It turns out the first wave of villains in any story is always hopelessly stupid. Gotham University's dean, Commissioner Victor—if Batman hadn't still been a rookie himself, if he were already in his prime, he wouldn't even have bothered to glance their way.
Fortunately, Maroni, a villain showing up in the middle of the story, was more formidable. Before Batman even had the chance to storm his lair, the production line had already been activated. Fear Gas was being churned out in huge quantities.
Schiller didn't strike right away. He knew if he stole a batch once, Maroni would tighten his guard.
The gas piled up in warehouses instead, waiting. Maroni understood this sort of bioweapon was only effective when used in overwhelming volume—an entire neighborhood drowned in terror. That was how you maximized impact.
Unluckily for him, that was exactly what Schiller wanted.
When three warehouses at the plant were stacked to the brim, Schiller unleashed the Grey Mist. In one sweep, he devoured every last vial of concentrated Fear Gas.
The symbiote reassured him: it could swallow and store it all, no problem. Schiller wasn't so sure. It felt like trusting an alcoholic to keep your wine collection safe.
But the Grey Mist behaved. In a blink, the warehouses were empty, bottles neat and untouched, while every drop of toxin was gone.
The next day, when Maroni came to inspect, he was stunned. Crates stacked, bottles sealed, no sign of intruders—yet all the Fear Gas had vanished.
The factory was small, but its guards were tight. The toxin was too dangerous to leave vulnerable. Still, who would think to stop a drifting fog? Maroni had been robbed blind.
Millions of dollars, countless favors, dozens of dead men in bloody gang wars, a factory line purchased and installed, chemists hired at high salaries—and now? Empty hands.
Anyone would cough up blood.
Worse still, his intelligence network lay in ruins. To counter Batman and cops, Maroni had burned through half his informants, stirring them up, and driving them into risks. Many were killed. His web of contacts, decades in the making, was shredded.
Even so, sunk costs forced him forward. He prepared to invest more, crank out another batch. But when he next checked the line, every machine, every vial, every pipe—powder.
Maroni's howl of despair could be heard across Gotham.
The symbiote's performance impressed Schiller. It explained that anything with a molecular structure could be broken down, stored within the mist, and then reassembled on demand.
In other words, Schiller now had a personal storage space. Metals, plastics, fabrics—anything ordinary, swallowed and returned whole.
Schiller mused: low-level crooks destroy while they steal, hurting others without gain. The cleverer ones profit while hurting others.
But he was different. He excelled at reaping huge benefits for himself while—incidentally—doing good.
Who said you can either be righteous or rich? Why not both?
This time, his actions wiped out the Red Crows, gutted Maroni's empire, and drove a wedge between Gotham's gangs, police, and politicians. Their first experiment at collaboration ended in a fiasco. Even a fool like Maroni wouldn't risk trusting senators and cops again.
Desperate, Maroni turned on Victor, bleeding him dry. Before the trial even began, Victor disappeared. With him gone, Gordon was naturally promoted to head of the GCPD's field unit—the first time he had real authority.
As for Gotham University's dean, Batman lacked a personal prison. After catching him, Bruce simply dumped the unconscious man back at his office. That same night, a truck plowed into him. He survived, but crippled, his ambitions finished.
The East End spiraled again. The Red Crows were gone, the balance broken. Maroni was too weakened to dominate. Smaller gangs swarmed like sharks, biting chunks of his turf. Bloody shootouts left him no choice but to strike truces with upstarts. His family's grip slipped. Even his own lieutenants grew restless.
Jonathan Crane didn't end up in prison at all. Certified insane by Arkham's psychiatrists, he was committed there instead. But it didn't matter—without power, without his Scarecrow identity, he wasn't escaping anywhere soon.
Meanwhile, Wayne Enterprises rooted out its corrupt chemical manager. Batman earned his first bit of Gotham fame. Christine was safe, unharmed. Schiller had an arsenal of Fear Gas.
A world where only the gangs and villains suffered—that was balance enough.
Of course, Schiller knew Victor, the dean, Maroni—none of them mattered in Batman's true legend. They were early cannon fodder, small fry doomed to fail. But his meddling sped Batman's growth. Perhaps, when Bruce finally faced his real nemesis, he would have the upper hand.
With that thought, Schiller drifted into sleep again. When he woke, it was to the bustling traffic of New York.
And unfortunately, his first visitor that morning was the last person he wanted to see.
"Sit down, Ms. Romanoff. I won't waste words."
Across from him, Natasha wore casual clothes, light makeup, and hair pinned up. She looked more like a suburban mother after a jog than a world-class spy.
Which, of course, was the point. Leather bodysuit, guns, gadgets—appear like that in Hell's Kitchen, and you'd be dead by sundown.
She sipped coffee. "Mr. Schiller, first let me apologize on behalf of Coulson. At first, we only approached you because you were Stark's therapist. We needed insight into his issues. You understand the consequences if Stark Industries were to collapse."
"But now, we come to you sincerely. We need your help. There's no better psychologist we could turn to."
Romanoff was every bit the chameleon. Hot, persuasive, and disarming with her charm.
Schiller said, "Don't circle around. You know why I left Presbyterian. You found nothing there, did you?"
"What fascinated me is useless to you. I only pursued my research. But thanks to your baseless paranoia, I was dismissed. That debt still stands."
Natasha slid a folder from her bag. "Then let us make you a better offer."
She pushed it across the table. "Mr. Schiller Rodríguez, we officially invite you to serve as a senior psychological consultant for S.H.I.E.L.D.—the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. You'll provide counseling for designated operatives."
Schiller said, "I'm sorry, I don't work for spy agencies and—"
"Your rate, as with Mr. Stark," Natasha interrupted, "is one million dollars per hour."
"…Thank you. A pleasure doing business." Schiller smiled, reached out, and shook her hand.