Another smog-choked morning in Gotham. Schiller stretched lazily, rolling out of bed. He'd only just gotten settled in Marvel, only just begun to enjoy a few days of peace—and already S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were circling his clinic like gnats.
To Stark, they were inescapable. Sticky, relentless, impossible to swat away.
To Schiller? Just another reason to pack up and hop universes.
When Gotham's baby Batman became a headache, Schiller escaped to Marvel.
Now that S.H.I.E.L.D. was sniffing around in Marvel, he could just as easily slip back to Gotham.
No tickets. No border records. Not a trace left behind. Nick Fury took one look at the blank trail and decided: Schiller was no ordinary man.
Back in DC, Jonathan Crane—his colleague, his future alter ego Scarecrow—remained blissfully unaware that a vial of fear toxin had gone missing. Schiller wasn't greedy. He only needed a little. Not to terrorize Gotham, just to fend off small-time thugs. A pocket spray bottle worked wonders. No gadgets, no theatrics—just a puff to the face, and ordinary criminals collapsed into whimpering messes.
But the real discovery was something else: diluted down a few hundred times, Crane's primitive fear gas didn't just evoke fear—it triggered a haze of negative emotions. Perfect for a shrink. Patients who refused to open up? A whiff of that, and suddenly their inner turmoil bubbled out.
And, of course, Schiller was immune. Thank the system for that.
Which gave him an idea: use it on Gotham's impatient would-be vigilante. Bruce Wayne.
The young Batman wasn't yet the cold, calculating Dark Knight. He was overeager, raw, desperate to prove himself. He thought gadgets, armor, and billions in R&D could make him Batman. He hadn't realized yet that the mantle wasn't about toys—it was about the spirit. The unyielding mind.
For Schiller's survival—and maybe for Gotham's peace—he had to play reluctant mentor.
The next morning, Bruce knocked on his door. Schiller's prompt "Come in" startled him with relief. At least this professor didn't play coy.
"Professor, you seem in a good mood," Bruce said.
"Mr. Wayne, you don't. Where's my coffee? I held off brewing this morning, waiting for you to return the favor."
Bruce hesitated. Then went and brewed it himself.
Schiller savored the warmth, amused. To him, it was just coffee. To Bruce, it was another mind game—proof this professor could tug his strings with a few words.
"Why were you there last night?" Bruce asked suddenly.
"I don't know what you mean."
"You should've worn a mask. Then you could deny it. But you didn't. I saw your face."
"Then let me ask you, Bruce. Why waste billions on tight spandex, skulking in the rain, brawling with thugs? Why not pour it into charities, foundations, hospitals?"
Bruce had no answer.
"You don't need one," Schiller said. "Because I already have it: revenge. That's your fuel."
"That was your answer."
"No. That was your answer."
Bruce frowned. "There's no such thing as mind reading."
"Of course not. But people leak their desires. The stronger the drive, the harder it is to hide."
"Can I learn it?" Bruce asked. "That ability to see through others."
"And use it to hunt criminals? You're oversimplifying. If revenge is your only engine, you'll end up like last night—" Schiller mimed a fall.
Bruce muttered, "I've already thought of upgrades. A cape. A utility belt…"
"None of that matters. You could strap rockets to your boots, wings to your back, and iron fists to your arms. But it still wouldn't be enough."
"If I had that power, I could destroy every criminal alive."
Schiller sighed. Not yet. He hadn't faced the Joker. Not yet learned the paradox—that sometimes, a powerless clown can break the mightiest warrior. For all Bruce's skill, the Joker would become his greatest teacher.
For now, Bruce's pride blinded him. He wanted psychology, but not in books or lectures. He wanted tricks. Superpowers. Magic.
"I'm a professor," Schiller said. "My classroom's open. My tests are fair. You want my knowledge? Do the coursework. Pass the exam. Otherwise, don't waste my time."
Bruce left unsatisfied again.
That night, Schiller returned to Crane's lab. This time, the theft couldn't be ignored—half the vials were gone. Schiller didn't care. Not being a chemist, he couldn't refine the formula. But he could repurpose it. He'd use it on Bruce.
Sure enough, he found him in Morrison District—the site of his humiliating fall. Bruce was stubborn. He'd return, face-first, to conquer the same ground.
This time he won. The Gutter Gang—pathetic nobodies, proud of dumping victims in the city's reeking sewers—collapsed in a storm of screams. By dawn, their name was gone from Gotham.
Bruce emerged from the club, head low, still analyzing his suit's failures. Then he remembered the beggar. The woman from the rain. He went to find her.
She was still there. Shivering, wrapped in rags. The umbrella Schiller had given her was gone.
Bruce pressed dollars into her hand. "The gang's gone. You're safe now."
She looked up, eyes hollow. No gratitude. Only hate.
"Don't you feel happy?" Bruce asked.
"No," came another voice. Schiller, watching from a balcony above.
"While the gang ran the club, drunks threw scraps into the street. She ate. Now? No gang, no club, no scraps."
"She has money," Bruce snapped.
"Yes. And you have doctors, heaters, and healthy legs. She has frostbite. Look closer."
Bruce pulled back the rags. Her legs were swollen, purple, dead. Even in Gotham's best hospital, they'd cut them off.
He stared at the bills scattered in the mud, untouched. His chest clenched with absurdity, shame, despair. Negative emotions gnawed him raw. Aided, of course, by a trace of toxin on the wind.
For the first time, Batman broke. He staggered back, collapsed, drowning in guilt.
And Schiller thought: Good. Let him sit with it. He'll need these lessons more than gadgets if he wants to survive Gotham.