If Schiller were to construct a psychological profile of the comic-book Batman, his defining trait would not be caution, intellect, or strategic foresight, but paranoia.
Batman never placed absolute trust in anyone.
His brand of skepticism was an entire school of thought unto itself; suspicion and conspiracy theories were woven into his very bones.
As brilliant as he was, he was equally paranoid.
Schiller’s answer had unmistakably plunged the young Batman into profound doubt.
Bruce had never imagined that someone could see right through his inner self.
He had immense confidence in his disguise; even Alfred, the old butler who had raised him from childhood, only understood a part of him, never the whole.
Yet this professor—a gentle, refined psychology professor who seemed entirely ordinary—had given him the most improbable answer, and simultaneously the most accurate, incisive one.
The moment he received that answer, the surging fire within Bruce told him that he had indeed been waiting for someone to say it: it was time to begin his revenge.
Yet far more than the answer itself, the man who had provided it felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over his newly ignited blood.
Bruce did not believe—never believed—that anyone could discern the demons lurking in his heart, that swarm of shadowed bats, through mere psychology alone.
Schiller simply said, “Consultation time is up.
I have a lecture to attend to.
Goodbye, Mr.
Wayne.”
Schiller was certain Bruce would be agonizing over this for a long time.
If the boy figured it out, he should hurry up, become Batman, and go champion justice instead of sitting in class.
What did Bruce even need university courses for?
Why make life difficult for these hardworking faculty members?
Schiller figured Bruce would most likely work through it.
Once he did, the gangs and criminal syndicates would give him enough headaches to keep him occupied.
That way, Schiller could happily hole up at the university and slack off on the payroll, or fly to Hawaii when vacation rolled around.
Schiller’s reputation at the university was actually quite solid, largely due to his prestigious credentials—though those belonged to the body’s original owner.
Adhering to the principle of “working only as much as you’re paid,” Schiller would sit down and start lecturing the second class began, vanishing the moment the bell rang.
Office hours?
Completely nonexistent.
He had operated this way for all five days.
Fortunately, the original Schiller seemed to have been a reclusive loner with few friends.
He had only been hired as a professor at Gotham University a few months ago and barely knew anyone on campus, so transmigrator Schiller hadn’t exposed any flaws.
During lunch that afternoon, Peter sent a message: [Mr.
Schiller, everything is terrible.]
It was followed by a dejected emoji.
Schiller knew that this chat system was not direct brain-to-brain communication; only Schiller accessed it through the system interface.
On Peter’s end, it appeared as though he had met an online friend by chance, while Charles received messages while browsing educational forums during his leisure hours.
The system adapted conversations with these figures into formats they could naturally accept—social media apps for Peter, academic forums for Charles, and perhaps some cosmic network frequency if it ever connected to Thanos.
Consequently, none of them found the interactions bizarre.
Moreover, the system only guaranteed that targets would answer Schiller’s initial inquiry; sustaining the dialogue afterward depended entirely on Schiller himself.
As a result, Schiller’s primary chatting partner for now was the young, naive, adolescent Spider-Man.
Against an old fox like Charles, Schiller would never probe lightly without absolute certainty.
Schiller replied: *What happened, Peter?
Things not going well with Gwen?*
*Oh, they aren’t, but that’s not what I meant by terrible.*
*What is it, then?
Don’t tell me you messed up an experiment.*
*Sort of.
I knocked over a piece of lab equipment that looked pretty dangerous.
A…
dangerous creature inside escaped, and it bit me.*
Schiller realized that Spider-Man’s destiny had already been partially altered by their chats.
Through their conversations, he had deduced that the Peter on the other end belonged to the Earth-616 mainstream comic universe.
Originally, the high schooler should have been bitten during a public exhibition.
However, because Peter had fallen for Gwen and constantly rambled to Schiller about how charming and cute she was, Schiller—thoroughly annoyed by the little chatterbox—had given him advice on how to pursue her.
Gwen came from a well-off family and had secured a summer internship at Oscorp.
Peter originally had nothing to do with it, but Schiller suggested he swallow his pride and apply for the same internship.
With his stellar grades, Peter actually got accepted.
As a result, instead of being bitten by a spider at an exhibition, he had been bitten by a spider from an experimental apparatus inside Oscorp…
Either way, he was destined to get bitten.
Spider-Man was chosen by the Master Weaver of the Spider-Totem; if not today, then tomorrow.
He couldn’t escape that bite regardless.
Schiller offered a few comforting words to the poor kid and went off to bed.
The night in Gotham was heavy and dark, perfect for sleeping.
Bruce remained awake through the night, gazing at the moon whose shape was nearly lost in the dense fog, holding a stack of files in his hand.
The name on the very first page was Schiller Andel Rodriguez.
Utterly unaware that Batman had investigated him down to his roots, Schiller drifted into a deep slumber.
In his heavy sleep, he heard an alarm from the system, but he was sleeping too deeply.
