Early Winter Routine (Part 1)

New York’s weather was far better than Gotham’s. Even though it was already winter, the skies remained clear, and from the third-floor window of the clinic, the heavy traffic on the highway beyond the skyline was still plainly visible.

Schiller got up early. Pikachu pushed the door open with his tiny little arms, then stretched and said, "That damned old-fashioned kettle of yours is way too loud! Yawn… Where did you even get such an antique?"

As Schiller went downstairs, Pikachu slid down the banister. By the time they reached the dining room on the second floor, the kettle was steaming away, letting out a sharp whistle every so often.

Schiller levitated the kettle with magic and set it on the table. With another wave of his hand, a frying pan flew over. He poured in some olive oil and began making breakfast.

Pikachu flung open the refrigerator with a bang and climbed inside to rummage for food. As he searched, he complained, "I really ought to throw out all this damned blue cheese of yours. How can it smell this bad?! Oh… and this awful lettuce. Eating it is like chewing plastic. Let’s see… Here it is! My shredded cheese! Put it in my breakfast sandwich later, and this canned luncheon meat I love too. Slice it up and put it in the middle. Remember, make the slices thick…"

Just then, the clinic’s front door downstairs opened. Schiller heard Peter’s voice coming up with the sound of footsteps. "Sir! I’m here! I borrowed a toolbox from my uncle. I’ll definitely fix that damned breaker today…"

As soon as he came upstairs, the open refrigerator door happened to block his view. He casually waved a hand and shut it, followed by a thud and a scream. "Oh! Shit!! My waist!!!"

Peter hurriedly opened the refrigerator door again. He found the furry Pikachu clinging to one of the refrigerator shelves, his waist having slammed right into a jar lid stored in the door.

Peter picked him up and said, "You actually have a waist? Where is it?"

"Hey, kid, don’t make me expose you. Yesterday wasn’t some broken breaker. You just lost thirty lives and still couldn’t clear the level…"

Peter immediately covered Pikachu’s mouth and changed the subject. "Doctor Schiller, what are you making? It smells amazing."

"Just fried sandwiches. If you want one, I’ll make you a large one."

"Sure, but it doesn’t need to be too big. My appetite’s gotten smaller lately."

"That’s really good news." Schiller flipped an egg as he spoke. "At least your aunt won’t have to cook until her wrists hurt every day."

While Peter chatted with Schiller, he caught sight of the ring on Schiller’s ring finger. Pikachu noticed the subtle change in his expression. He looked back and forth, then said, "Our game cartridge is still in the console from yesterday. Want to play another round?"

Peter did not understand, but Pikachu flicked his tail and pointed hard downstairs with his fluffy lightning-bolt-shaped tail. Peter got the hint and immediately followed Pikachu downstairs.

After a while, the two of them returned, whispering to each other. Pikachu jumped onto the counter and looked at Schiller.

Schiller was using a spatula to flip over an egg with a golden center. Peter made exaggerated faces at Pikachu from behind him. Pikachu wrinkled his nose and said, "Well, okay, I guess… It’s pretty hard on you to cook for us all the time. How about we eat out?"

Schiller gave him a highly surprised look. "Did the sun rise in the west today? Usually, at this time, you’d only be asking me to make the eggs softer."

"I mean… Well, it’s nothing, but I just think you humans shouldn’t keep everything bottled up inside. It’s bad for your health…"

"I’m a psychiatrist. I know that better than you do, or whose money do you think I make?" Schiller said.

Pikachu swished his tail. Just as he was about to say something else, Peter scooped him up. Then Peter gave an awkward laugh and said, "Haha, Doctor, we’ll go play some games first. We’ll come help you later."

Pikachu smacked Peter hard across the face with his tail in revenge for hitting his waist earlier. Peter refused to be outdone and grabbed Pikachu by both ears, shaking him around. The two roughhoused all the way downstairs.

Schiller found it all rather baffling. He always felt that Peter was hiding something from him.

A little later, Steve came in after finishing his morning run. He wiped away his sweat with a towel, then followed the smell upstairs to the second floor. "This old house has a terribly impractical layout. The kitchen just had to be on the second floor."

"Be grateful I can afford a good range hood," Schiller said.

"Then you should thank Nick too. He must have given you plenty of bonuses, right?"

"What? What excuse did he use to give you another bonus? How much did you actually get, thirty percent or twenty?"

"Only eighteen percent before taxes," Steve said with a shrug.

"His understanding of the economics of supplemental income distribution is getting more and more broad-minded."

Steve draped his towel over the railing, then casually opened the refrigerator. "Let’s see, where’s the steak I put in here last time? Oh, here it is. There’s less than half left. I think I can make a beef cheeseburger. Where’s the cheese? I remember there was half a block left…"

"Don’t bother looking. Did you forget there’s a mouse like Jerry living here? Other than blue cheese, what kind of cheese can survive until the next day?"

