"You had it coming."

The two traded a few barbs and looked ready to start fighting. Peter stood between them and stretched out his arms to stop them.

Steve said, "I originally had a lead about your father’s belongings. Looks like you don’t want to hear it."

Stark choked on his words. Suspiciously, he said, "My father had other belongings? You’re not lying to me, are you?"

Steve shook his head. "I don’t know the truth about your father’s death back then, but I know it wasn’t that simple. It’s very likely he had prepared for it long ago…"

So Stark pressed his lips together and said, "Where is it?"

"It should be at the old Stark Industries site, but you’d better not get your hopes up. He wouldn’t have left anything important there."

"You mean Howard Motors? Jarvis, wasn’t that where you got the materials on Obadiah’s research last time?"

"Yes, sir. However, there are two old sites. Stark Industries relocated, and I have dispatched armor to search both locations separately."

"Looks like you really care about your father," Steve said.

"I don’t. I just…"

"No, I mean it. You don’t need to deny it. All I can tell you is that both the operation your father took part in back then and his death were far from simple. He…"

Steve paused, seeming somewhat hesitant, but he still said, "Perhaps in your eyes, he wasn’t a good father. But in mine, he was certainly a good partner. What do you think created that difference?"

Stark frowned. He could tell Steve seemed to be deliberately hinting at something, yet was unwilling to say more. It made him feel restless.

He now understood why Schiller had made him read those theoretical books. For every movement Steve made, he could find a corresponding entry in his mind. It allowed Stark to view Steve’s attitude more objectively. In the past, he would have grabbed Steve by the collar and forced him to explain everything.

But now, he could sense that Steve wanted to remind him of something but could not say it outright. Even if Stark asked, they would at most end up fighting, and Steve might even think he was being unreasonable.

For the first time, Stark understood the usefulness of what he had been studying. It could keep him from wasting effort, and it could also make him seem smarter and more inscrutable in the other person’s eyes.

Steve saw that Stark had no reaction and was merely standing there thinking. He was somewhat surprised too. What was wrong with Stark today? Was he sick? He had already prepared himself for Stark to become hysterical and force him to reveal the truth.

Could Stark know something too?

Still, it was not impossible, Steve thought. The Starks were all exceptionally intelligent people. Perhaps little Stark had only disliked him before. When it came to serious matters, he should still be reliable.

Peter could not quite understand the subtle atmosphere between the adults, so he could only ask, "Captain, would you like some coffee?"

"No. I only came to deliver a message. I haven’t even gone for my morning run yet."

"Oh, right." Peter pulled a lunchbox from his backpack and said, "This is the lunchbox I took from Doctor Schiller’s place a few days ago. Captain, if you pass by the clinic, help me return it to him. Oh, there are also two flatbreads inside, one for each of you. The sauces are in the compartments beside them…"

Steve opened the lid and took a look. "Give them both to Schiller. I’m not used to food with this much sauce. Honestly, I don’t even know why you all love Mexican food so much. The flavor is too strong."

"All right, then give them both to the Doctor. See you around."

After Steve left, armor soon flew in through the window. One suit held a somewhat worn leather bag in its hand. Stark ignored the dust covering it and rummaged through it, only to find an old-looking notebook inside.

Stark opened the notebook and looked through it. Half of it seemed to have been soaked in alcohol. After opening it, he found no useful information at all.

The handwriting was indeed Howard’s, but most of it was drunken nonsense, along with messy scribbles. Even the letters were written in a chaotic mess. Nothing could be made out.

Stark set the notebook down. He felt disappointed, but also strangely relieved.

His father had better not become some savior at a time like this. Howard was not someone he should think about when he was sad and discouraged.

Genius, Stark thought. There could only be one genius Stark in this world, and that was him—Tony Stark.