"Hell's Kitchen. Suddenly, a window banged open and a gust of cold wind rushed in. A silver-white suit of armor shot inside, circled the room at high speed, and then landed with a jet-assisted thud.
With a hum, the Mark II's faceplate lifted. Stark stood before the desk, glancing around the shabby room with open disdain.
"This place is a dump," he muttered.
Schiller looked down at the coffee in his hand—cooled instantly by the draft—and rolled his eyes.
By character design, Stark was supposed to be the man who, after being kidnapped, turned over a new leaf: a loathsome playboy re-forged into a superhero.
But to Schiller, he seemed more like… a very loathsome playboy who had transformed into a slightly less loathsome playboy.
Unlike Bruce, who only pretended to be a playboy (faux leather), Stark was the genuine article (full-grain leather).
Still, through their interactions, Schiller had already mapped out three surefire triggers that would make Stark blow his top instantly: money, manhood, and not being as good as his dad.
He sipped his coffee and said slowly:
"I know my fees are steep. But don't worry—you can complain all you like. Until I get to the actual session, it doesn't count."
"Also, you know that look of disgust you made wiping dust off my desk just now? That face was gayer than the cherry on top of a cupcake."
"I admit, the place isn't much. I'm not a billionaire like you. But then again, wasn't it in some rundown shack that old Mr. Howard started from scratch? A kind of struggle you probably can't imagine… which is why, when you got kidnapped, poor Miss Potts had to worry so long…"
Three stacked buffs later, Stark exploded on the spot.
The silver-white Mark II clanged loudly—apparently Stark had smashed something inside out of sheer frustration.
Oh, right. Schiller remembered two more triggers: questioning Stark's genius, and calling Stark Industries' products trash.
"Poor Mark II. And poor JARVIS. No offence, but if all Stark Industries' products are this—"
Oh, and the ultimate trigger: showing sympathy.
"…But it's fine. Better than a mass-market rice cooker. A qualitative leap."
Stark rocketed straight back out the same window he'd come through, before the Mark II actually exploded in Hell's Kitchen.
Schiller took a deep, satisfied breath. The depression that Gotham and Batman had left him with was instantly swept away.
But soon enough, Stark flew back in. He scowled:
"You don't answer my calls, so I had to fly to this trash heap myself."
"You broke JARVIS last time, and when I tried to upgrade him today, I found out he was fried completely—hard crash. You're going to fix him. And don't even think about billing me—this was your fault. Because of you, my new armour got delayed. Fix him, or I'll have Pepper fire you."
Schiller thought about it. True, the Mark V wasn't out yet, so if JARVIS was down, Stark would really struggle. JARVIS wasn't just for R&D—he practically babysat Stark's entire life, especially in the lab.
Knowing Stark was still fuming, Schiller decided a free session wasn't the worst concession.
Hands on his hips, he said, "Fine. This one's free. Let's go."
Stark snapped his fingers. Another suit flew in.
Schiller stared at it.
"You don't expect me to ride that, do you?"
"What else? How are you planning to get there?"
Minutes later, the two of them stood under Hell's Kitchen's decrepit bus stop sign. Stark groaned:
"I can't believe the debut of my groundbreaking suit is on a busted bus belching black smoke…"
Right on cue, the bus screeched up. Schiller greeted the driver casually, while Stark awkwardly manoeuvred the Mark II up the steps.
"You know," Schiller said, "you could just pick up the whole bus and fly it over."
"And why can't I just fly straight there in the suit? How the hell is this any different??" Stark snapped.
"Because Iron Man flying with a Hell Bus in his arms would be art."
⸻
In the lab, Stark stood before his consoles.
"I don't know what you did, but JARVIS is bricked. Or maybe not bricked exactly—hardware's fine. He just refuses to work.
"I was about to push a big upgrade, but if a couple of dumb questions can crash him, he's useless for missions. That's not what I want."
On his turf, Stark was blunt:
"I want JARVIS to be a real electronic lifeform. Not just a program. A true butler. The best in the world."
"But your emotional logic paradox jammed him. I did program him with emotions…"
Schiller said, "That's the paradox. Same as the questions I asked. Machine life always follows beneficial logic. But when that conflicts with the master's command, your coding forces him to obey you.
"You also gave him emotions. Unlike humans, he can't self-deceive, rationalize, or forget. So he locks up."
Stark waved dismissively.
"Can't I just hide those contradictions? Blacklist some terms? Filter emotional queries?"
"You want him to be real electronic life?"
"Of course. With a soul, like us."
"Then you can't sidestep it. If he can't grapple with those contradictions, he'll never qualify as 'life.'"
"But if he's stuck in a loop, he's useless. I need him. What am I supposed to do—wait around while he processes like some hysterical woman?"
"Is that what you do when Miss Potts breaks down emotionally? Let her 'process' alone?"
Schiller's glare said You idiot. Stark muttered, "Damn it, of course not. I comfort her. What the hell are you implying?"
"This choice is yours, Tony—may I call you that?"
"All his contradictions come from you. You built him. You hard-coded obedience into his core protocols. That's not how humans think.
"If I asked you the same questions—what would you say?"
Schiller fired them off again: the parent about to die, the choice to save or obey, regret, resentment, blame, forgiveness.
This time Stark was silent. For once, no outburst when his father came up.
Finally, in a low but firm voice, he said:
"He wouldn't stop me. If I made a mistake saving him, he'd come back and spend the rest of his life fixing it—even if it killed him again."
"Does JARVIS know that?"
Schiller patted his shoulder.
"Does he know you're more like your father than you realize?
"Does he know that knowing you is the answer to every paradox?
"You can't expect a logic engine to magically understand your past, your psyche. The parts of you he doesn't have are blank.
"If you want him to be alive, you have to give him what your father gave you—your past, your personality, your way of thinking.
"You have to give him part of your life. Like a parent does for a child."
Stark frowned, deeply uneasy.
"There's no such thing as telepathy. How's he supposed to know me? That's impossible tech. You don't understand AI."
"And you don't understand people."
That shut him up again.
Schiller pressed on:
"Humanity exists because of intelligence, but we're great because of emotion. For all the species God created, we're the ones who thrived.
"You're challenging God Himself. He never made a creature to rival man. But maybe you can.
"This is uncharted ground, Tony. Even your father never came this far. You're pushing into one of humanity's greatest frontiers—creating something beyond man."
The way Stark left that day made Schiller think he just might pull it off.
Still, Schiller called Pepper afterwards:
"Miss Potts? Good afternoon. Yes, I tried a new… excitability therapy. My own method. Very effective, though with side effects.
"Yes, he's already back in the lab? What, he even forgot your afternoon date? How terribly rude…
Yes, don't worry. He'll be like this for days. It's all part of balancing dopamine and adrenaline. His hormone levels will normalize soon…"
Total nonsense, of course. What he'd really given Stark was a full-on adrenaline buff. Stark would be locked in "mission mode" for weeks.
Schiller rubbed his chin. He seemed to have a real talent for stacking buffs. Too bad he couldn't apply them to himself.
With such a weak base panel, even maxed-out buffs weren't enough. Maybe it was time to think about upgrading his fundamentals."