""You're telling me, after staking him out for several days, the biggest problem you discovered is… that he might be stealing electricity?"
Nick Fury stood in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s office, holding a report and questioning Coulson.
Coulson knew this report read like something hammered out in a rush after a hangover, only a bottle of whiskey away from nonsense.
Fury stared at it, took a deep breath, opened his mouth as if to speak, then paused, already exasperated.
He said, "I've never agreed with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agent rating standards, Coulson. And you—you're probably the strongest evidence for why I'm right, aren't you?"
"Uh…" Coulson rubbed his hands awkwardly. "It's not like we didn't observe anything. We think there might be a tunnel under his clinic…"
"I should have Nurse Jenny run a DUI test on you," Fury said, tapping the paper. "Here it says, 'Target often suddenly appears in another place about a hundred meters away from his clinic,' and your conclusion is… There might be a tunnel under the clinic?"
Coulson crossed his arms and frowned. "Actually, I suspect he might have teleportation abilities. But according to the cases we've studied, teleportation always has a landing moment. We set up hundreds of micro-cameras around, and none recorded anything unusual."
"Then set up a few hundred more," Fury snapped. "Right now he's important to us. He's exactly the kind of opponent that's the hardest to deal with. Don't get sloppy…"
Meanwhile, in his Gotham University faculty apartment, Schiller woke up in bed hugging something fluffy. He looked down. Pikachu!
"Oh, what time is it?" Pikachu muttered, still half-asleep, tiny eyes barely open. Schiller rubbed his own eyes—how had this rodent ended up here??
The yellow creature blinked around the room, suddenly startled awake. "Where is this?! You kidnapped me? You're a trafficker?!"
While folding his quilt, Schiller said dryly, "Why don't you first explain why you're in my bed?"
"You dare ask me that?!" Pikachu yelled. "Three floors in this building, and you only heated your room! If I didn't know how to pick a lock, I'd be frozen stiff by now!"
"Oh, really?" Schiller replied without an ounce of guilt. "Freeze-dried rat doesn't sound like a good idea."
"So where is this place?!" Pikachu demanded.
"As you can see, I can travel through worlds. I woke up here this time. But this place is dangerous—wander off and you'll be stew meat in three minutes."
"Pfft," Pikachu snorted. "You? World-travelling? Then I guess I can use Splash."
Schiller wasn't lying, but even if Pikachu knew the truth, it wouldn't matter. To most heroes, a talking rat was less credible than a broken tape recorder. If it started mouthing off to Batman, Batman would probably fry it on the spot. Batman didn't kill people, sure—but rats? No promises.
As Schiller made his bed, Pikachu scurried around sniffing, wrinkling its nose. "Hmph, looks like you really do have some tricks. This definitely isn't the same world."
That morning, Schiller carried Pikachu in his bag to class. Not because he wanted to—but because if he left it behind, the rodent would definitely sneak out and get itself killed.
Pikachu kept poking its head out until Schiller shoved it back down. Later, at the counselling office, Schiller pressed a hand on Pikachu's head and said: "Listen. Even if I don't care about people seeing something weird in my bag, you should understand—heroes here all live for butting into other people's business. None of them would miss a chance to dissect a talking yellow rodent. Especially—"
The office door swung open.
"Professor, I—" Bruce stepped in.
He froze. His professor was pressing a hand on the head of some bizarre yellow creature.
Startled, Pikachu leapt straight into Schiller's arms. Schiller pursed his lips, looked at Pikachu, then at Bruce. Hugging the creature, he said: "If I told you this was a new breed of albino mole, would you believe me?"
"You'd just make up something else if I didn't, wouldn't you?" Bruce crossed his arms.
Pikachu bared its teeth, only for Schiller to clamp a hand over its mouth. "What brings you here, Mr. Wayne?"
Bruce stepped closer. "Actually… I owe you an apology. I'd like to invite you to Wayne Manor as a guest…"
Wayne Manor? As a guest? To Schiller, it sounded like an invitation to walk into a trap.
Bruce looked uneasy. Because Schiller knew his true identity, he wasn't sure how to act—Bruce Wayne or Batman. And since this Batman wasn't yet the aloof figure of the future (he even sought out Gordon for help), he was visibly conflicted.
Sensing this, Schiller tapped the desk. "Bruce, you're conflicted. Sit."
He continued, "You've actually done well so far. Bruce Wayne isn't Batman. He's a shallow playboy, loves bars and booze, surrounded by women. Batman is the opposite…"
Bruce rubbed his brow. "I don't see the point. I doubt I can fool anyone."
He wasn't stupid. Only he in Gotham had that much money. His gear screamed "Wayne fortune." Criminals weren't idiots—they'd connect the dots.
Even from body shape alone, people could guess. And Schiller had seen Bruce sneaking off with women more than once—never the same one twice. Half the Nightingales cheer squad had shared his bed.
So yes, any sharp villain should've figured it out already. But they still pretended they hadn't. There was a reason for that.
"It's not really a secret," Schiller said. "But if you treat it like one, it can become a weapon. Pretend it matters, and in the right moment, revealing it shows sincerity. Doesn't matter that people could guess—it's the attitude that counts."
"That makes sense," Bruce said, stroking his chin. "If a criminal tried to use it against me, I could set a trap instead…"
"Enough, Mr. Wayne." Schiller glanced at his watch. "Our session is over. As for your invitation—send a proper letter. I'll consider it carefully."
Bruce didn't quite get it. In America, a spoken invitation was already informal, like grabbing dinner. But since Schiller insisted on a written one, Bruce assumed the professor thought verbal invites were too casual. So, after leaving, he had Alfred prepare a formal letter and a banquet.
What Bruce didn't realize was—Schiller felt like being invited to Batman's home was basically being asked: Care to walk into my net? He'd need a lot of mental prep for that.
Meanwhile, Pikachu had caught Bruce's attention too. Schiller grabbed it by the tail and lifted it. "See that guy? That's Gotham's top dog. If you want to eat well here, don't cross him."
The rodent flailed its little limbs, squeaking: "Put me down! That guy was terrifying!"
"How do you know?" Schiller asked.
"Detective's intuition!" Pikachu yelped. "Seriously, you shouldn't stay here. This place gives me chills. Why don't we go back to yesterday's world? I'll even put up with your strawberry jam!"
Schiller eyed him up and down. Something about that answer didn't ring true."