"In the Pokémon anime and games, Pikachu is far from a powerhouse. Its popularity mostly comes from its cute looks. Whether on screen or in-game, Pikachu is the designated mascot—combat-wise, it's pretty average. In the games especially, it's practically common fodder: compared with those flashy, overpowered legendaries, Pikachu is adorable, sure—but that's about its only advantage.
But the Pikachu Schiller ran into was anything but simple. It had human-level—perhaps above human-level—intelligence, wielded Electric-type skills, and seemed to have a few other tricks besides.
It was immune to Schiller's telepathy, and his fear gas only made it stumble. By size alone, the dose of fear gas Schiller used for his trap should've driven a tiny creature like Pikachu insane; instead, Pikachu just sneezed a few extra times.
It had also picked Schiller's lock while he slept and crawled into his bed. Given Pikachu's height—barely up to a human's shin—it couldn't even reach a doorknob with a jump. To pick a lock it would at least need to drag over a chair, climb up, work the lock, open the door, and then scamper to Schiller's side without waking him. How that round, stubby-limbed thing managed all that in the middle of the night, no one could say.
This Pikachu was clearly far craftier than Schiller expected. Worse, with that Deadpool voice, Schiller found it impossible to stay serious the way he could around Batman. If he ignored Pikachu's face, it felt like a guy in a red-and-black bodysuit was standing beside him muttering nonstop—chilling, frankly.
Soon, though, Schiller had no time to worry about Pikachu. Gordon texted: they had ironclad evidence of Jonathan's crimes and were about to arrest him.
The arrest itself didn't involve Schiller. What he worried about was losing his supply of fear gas—so he had to move fast and clean out Jonathan's stock.
Jonathan—the future Scarecrow—really was unlucky.
With Jonathan's arrest imminent, Schiller took whatever he made; the young Scarecrow had zero counter-surveillance sense and was going nuts trying to figure out who kept stealing his fear gas.
With teleportation, theft became trivial. Schiller would appear a hundred-plus meters from the little chapel in Morson, chain-blink straight into the basement lab, grab the goods, and blink out. Not even a shadow left behind.
Batman also joined the operation. With his infiltration skills, he returned to the lab and found Jonathan had built a fear-gas sprayer. Batman suggested he be the one to take Jonathan down—otherwise, a single squeeze on that trigger could drive most of the cops and half of Morrison's residents insane.
Gordon didn't fully trust this spandex weirdo, but he had his reasons.
Gotham PD was full of "talent"—which is to say, lifelong slackers, except for him. They always showed up last and were useless when they did. One sprayer could probably flatten half the department.
And he couldn't expect help from his superiors. Gordon had long since seen through them: the current commissioner was cosy with certain mob outfits. What's a few dozen dead civilians, compared to a steady stream of cash?
Gordon was frustrated and powerless. Batman was the only person he could rely on.
Batman wasn't fully formed yet, but Scarecrow wasn't exactly formidable either. It was a rookie-vs-rookie pecking match—and in the end, Batman won.
He nailed Jonathan in the lab with a tranquilliser dart.
The camera in the cowl clearly recorded Jonathan committing his crimes.
With evidence that was solid, Gordon—low-ranking and low-voice—was promptly shoved aside. His boss took over, rushed the filing, rushed the trial. Hey, a quick, splashy prosecution looks great on a résumé.
A college professor, mastermind behind dozens of murders? Anywhere else, that would dominate the front page for days. In Gotham, it still counted as a big case—but it merited only a main-section column.
Seeing no mention of Gordon or Batman in the paper—only reams of praise for Gordon's superior—Schiller knew another disheartened soul had been minted by this dark city.
Gordon, the good cop, had a long road ahead.
What Schiller didn't expect was how quickly Gordon came to him.
In the Gotham University counselling office, Schiller poured him coffee. The still-young detective looked exhausted; a few sips of hot coffee brought a bit of color back to his face.
"I know this visit is a bit presumptuous, Professor," he said. "But about Jonathan's case…"
Gordon hesitated. Schiller said, "Let me guess—investigation went smoothly, but things are going sideways at the sentencing stage, right?"
Gordon clenched his fists on the desk, face dark. "That damned butcher is a PhD in chemistry—you know what that means in Gotham. Certain people don't want the death penalty. They want to plead insanity, spring him, and put him to work for them."
Schiller, across from him, said, "Indeed. A chemistry prodigy like that—if he can cook up even one new hallucinogenic, whoever hires him will make a killing."
Gordon shook his head. "It's more than that. The drug they want him to develop could be far more dangerous."
"If they make narcotics, they just squeeze some junkies for chump change. But if they develop a virus—something that lets them control all of Gotham—well, we both know what kind of fortune that is," Gordon said.
"Someone leaked the existence of the fear gas?" Schiller asked. "Its effectiveness would certainly make certain people realize Jonathan's value."
Gordon looked at him, hesitated, then said, "No offence, but I need to confirm—have you encountered anyone suspicious recently?"
"I can say clearly I haven't told anyone about this," Schiller said. "There's nothing in it for me. As a professor, having a murderer for a colleague is disgrace enough. Any further association would torpedo my career."
"Then…" Gordon laced his fingers. "That night, I heard you call that man in the tight suit 'Bruce.' He's Bruce Wayne, isn't he?"
"I can't tell you anything on that topic," Schiller said. "Ask him yourself, not me."
"I know what you're worried about," Schiller continued. "As Gotham's biggest business magnate, Bruce Wayne may not be entirely clean. If he learns you're digging, you think you'll die badly. That's it, isn't it?"
Gordon said, "Jonathan stated in his confession that someone had been stealing most of his fear gas. That man in the tight suit is my prime suspect—he's too suspicious."
Schiller felt a pang of amusement. The parts the comics never showed were proving interesting: Gotham's iconic duo hadn't started from trust. Gordon was highly sceptical of this costumed vigilante.
Which wasn't surprising. What sane person would immediately accept a man in a black bodysuit with pointy ears sprinting around Gotham at night? It didn't look like the behaviour of a good guy.
"Have you considered he probably suspects you just as much?" Schiller asked.
Gordon sighed. "He actually has more reason to. If he is Bruce Wayne… I know the Wayne boy never stopped digging into the old case. The Waynes' deaths were bizarre. I've read the files—too many things don't add up. If the kid is Batman, of course he wouldn't trust any cop, including me."
"Gotham's police…" Gordon said ruefully. "We're basically decoration in this city. No one expects us to do anything." He sagged, took another sip, and fell silent.
"As a rock in the mud, you're already hard enough," Schiller said. "Don't wait for someone to pull you out. Roll yourself bigger. When you fill the whole swamp, it'll be no different from a stretch of asphalt."
"That's what you think I should do? Keep going down this road?" Gordon looked lost.
No wonder he was depressed: he risked a lot and worked himself raw to break the case, only to have the credit stolen—fine, he wasn't in it for the glory anyway. But now people wanted to free a butcher who killed dozens, for profit. That hit hard.
Schiller smiled. "Detective Gordon, sounds like you need a therapy session. Lucky you—I happen to be a psychiatrist. No charge."
Gordon managed a thin smile. "I've seen your file, Professor Schiller. Having a renowned psychologist counsel me—call it my year-end bonus. Either way, thank you."
"No need to thank me," Schiller said. "Helping a good Gotham cop is my honor."
Gordon's smile tightened. He exhaled like a sigh. "A good cop? Maybe…"