"My God! That was nearly two pounds of cheese. He ate all of it? Didn’t leave even a little?"

"Not exactly. It wasn’t just him. Peter made a Margherita pizza last time and used at least a pound."

Steve shook his head and shut the refrigerator door. "Young people these days really don’t know how to save. Are there any decent convenience stores in Hell’s Kitchen? I can just go buy some sliced cheese."

"Turn right when you leave and go two blocks ahead, to Madam Helena’s place. Of course, you’d better say outright that you’re there to buy cheese, or she might think you’re applying for a job."

"Applying for a job? In this damned place, what job could possibly require an application?"

"Of course there are jobs. Madam Helena owns three strip clubs, and business is booming. You’re probably exactly her type."

Steve pursed his lips. "I’ll take the long way around and buy it after I leave Hell’s Kitchen."

Then he came over and patted Schiller on the shoulder. "Hey, I know you’re a doctor, but doctors are ordinary people too. Psychiatrists aren’t all-powerful either. If there’s something you want to talk about, you can come to me. We’re friends."

After saying that, he turned and left, leaving Schiller even more confused. He had merely gotten up to make breakfast and fry an egg. Why was everyone acting so strange?

Not long after Steve left, Stark flew in through the window in his armor, carrying a huge stack of documents. The cold wind carried by the armor swept into the rooms of the psychiatric clinic like a gale.

Schiller turned around and was startled by Stark’s dark circles. "Damn it, what happened to you?"

"Oh, don’t tell me… Miss Pepper took the day off today?"

"What are you talking about? I spent the whole night researching the materials you brought yesterday."

With that, he placed the huge pile of documents on Schiller’s desk. "There’s been almost no progress with the neural interface technology. Uncle Obadiah is still unconscious, so I can’t ask him anything. But I came up with another route."

Iron Man was still wearing his armor. He directly pointed with a metal-covered gauntlet at one section of the documents. "If aged nerves and dead nerve cells can’t be restored, then we find a way to replace them with machinery, just like replacing a heart."

"I don’t think you need to explain the principles to me. I only want to know how feasible it is."

Stark crossed his arms and stared at the diagrams in the documents. "You need to understand that even if I’m a genius, I can’t conjure technology out of thin air. More importantly, even if I master this technology, it has to undergo extensive safety testing before it can be put into use."

Stark also glanced at the ring on Schiller’s finger. He touched his lips, then said, "If you really need it urgently, I can convene a neurological consultation in the name of Stark Industries. We can invite the world’s most renowned neuroscience experts."

"Of course, you’d better bring the patient along. Otherwise, they can’t conjure up a solution out of thin air either."

"That may be difficult," Schiller said.

He was telling the truth. Leaving aside how he could bring someone from DC to Marvel, even if he could, the difference in the flow of time between the two worlds might cause many problems and carry considerable risks.

Schiller knew very well that, unlike in Marvel, he had one most important task in the DC world: to escape the entanglement of his enemies.

His enemy was absolutely no ordinary person. For one thing, he had been able to hire Deathstroke to kill him. The things Deathstroke had said before leaving had already revealed enough information. When Schiller had offered payment for him to turn around and kill that employer instead, Deathstroke’s first reaction had been, "You can’t afford that price."

And when Schiller had probed further by saying that the richest man in the world would pay for it, Deathstroke had still left without hesitation. That meant he believed that even with sufficient payment, it would not be worth completely changing sides.

The fact that the world’s top mercenary, Deathstroke, had made such a judgment said a great deal. It seemed the original owner had not been involved in some simple conflict of interests. There had to be a larger conspiracy behind it.

For that reason, Schiller hoped Victor could become his ally and make up for his own shortcomings in engineering and mechanics. That was why he was willing to help Victor’s wife as much as possible and prevent Victor from becoming Mr. Freeze, but that did not mean he had to take enormous risks to bring someone between two worlds.

Besides, that would not solve the problem at its root. If the experts and scholars of DC could not cure this illness, then Marvel’s ordinary experts probably could not either.

Schiller remained silent as he thought. In the end, Stark could not hold back any longer. "You… I mean… She’s okay, right?"

Schiller said, "What?"

Stark awkwardly rubbed his temple and said, "I heard from Coulson that your wife’s condition isn’t very good…"

Schiller froze. Where had this rumor come from? Since when did he have a wife?!

No wonder everyone had been acting so strange today!

Very quickly, he remembered the first person he had met after returning to Marvel—the future Doctor Strange, the current neurologist Strange.

What a clever little bastard he was!

Schiller viciously said to the Symbiote in his mind, "Next time, make sure you eat Strange’s brain. It’s not like it’s any use to him anyway."