Unbeknownst to him, a flash of blue light swept across the room—
The system’s alarms grew more frantic, yet Schiller still didn’t wake.
Something seemed to be interfering with the system.
Finally, after a burst of distorted static, Schiller’s figure vanished into thin air.
[Emergency protection system activated.
Locating universe…
Locating universe…
Destination universe confirmed.
Writing identity data…
Writing…
Write failed…
Writing…
Write successful.]
When he woke up again, Schiller rubbed his eyes, instantly blinded by bright sunlight.
What in the world?
Gotham City actually had a sunny day?
He pulled back the curtains—outside lay the sun-drenched skyline of…
New York City.
In stark contrast to Gotham’s miserable weather, New York was clear and radiant, the morning sun already intensely bright.
Schiller looked out the window and realized he was in a luxury apartment in downtown New York.
Turning around, he saw a cluttered mess on his desk, along with empty liquor bottles.
Underneath one of the bottles was an ID badge.
“Schiller, Psychiatrist at NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital…
Attending physician?
I transmigrated again?”
*Damn it,* Schiller thought.
Before he could even curse aloud, his phone rang.
He picked it up, and a loud voice roared through the receiver:
“Dr.
Schiller!
Where on earth are you?!
You cannot miss today’s joint consultation!
Did you get drunk again?!
Get over here immediately!”
The volume made Schiller’s ear throb, but the thought that he was now a practicing physician dealing with an urgent case that might involve saving a patient spurred him into action.
Since he was already here, he had to do the job.
Schiller quickly grabbed his credentials and headed downstairs to look for a vehicle.
There was no reason a luxury apartment wouldn’t come with a car.
In the garage below, he found a relatively new Mercedes that matched his key fob.
He pressed the button, and the locks clicked open.
Thank goodness Schiller had visited New York for academic conferences in his previous life.
Guided by the car’s navigation system, he reached NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital—the city’s premier medical center—as fast as possible.
The moment he walked inside, the receptionist rushed over.
“Dr.
Schiller, please hurry!
The joint consultation has already begun.”
Unsure what kind of persona he was supposed to maintain, Schiller merely gave a cool, distant nod and went upstairs.
Guided by staff, Schiller made his way into the conference room.
When he entered, the room fell silent for a brief moment before the discussion resumed.
Schiller took the seat clearly reserved for him, observing quietly.
It seemed he was a rather renowned doctor, ranking among the top in his department.
The physicians seated opposite clearly belonged to another specialty.
One of them looked particularly arrogant as he remarked, “Indeed, having those charlatans take a look first makes sense, lest he plays dumb again and tries to grope the nurses on the operating table.”
Schiller glanced at his name tag: Stephen Strange.
Doctor Strange.
Well, great—he was in Marvel now.
Schiller didn’t bother responding.
Judging by Strange’s appearance, he was still years away from his car accident.
Right now, he was just an intensely self-absorbed, obnoxious jerk whom nobody liked.
Schiller reviewed the medical records in silence.
Strange, however, found him thoroughly irritating.
Schiller clearly looked hungover from the night before and had arrived late to the consultation.
Strange was somewhat of a neat freak and despised such unprofessional attitudes; furthermore, he had always considered psychiatrists to be little more than glorified tricksters.
Naturally, he held immense disdain for Schiller.
Throughout the meeting, Strange constantly nitpicked Schiller’s input.
Schiller merely went by the book, completely ignoring him.
After the meeting adjourned, Strange even deliberately bumped his shoulder against Schiller’s.
Schiller was thoroughly annoyed, but he reminded himself that the man would eventually get his comeuppance.
Strange’s accident couldn’t be more than a few years away.
Had he been less insufferable, Schiller might have considered dropping a hint.
But now?
Strange could go suffer through his designated plotline on his own.
Just as the consultation wrapped up, Schiller checked his phone and received an incoming call.
The voice on the other end was pleasant yet laced with anxiety: “Dr.
Schiller, has your consultation finished?
Could you come to Stark Tower right now?
Tony is doing very poorly…”
Tony Stark?
What point in time was this?
Had Iron Man been kidnapped yet, or had he already returned?
Schiller didn’t even have time to look up the news online, as a car from Stark Industries had already pulled up outside the hospital.
He had no choice but to get in.
Seated in the passenger seat was an attractive woman dressed in sharp business attire.
She said, “Ever since Tony returned…
you know how he was during the last evaluation.
He’s been losing his temper for no reason, doing all these reckless things…
I heard him crying last night…”
“Ms.
Pepper?
Are you alright?” Schiller asked tentatively.
Pepper covered her eyes and said, “I’m sorry, but please, you must take this session seriously.”
Schiller understood.
Iron Man had already returned from his kidnapping and discovered that his company’s weapons were being used in unjust wars.
And Schiller, evidently, was the psychiatrist Pepper had called in out of deep concern during Stark’s intense psychological struggle.