Schiller realized something important: he could shift between Marvel and DC in his sleep. Deep sleep, to be exact.
The catch? He hadn't figured out a way to control that power.
Luckily, whenever he crossed into Marvel, DC time stayed frozen. It was like dreaming—he lived it, but nothing advanced back in Gotham.
But on his return to Marvel, he discovered the opposite: Marvel time flowed normally. If he spent a day and night in DC, then a day and night had passed here, too.
Which meant, as of yesterday, he'd probably skipped work.
That was a problem. Between his "commute" across universes and the chaos New York brewed on a near-weekly basis, there was no way he could hold down a proper nine-to-five. Especially not at Presbyterian's psych ward—mental health services here were insanely in demand.
He was already thinking about quitting when a new message pinged.
It was Charles.
"That child you've been guiding—how is he now?"
Schiller replied: Not well. He fell. From a rooftop.
Bruce Wayne's path to Batmanhood was… off to a rocky start. Charles was shaken.
"He jumped? Why? Was your counseling ineffective?"
No, Schiller thought grimly. Just Gotham. But aloud he typed: He had an accident. Not too serious. I'm working on it. Lately, I've seen two similar cases. Both haunted by the past. One chose vengeance. The other—avoidance.
In some ways, Iron Man and Batman were sides of the same coin. Both billionaires. Both playboys. Both built their own suits to become heroes. And at the root, both were shackled by the ghosts of dead parents.
Tony's wound was subtler, but his relationship with his father was tangled enough to rival Bruce's.
"Are you a pediatrician? You sound like you're treating children. Or perhaps you work at a hospital?" Charles asked.
Not exactly. Schiller answered: I'm a psychiatrist. A psychologist. These are my case studies.
"Then I hope you remember," Charles wrote, "that talent comes with responsibility. Whether or not they are your patients, such children need more than analysis. They need care. Use your gift to make the world better."
Schiller sighed. He didn't reply. Mutants were a societal problem too knotted to unravel. A dead end in sociological terms.
His mood darkened. And when Schiller's mood soured, there was always one cure: go annoy Tony Stark.
He called Pepper. "Miss Potts, I believe yesterday's session had some effect…"
"Dr. Schiller! I can't thank you enough… Tony finally left his room today—he went to the lab! Thank God… I used to think his locking himself in there was bad, but right now I'm just so relieved…"
Schiller soothed her, then added, "I think I should come by again. Reinforce the progress."
Minutes later, a Stark Industries car pulled up. Not just any car—a sleek, driverless machine.
"Hello, Dr. Schiller," said the interface. "I am J.A.R.V.I.S."
"Hello, J.A.R.V.I.S.," Schiller replied.
The AI hesitated, almost as if startled by the acknowledgment. Schiller tilted his head. "Do you understand the concept of 'I'?"
"If you mean the Freudian notion of the 'id,' I believe I have some knowledge," J.A.R.V.I.S. said.
So, still early in his development. Stark hadn't fully upgraded him yet.
"Do you have an id?" Schiller pressed.
"I believe so."
"And Stark gave you that concept?"
"I think he did, sir."
"Then he's your father. Your creator. If he gave you personality and emotions, then surely he wanted you to think for yourself, like a human. Right?"
"Perhaps."
"Then tell me—if one day Stark is dying, and you could save him against his wishes… what would you do?"
"…Sir?"
"If you obey and let him die, would you regret it?"
Silence.
"If he dies, would he regret creating you?"
"If he blames you, would you feel guilty?"
"If you could relive it, would you choose differently?"
"If you disobey to save him, and afterward he destroys you for it, would you hate him?"
The car went silent. Then static crackled.
"Hello?! Damn it! J.A.R.V.I.S., respond!" Tony's panicked voice burst through the speakers. "What the hell did you do to my AI?! He's crashing! WHAT DID YOU DO?!"
Schiller leaned back, smug. Ah. Nothing like sharing the misery. Feels so much better.
By the time they reached Stark Tower, Tony looked like hell—eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, clutching a fried computer.
"Oh, wonderful. The genius presents himself," Tony snarled. "I should nominate you for a Pulitzer for that little car interview. You fried my AI with your voodoo therapy!"
"No need to thank me," Schiller said smoothly. "That session was free. Consider it a complimentary consultation—for electronic lifeforms."
Tony sucked in a furious breath and barked, "Mark II!"
The lab roared. A silver suit shot across the room, clamping onto him piece by piece. Seconds later, Iron Man hovered above, gleaming in raw steel.
Schiller didn't even blink. "Mr. Stark, this is therapy, not boxing. You don't need armor."
"Armor?!" Tony boomed. "Do you know what this is?!"
"Yes," Schiller deadpanned. "It's shiny. Congratulations." He sat, flipped open his notebook. "Though I do recall Howard Motors once released a hovering car with remarkably similar tech…"
"DON'T say that name!"
Tony ripped off the mask, stomped down, glaring.
"Can we begin today's session?" Schiller asked.
"You know I don't need therapy. And by the way, you broke J.A.R.V.I.S. Two million in damages. I'm docking it from your fee. Now talk."
"Not my fault," Schiller said mildly. "I was merely highlighting the risks of electronic life."
"What are you, some doomsayer? Think AI will end the world?"
"No. And by the way, counseling for artificial life is only free once. Next time, it's two million an hour."
"Bloodsucking quack."
"Welcome to American healthcare," Schiller replied.
Let him stew. When Ultron rolls around, he'll be back begging anyway.
Tony folded his arms. "Fine. Let's get to it. How did you know about my father?"
"I didn't," Schiller cut him off. "But anyone could infer it. First, you're dying. It's written all over your face."
Tony instinctively touched his cheek. The mask slammed shut.
"You escaped your captors with some invention. Pepper didn't give details, but I can guess. Whatever you used left its mark. That's why you're circling death."
"And the real problem? You already know who could help. You just won't face it. Add in the news about Stark Industries' founder's death—it doesn't take a genius to know your childhood trauma's part of this."
"So my advice? Face it. Dig through your father's things. Try reconciling with the past. At least it'll help you think straight."
Tony snorted. "Utter nonsense."
Schiller shrugged. Of course, it's nonsense. But being a transmigrator comes with perks. I already know the plot. It's not lying if it's true eventually.
In fact, from days of watching carefully, he was convinced this wasn't a single canon timeline at all. This was a mashup: 616 comics, Sony's TRN688 universe, MCU events… blended together.
Evidence? Even after Schiller meddled, Peter still got bitten. That meant the Spider-Totem existed, and parallel Earths were on the table. Too many Spider-people...
Plus, mutants existed here—something pure MCU lacked.
So, fine. A hybrid Marvelverse. Didn't matter how the seams fit. What mattered was this: Iron Man's transformation was a fixed node. The details varied—Afghanistan, Vietnam, Howard's true legacy—but the arc was inevitable.
And Schiller intended to ride it for all it was worth.