"Although Schiller had only just copied the ability, the symbiote's learning speed was terrifying. Within a single afternoon, the little voice in his head was already capable of sending back clear, coherent thoughts. Short, simple emotions at first—but even that was impressive.
Once they could communicate, Schiller decided to experiment. He expected something Venom-like: that if he shouted "Mask!" a sticky black goo would leap out, cover him head to toe, sprout two huge white eyes, a mouthful of teeth, and a drooling tongue.
The symbiote instantly caught the mental image and fired back waves of horrified protest:
"I'm not gooey—I'm not gooey—I'm not gooey—I'm not gooey—I'm NOT gooey!"
Apparently, it had sensed Schiller's distaste for slime and was desperate to distance itself from Venom's messy aesthetic.
Truth be told, Schiller wasn't trying to hurt the little guy's feelings. But he really couldn't stand the "wet mud" look—no matter how strong the symbiote, the idea of walking around wrapped in raw sludge was just gross.
Eager to prove itself, the newborn symbiote suddenly hijacked his body before he could react. One moment he was standing in his apartment. The next—his entire form dissolved into drifting gray mist.
He had no body. No eyes. Instead, he was a living cloud of countless sensory nodes.
Schiller realized he could feel everything: the weave of his bedsheets, the hairline scratches on the table, the iron molecules in the kettle, even the precise distribution of oxygen in the air. His brain nearly shorted from the flood of microdata—until the symbiote kicked in, organizing, filtering, and returning only what mattered.
It was intoxicating. God's-eye view. Every detail laid bare.
He turned toward the full-length mirror: a shifting fog stared back. Gray, diffuse, and untethered.
And when the mist spread outward—so did his awareness. Hell's Kitchen itself fell under his gaze. The alleys, the rooftops, the people. Even a gang firefight five blocks away: he sensed each bullet's path in the air.
He focused. A bald man with a bullseye tattoo lit up instantly in the fog's network. Every detail of his environment streamed into Schiller's mind.
This was power. With mist everywhere, nothing could hide.
Better still—the mist could destabilize matter itself. Nudge molecular bonds until they collapse, turning solid structures into powder. It couldn't cut through magical forces, but against mundane targets, it was lethal.
And when he wanted, he could reform instantly anywhere the fog lingered. Not quite as fast as his teleport, but terrifying in its own way: vanish here, reappear there. A phantom stalking the city.
"Thank God," Schiller muttered in his mind. "At least you're not slimy."
The symbiote beamed happiness back at him. Then, eager to show off, it scattered wider. The fog rolled across blocks, blanketing Hell's Kitchen in a veil of gray.
For the first time, Schiller felt like a god.
⸻
Back in DC, however, reality set in.
While diluting Scarecrow's fear toxin for his sprayers—work that violated roughly 200 lab safety codes per minute—Schiller discovered the symbiote had a problem.
It wanted to eat the gas.
The voice in his head chanted like a drunk toddler:
"TASTY TASTY TASTY—FEED ME FEED ME FEED ME—FOOD FOOD FOOD—"
Schiller froze. You think fear toxin is food?
Then it clicked. In the comics, Venom craved brains—or chocolate—as a substitute, because both contained phenylethylamine, a chemical that stimulated the brain. Fear toxin probably used similar compounds to trigger terror responses.
In other words, to the symbiote? Fear gas was candy.
Sighing, Schiller sprayed a puff into his own face. (It never affected him anyway.) The symbiote went berserk with joy. "DELICIOUS DELICIOUS DELICIOUS MORE MORE MORE—"
…Great. He'd adopted an addict.
Fine. He tipped an entire vial of undiluted liquid toxin straight down his throat. No taste—but the symbiote immediately went full drunk mode.
First came incoherent babbling. Then giddy laughter. Then—vomit. Thick black-gray mist spilled out of Schiller's body like a hungover cloud.
When it finally recovered, it sulked, whining in his head for another drink.
Schiller pinched the bridge of his nose. Perfect. My symbiote isn't slimy—it's a freaking alcoholic."