"In Hell's Kitchen, theft was nothing unusual. What was unusual, however, was that someone had apparently developed a very specific taste for Schiller's pantry.
It wasn't cash, jewellery, or electronics that kept disappearing.
No—this thief was after cake. And not just cake. Bags of carefully ground coffee, sleeves of soda crackers, jars of jam.
Four pounds of cake in a single night. Half a pound of crackers. Two cans of coffee grounds. Three jars of jam.
Was the thief some gluttonous ghost reborn into mortal form?
"He'll kill himself with indigestion at this rate…" Schiller muttered darkly.
Even if the losses weren't catastrophic, Schiller had his pride. He was determined to catch the thief—and more importantly, figure out how someone was sneaking into his building without leaving a trace.
So he prepared a trap. The bait? A freshly frosted cake, laced with just a touch of Scarecrow's fear toxin, was placed in a rarely used storage room. Then he sat back and waited.
While the bait waited for its mark, Schiller worked on a different project—fleshing out the elaborate mythos he planned to spin for the Ancient One.
Introducing the "King in Yellow" wasn't just him pulling names from thin air. In Marvel's vast cosmology, gods and demons were plentiful—Vishanti, Dormammu, Shuma-Gorath. Ancient Ones that dwarfed human comprehension. Lovecraftian whispers existed at the edges of canon, scattered across dimensions.
But Schiller wasn't citing Marvel canon. He was borrowing from Robert W. Chambers. The cursed play The King in Yellow. The city of Carcosa on the misty Lake of Hali. The imprisoned Hastur, "He Who Wears the Yellow Sign," enemy of Cthulhu.
The details didn't matter. What mattered was credibility. He couldn't bluff the Sorcerer Supreme with his day job credentials. Stark bought into him as a psychiatrist. Peter treated him like a mentor. Even Daredevil could be convinced he was just another criminal.
But Ancient One? If Schiller didn't have an aura of mystery and dread, she'd ignore him outright.
So he prepared his backstory with care. Enough truth in the Marvel mythos for her to check against. Enough Cthulhu lore to sound terrifyingly consistent. If she believed even a fraction… he'd have leverage.
The thief didn't keep him waiting long.
On a moonless night in Hell's Kitchen—rarely, blissfully quiet for once—Schiller drifted between sleep and wakefulness when a loud crash came from the storage room.
He snapped awake instantly. His trap had sprung.
All it took was a slice of cake? Seriously?
Moving silently, he crept downstairs. He didn't turn on the light. If the thief was armed, illumination would only make him a target. Instead, he crouched low, preparing to blink across the hall with a teleportation spell and ambush the intruder.
But then the storage door creaked open.
Schiller froze. The thief shook off the fear gas. And… just walked out?
Too risky to teleport now—he'd lose two seconds adjusting to the shift, two seconds he didn't have. So he stayed in the shadows.
And then he saw it.
Something short and round waddled through the crack in the door. Knee-high at best. Four stubby limbs. A chubby yellow body. Long ears. A lightning-bolt tail.
"Ugh, what the hell? Did I get drunk? Why does this cake smell like a septic tank?" the figure grumbled.
Schiller flipped the light switch.
The intruder yelped, dropped to all fours, and bolted. But Schiller's hand snapped out—telekinetic grip catching it mid-leap.
A soft, furry weight squirmed in his palm.
A yellow, round creature. Long ears. Chubby cheeks. A lightning-bolt tail.
A Pikachu.
"Put me down, asshole! Don't touch me with your filthy hands! How the hell did you even catch me?!" it screamed.
Schiller's expression was… indescribable.
Of all the grim, brooding, noir-tinged nightmares he'd expected to face in Gotham or Marvel—this? This was not on the list.
And the voice. The snarky, rapid-fire delivery—
Wait. Isn't that… Deadpool's voice actor?
Hollywood's Detective Pikachu film flashed through his memory. Ryan Reynolds, sarcasm-laden quips in a furry mascot body. Schiller's stomach turned.
He held the electric rodent up by its stubby arms. "So it was you. You stole my cake, my crackers, my coffee, and my jam?"
Pikachu rolled its big eyes and pulled a disgusted face disturbingly human in its contempt. "Buddy, your taste is trash. Soda crackers without butter? Disgusting. Strawberry jam? Who even eats that? And for god's sake, when you slice cake, don't leave the knife sitting on top! That's unhygienic as hell."
Schiller covered his eyes with his free hand. The sheer cognitive dissonance was unbearable. Gotham's noir one minute, a Deadpool-voiced Pikachu the next. His mental stability wavered.
"Listen, thief," he said through gritted teeth. "First—you repeatedly raided my kitchen. Second—you feel zero remorse. That makes you a repeat offender."
"Oh, give me a break." Pikachu waved a paw dismissively. "You're lecturing me? You're not normal either. Nobody sane sees a talking rat and starts a polite conversation."
The two stared at each other. Yellow fur against grey eyes. The sheer absurdity of it threatened to short-circuit Schiller's brain.
What's next? Wandering through tall grass to collect Pokémon? Challenging gym leaders?
No. Absolutely not.
And yet here he was—staring at a Deadpool-mouthed Pikachu.
Later, they sat opposite one another on the couch. Pikachu sipped coffee delicately with its tiny paws. "Truth is, I don't remember much. One moment—a flash of light. Next—I woke up in a garbage truck. I was starving. Every door was shut. No way in. Except yours. Your back door wasn't latched. I followed the smell, found your fridge… The theft was wrong, I admit it. But I was desperate. If I ever make money, I'll pay you back."
Schiller clapped slowly. "Impressive. If all rats had your manners, humanity wouldn't need rodenticide."
"So that smell by the cake—that wasn't poison? Smelled lethal to me."
"Worse than poison. But… forget it. You're just a mouse."
He leaned forward, eyeing the creature curiously. "So. Do you have… that ability?"
Pikachu blinked. "What ability?"
"That."
Pikachu sighed. "You want me to prove myself? Fine. I can generate electricity. I can cover your electric bill. Might not manage 'Thunderbolt' on an empty stomach, but charging your phone? Easy."
It hopped onto the table, grabbed Schiller's phone, and hugged it tight. Sparks crackled down its tail. The screen lit up—charging.
Then the hum grew louder. Faster. 10%… 20%… 30%…
"Stop—" Schiller started—
BOOM.
The phone exploded in a puff of smoke. Pikachu, fur singed black, spat out a curl of soot. "Guess I'm working for you now. No way I can afford the damages otherwise."
Schiller pinched the bridge of his nose. "Wonderful. The world's most expensive charging station. Exactly what I needed."
But still—he leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "That's not what I wanted to see."
"…Then what do you want to see?"
"You know what I mean."
Pikachu groaned, face twisting like it had just eaten spoiled cheese. Slowly, it climbed onto the sofa's backrest.
And with all the reluctance in the world, it shouted:
"PIKA—PIKA!!"
Schiller smiled in satisfaction."