Gotham
If Schiller had to profile comic-book Batman, his defining trait wouldn't be caution, brains, or brilliant planning. It'd be paranoia.
Batman never truly trusts anyone.
His skepticism is a whole doctrine unto itself—doubt and conspiracy carved into bone. The smarter he is, the more suspicious he gets.
Schiller's answer had clearly kicked this fledgling Dark Knight into a spiral.
Bruce had never imagined anyone could see straight through him. He was proud of his mask; even Alfred, the old butler who raised him, only knew a portion—not the whole.
But this professor—this mild, well-mannered, seemingly ordinary psych professor—had handed him the most unlikely answer, which also happened to be the most accurate and savage one.
And the instant Bruce heard it, the heat roaring in his chest told him the truth: he had been waiting for someone to say it—It's time to start the revenge.
Yet more shocking than the answer was the man who'd given it. Bruce could not—would not—believe anyone could use psychology alone to glimpse the demons in his heart, that swarm of shadowed bats.
Schiller, however, simply said, "Your consultation time is up. I've got class. Goodbye, Mr. Wayne."
Schiller was certain Bruce would stew on this for a long while.
Ideally, the kid would figure it out, throw on a cape, and go serve justice. Why even bother with classes? What could Bruce possibly learn here? Why pick a fight with diligent, overworked faculty?
Schiller figured Bruce would get there eventually. Then the mobs and crime syndicates would keep him busy, and Schiller could curl up on campus, happily slacking on salary—worst case scenario, catch a flight to Hawaii over break.
On campus, Schiller's reputation was decent—mostly inherited from the previous owner of this body. Sticking to his sacred creed of "You pay for X, I deliver exactly X," he would start lecturing the moment he sat down, vanish the second the bell rang, and treat office hours like a cryptid sighting. Didn't exist.
He'd kept this up for five days. Fortunately, the original Schiller had been something of a loner with few friends, having been hired by Gotham University only a few months ago and not close to anyone. So the transmigrated Schiller hadn't tripped any alarms.
That afternoon, Peter pinged him: "Mr. Schiller, everything is going terribly."
A gloomy sticker followed. Schiller knew the system wasn't literal brain-to-brain. Only he had the interface; on the other end, Peter thought he'd met a helpful stranger online, and Charles had received a DM on some education forum in his spare time.
The system wrapped their chats in forms they'd accept—Peter via social app, Charles via knowledge forums. If it were Thanos, who knew, maybe some kind of cosmic message board.
No one found it weird. The system only guaranteed an answer to Schiller's first question; everything after that, he had to handle himself. Which was why his main chat buddy was our clueless, tender-hearted teen Spidey.
As for old foxes like Charles, Schiller wouldn't poke that bear without a perfect plan.
He replied: What happened, Peter? Trouble with Gwen?
"Yeah, but that's not the terrible part."
Then what is? Don't tell me you blew up a lab.
"Sort of. I knocked over a piece of experimental equipment that looked super expensive. Something… dangerous got out. It bit me."
Schiller knew Spider-Man's fate had already been nudged by their chats. This was the 616 mainline Peter. Normally, he'd get bitten at a science expo. But because Peter had fallen for Gwen—and never shut up about how dazzling and adorable she was—Schiller, desperate for peace and quiet, coached him on how to actually ask her out.
Gwen, being well off, had landed a summer internship at Oscorp. Peter had no business being there, but Schiller told him to toughen up and apply anyway. Kid had the grades—and he got in. So instead of a showcase spider, he got bitten by an Oscorp lab spider.
Either way, destiny demanded a bite. The Spider-Totem's chosen Weaver doesn't get a pass: if not today, then tomorrow. One way or another, chomp.
Schiller comforted the poor kid a bit and went to sleep.
Gotham's night was thick and heavy—perfect for sleeping. Bruce didn't sleep at all. He stared at the moon, its edges blurred by dense fog, a stack of files in his hand. Page one read: Schiller Andel Rodríguez.
