Compared to Gotham, it didn't rain much in New York. The weather here was usually clear, though there were always a few exceptions each year.
On this day, before dawn, a light drizzle fell over the city.
For the people of Hell's Kitchen, this wasn't good news. As Manhattan's largest slum, they didn't get much in the way of city services. There were no diligent street sweepers, and the rain only turned the streets into a muddy mess. If you didn't want to ruin your sneakers, you had no choice but to wear heavy rubber boots.
The stench of garbage and dust grew worse in such weather. Schiller shut the window on the first floor; a few drunks always vomited in the alley out back, and the smell was unbearable.
Suddenly, the doorbell chimed. Schiller glanced at his watch. It was 6:30 a.m. Even for fast-paced New York, that was awfully early.
He went downstairs and saw a tall, blond, blue-eyed man standing there, staring at the desk calendar on his bar.
Schiller said, "Looks like Natasha really did book me a remarkable client. Not many people these days wake up before 7."
The man replied, "That's why I'm grateful to have found a kindred spirit here."
Schiller pulled out the file Natasha had dropped off the night before, glanced at the photo, then looked the man over. "Steve Rogers. S.H.I.E.L.D. booked your sessions with no time limit. If they're being this generous, your problems must be serious."
Steve shrugged. "They think everything is serious—including the fact that I came here without breakfast."
Schiller tapped the desk and gestured for him to sit. "Then your choice was wise. Maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't tell you—if you'd come at mealtime, I wouldn't mind cooking you something."
Steve smiled, his handsome face open and earnest.
Schiller prepared an American breakfast: toast, fried bacon, two sausages, two large brownies, and two cups of coffee.
Steve wasn't really hungry, but the aroma was too good to resist. He picked up the toast and asked, "Any butter?"
Schiller raised his brows. "Oh, just strawberry jam."
Then he looked Steve up and down. "So you're old-fashioned. Not many people put butter on toast anymore."
Steve said, "It's fine. I'm just not used to sweet jam for breakfast."
"Then try some of my homemade sauce," Schiller said, handing him a jar.
Steve glanced again at the tiny espresso cup—barely bigger than a bottle cap—and the rich, dark liquid inside. "Sorry, but could I get an Americano?"
"Americano? You could just say you want my rinse water." Schiller smirked.
Elsewhere, Natasha was listening in. Into her comms, she muttered, "Target refers to Americano as dirty water. Possible Italian heritage…"
Steve didn't take offense. He waved it off. "Hey, don't say that. I just think espresso isn't good for the heart."
Before he could finish, Schiller downed two shots of espresso back-to-back and bit into a piece of chocolate. In his head, the symbiote hummed happily.
Schiller sat opposite Steve, and they began their breakfast.
"At first, when Nick told me I had to find a psychologist in the slums myself, I didn't get it," Steve said. "Doesn't S.H.I.E.L.D. have enough doctors?"
"But now I see your place feels better than those sterile white counseling rooms at HQ."
"Those aren't counseling rooms," he added. "They're courtrooms."
"Who would put you on trial?" Schiller asked. "Captain America?"
Steve gave a weary smile. "That's old news—including to me."
"I'm sure S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted you in their offices, but they know that wouldn't solve your problem."
Schiller put down his fork. "You walked here, right? What do you think of the neighborhood? I mean this slum."
Steve pressed his lips together. "I don't know how to describe it. It's reassuring and frightening at the same time—because it hasn't changed at all."
"In my time, slums were the same. Filthy gutters full of vomit, drunks dead in the alleys, gangs picking pockets, and kids learning to steal instead of study. Decades have passed, and nothing has changed."
"And you think decades should have brought change?" Schiller asked, biting into toast.
Steve spread his hands. "Even if we can't eliminate slums, they should at least shrink, or conditions should improve."
Schiller shook his head. "You won the war, Captain. You really did defeat those bastards. Righteous war ended years ago."
"You expected victory to bring prosperity, a better life for all. You fought to the last breath for those who suffered—and you succeeded. Yet when you awoke decades later, you found the world unchanged. The blackness is gone, but it hasn't turned white. It's gray—a shade you don't understand."
Steve was silent.
"I know your problem isn't what S.H.I.E.L.D. claims," Schiller continued. "It's not about sleeping too long or being out of touch with smartphones, radios, or routines. Captain America can learn anything he wants. If he doesn't learn, it's because he doesn't want to."
"You're resisting this era. You don't want to accept that your hard-won victory didn't bring the future you dreamed of."
Steve said bitterly, "I gave everything I had. Even if the result wasn't perfect, I've tried to accept it. But what hurts most is this: in war, when people suffered, I fought my enemies. Whatever the cost, I defeated them. Now, people suffer—but I don't even know who the enemy is."
"Maybe your time has passed," Schiller said. "And so has your duty to carry the world on your back. You don't have to be a war machine anymore."
"Then what should I do? I have to do something."
"Captain, you're full of compassion. Even if I told you to relax—draw comics, exercise, enjoy life—you wouldn't. You won't ignore suffering. That's not who you are, so I won't give useless advice."
"I'm sure S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doctors said the same, right? Ordinary people think that if they had your freedom, they'd just fly to Hawaii. They can't understand your surplus of empathy and responsibility. But you don't need their understanding."
Steve nodded. "They think you should just hit the gym, watch movies, or play video games. But that's not it. When you refuse, they call you outdated."
"Then stop looking for understanding among ordinary people," Schiller said. "This world is big. You're not this era's good man—but every era has good men. Find them. Find the ones who also saved the world, or are saving it now. They'll understand you."
"And those good men face problems, too. They haven't lived as long as you, nor do they have your experience. Some have power but no control. Some have passion but no skill. Some are lone wolves, unorganized. You can guide them."
Steve sighed. "So I'm just an old soldier, outdated but unwilling to leave the front line. You're right, Doc—it's their turn to fight now."
"But I wonder if I can really help. The rules today are so different."
"I have someone in mind," Schiller said. "A lucky kid. Reminds me of you. Used to be bullied as he is a nerd, then suddenly got incredible power. Now he jumps around the city, doing nothing serious."
"You know how dangerous sudden power is. His strength keeps growing. A dozen trained soldiers couldn't match him."
Steve shot upright. "That's serious. Right after my own transformation, I couldn't control myself either—I hurt two medics by accident. Where is he? Which hospital?"
"He's still in school. Finals are coming. He's studying."
"My God. He's still in school?" Steve slammed the table, glaring at the listening device. "Nick! What are you thinking? Letting a super-soldier sit in class? What if he loses control? How many people would get hurt?"
Steve stood. Schiller waved him down. "Relax. He's not like you. He's a mutation, not a lab experiment. His power grows gradually, not explosively."
"I mean, he's just a teenager—cocky, sensitive, reckless, timid. He needs a mentor. Someone to show him the ugliness of the world."
Steve clenched his fists. "Yeah. I've seen kids like that. Charging into battle on pure hot blood, then crying when the mortars land. They've got a long way to go."
"Tomorrow night he'll finish exams and hit the streets," Schiller said. "You can intercept him—and rough him up a little. Don't worry, his mutation makes him durable. He can take a beating."
Steve's eyes lit with anticipation. He cracked his knuckles. It reminded him of his army days—breaking in raw recruits, watching them stumble, learning the hard way. One of the few joys of being a soldier.