Blissfully unaware he'd been background-checked by Batman, Schiller slept like the dead. Somewhere inside that deep sleep, his system blared an alarm. He didn't stir. A sweep of blue light passed over him—
The alarm quickened. Schiller still didn't wake. Something seemed to be jamming the system. After a burst of static—
Schiller's figure vanished.
[Emergency failsafe engaged. Locating universe… locating… Target universe confirmed. Writing identity… writing… write failed… writing… write success.]
When he woke, Schiller rubbed his eyes—and got stabbed by sunlight. What the hell? Gotham has sunny days now?
He yanked the curtains open—and found bright, beautiful… New York City.
Nothing like Gotham's garbage-tier weather. New York was clear and blazing, practically sunbathing, even at dawn. From the window, he could tell he was in a luxury downtown apartment. He turned around. The desk was a mess—bottles, papers, and under a wine bottle, an ID badge.
"Schiller. NewYork–Presbyterian Hospital, Department of Psychiatry… Attending physician? Did I Isekai'd again?"
Fantastic, he thought, and before he could finish cursing, his phone rang. A voice practically shouted into his ear: "Dr. Schiller! Where have you been? You cannot miss the joint consult today! Are you drunk again?! Get over here immediately!"
His ear rang, but a doctor was a doctor. If there was an emergency, work came first. Since he'd already landed here, he might as well do the job.
He grabbed his credentials and headed down to the garage. No way an apartment like this didn't come with a car. He found a fairly new Mercedes whose fob matched his key ring. He pressed the button. It chirped open.
Thankfully, he'd done an academic exchange in New York in his past life, and with the car's nav help, he reached New York-Presbyterian—NYC's biggest hospital—in record time.
The front desk girl rushed over the moment he walked in. "Dr. Schiller, please hurry. The joint consult already started."
Unsure what persona he was supposed to be playing, Schiller just nodded coolly and followed the guide.
They led him straight to a conference room. His arrival quieted the room for a breath; then the discussion resumed. He slid into the seat obviously reserved for him and observed without blinking.
Judging by the hush and the seating, he was probably a big deal—one of the top docs in his department. Across from him sat non-psychiatrists. One of them, radiating arrogance, said, "Frankly, it's wise to let the ghost-whisperers take a look first—cuts down on his little theatrics. Last thing we need is him groping a nurse on the table."
Schiller glanced at his badge. Stephen. Stephen Strange.
Doctor Strange. Great. He'd hopped again, and this time into Marvel.
He ignored him. From the look of Strange—this was pre–car crash. At this stage, he was an insufferable egotist, a certified fist-magnet.
Schiller read the chart in silence. Meanwhile, Strange already decided he hated him, just based on what he's seeing: Schiller smelled like last night's booze and today's tardiness. Strange had a cleanliness streak and despised this kind of sloppiness—plus he'd always thought psychiatrists were glorified shamans. Verdict: I am allergic to this on a molecular level.
During the whole meeting, he kept sniping at Schiller. Schiller stuck to the file and didn't bite. When the consult ended, Strange "accidentally" shoulder-checked him on the way out.
Annoying, but whatever. Karma had Strange on a schedule; the crash wasn't that far off. If he weren't such a jerk, Schiller might've warned him. As it stood, let the plot do the thing.
Right after the consult, Schiller's phone rang again. A poised, urgent female voice: "Dr. Schiller, have you finished? Could you come to Stark Tower right away? Tony isn't well…"
Tony Stark?
Okay, timeline check—was he kidnapped yet? Or already back?
No time to Google. A Stark Industries car was already downstairs. He hopped in. The woman in the passenger seat was elegant, all business, but clearly worried.
"Ever since Tony came back—you know, from the last incident—he's been… volatile. Lashing out. Doing reckless things. I heard him crying last night."
"Ms. Potts? Are you all right?" Schiller ventured.
Pepper pressed a hand over her eyes. "Sorry. But please—this time, please help him."
Got it. Tony had already returned from captivity, learned that his weapons fueled both sides of the war, and spiraled. Schiller, it seemed, had been called in because Pepper couldn't stand watching him drown.