Schiller had underestimated what it really meant to let Peter crash at his place.
Sure, Spider-Man was kind, brave, and determined—but Peter was also still a teenage boy, with all the bad habits that came with it: staying up all night, gaming too much, sleeping through mornings.
Maybe it was the spider mutation, but Peter ate like a black hole, binging on burgers and fried chicken. Schiller thought if this kept up, he'd bulk up from a spider into a crab. crabman, nope, that's jump universe too dangerous, Caped Baldy can't kill a mosquito but can end worlds.
Schiller rapped the rim of the pot and said:
"Listen, I don't care how much sparring you've done with Steve lately, but no human being eats five pots of rice and then asks for another whole bucket of porridge."
Peter set down his bowl, rubbing his belly.
"I never dreamed I could eat this much. I swear my stomach's got a black hole in it."
Matt limped through the door—his injuries still not fully healed. Peter leapt up to help him.
"He's still growing," Matt said. "Let him eat. But kid, promise me this: after you finish, you will exercise. If you don't want to balloon up into a ball, stop hiding in your room playing video games all day."
Schiller scooped up Pikachu and added:
"I'm guessing you're the bad influence here. Whether it's binge-eating or clutching a controller all night…"
Pikachu shot back in Deadpool's voice:
"How's that my fault? The sticky little brat's skinny as a bean sprout—and he's trash at games. Every time we play Bloody Brawler, I have to handicap myself one hand down. And in Arma, your morning puking drunkards have better aim than him—"
Peter slapped his hands over Pikachu's mouth before he could finish. Schiller said:
"We're out of rice. I'll have to buy more tomorrow. Which means tonight's dinner… you're on your own."
Peter wailed. Schiller wiped his wet hands.
"Not just your dinner. Mine too."
Peter asked, "So we're eating out?"
"Of course. I've got a good place in mind—part of my employment perks. I hear the food isn't great, but they guarantee you won't leave hungry."
"Hmph." Peter snorted. "They have no idea. I feel like I could swallow ten cows right now."
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s International Defense Hub was hidden behind a phone booth not far from Manhattan. Once inside, the elevator twisted and turned who-knew-where.
With his symbiote's mist sense, Schiller guessed they'd ended up near the suburbs when the doors finally opened. He and Peter stepped out, greeted by Coulson.
"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s International Reception Center," Coulson said. "This place is for external contractors like you—and a rest stop for elite field agents."
Schiller glanced at his watch.
"So I assume you'll honor the benefits in the contract?"
"Of course. The cafeteria's always free, and so is the coffee. Though the espresso may not be strong enough for your tastes—if you'd like, I can file a request."
"No, thanks." Schiller waved him off. "From people who drink rinse-water, I expect nothing better."
Coulson led them through the lobby into the living quarters. The décor wasn't sci-fi at all, more like minimalist Nordic style with fabric furnishings—surprisingly cozy.
Peter looked around, a little disappointed.
"I thought you guys worked inside a spaceship or something."
"Well… the main defense and research bases are like that. This is just a reception hub for meals and downtime. Trust me, you wouldn't want to be stuck in a spaceship 24/7."
Peter didn't answer, but it was clear the place fell short of his expectations.
Coulson, ever the smooth operator, said:
"If you join officially, you'll get to see headquarters. That'll blow your mind."
Before Peter could ask more, they reached the dining hall. Here, at least things felt futuristic: no chefs, just rows of conveyor belts carrying food trays out of hatches.
"A buffet?" Schiller asked.
"Right. Agents don't have time to wait for chefs. But don't worry—we cover cuisines from all over the world, and they're pretty good."
"Perfect," said Schiller.
Peter clutched his belly. Schiller clapped his shoulder:
"Go on, Peter. I want them to regret ever giving me this perk."
Coulson chuckled. "Kid, no way you'll outrun these conveyor belts. Eat up."
Schiller just smiled.
⸻
Three hours later.
Natasha stormed in, phone to her ear.
"What do you mean I have to revise a contract now? Don't you know I'm tailing Stark?! What treaty could S.H.I.E.L.D. possibly fail to cover—"
She shoved open the cafeteria doors mid-rant. Then froze.
In the center of the vast circular dining hall—now choked with debris—towered a mountain of dishes. Not figuratively. Literally. Piled into a pyramid that scraped the ceiling, three people tall, too wide for dozens to encircle without outstretched arms.
And they weren't done yet.
Natasha stepped over food scraps and patted a smoking delivery bot. Stunned, she muttered:
"What the hell happened here? Did Fury finally decide to raise dinosaurs in S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
Coulson sagged against a counter.
"Maybe it's time we rewrite the cafeteria perk clause…"
Natasha narrowed her eyes.
"That benefit doesn't extend to outsiders. How many guests did he bring—an entire battalion?"
Coulson pointed. Natasha circled the dish-mountain.
Only three figures sat there.
Peter was slumped, half-asleep. Pikachu tossed plates upward in a weary rhythm. Only Schiller was still going strong—though in truth, his symbiote mist was just swallowing everything into storage, not eating at all.
He was basically here to stock up.
And the symbiote was delighted—wolfing down kilos of chocolate, syrup, and candied fruit. Schiller had even let it sip some concentrated Fear Toxin. Now it sang catchy jingles nonstop in his head.
Natasha blinked, speechless.
"Hey, cafeteria's open?" A voice called. "I just finished my run—heard there's basil beef tonight—"
Steve Rogers stepped in. He froze, jaw dropping.
"I knew it! Decades ago, someone wanted to keep elephants in S.H.I.E.L.D. I didn't think he'd finally try it now…"
Coulson just buried his face in his hand.
Steve skirted the pile, saw the culprits.
"Don't tell me they ate everything."
Natasha forced a tight smile, slapped a delivery bot's panel, checked the readout, then said coldly:
"Excellent. We'll just decide which New York restaurant to hit tonight. And breakfast. And lunch tomorrow."
Schiller rose, brushing himself off.
"Thanks for the meal. Great benefits here. Shame I'm out of time—another friend's waiting hungry. I'll just pack some takeout."
Natasha blocked him.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. can afford this, sure. But our stock's gone. While we restock, every other agent starves. You fine with that?"
Steve added, "Of course he is. He's fine letting his friends starve. I wanted a steak. Now I won't even get a fry."
Schiller snapped his fingers. Pikachu dropped his last burger and climbed onto his shoulder.
"I know another place. My other job's got the same perk. Food might be terrible—but guaranteed to fill you up."
Natasha and Steve both squinted at him.
⸻
Five hours later.
Tony Stark stood gaping at his own employee cafeteria, buried under another dish-mountain.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. J.A.R.V.I.S. filled the silence:
"Sir, I hesitate to detail the losses, but unless new supplies arrive by ten, every Stark Industries employee will go hungry tomorrow."
Tony groaned. He could already picture Pepper's fury.
Clanking in his armor, he stomped past the wreckage—only to find the culprits sprawled in chairs, bellies up.
"Fantastic. You just triggered Stark Industries' first food crisis in a hundred years. If Pepper yells at me tomorrow, I'm punching each of you."
"Relax," Schiller said. "We'll buy more."
Tony snapped.
"It's 9 PM! Where do you buy that much food now? Our trucks are offline! How do we even transport it?"
"Please. With Cap, two superspies, Spider-Man, and Iron Man—you can't haul groceries?"
⸻
Two hours later.
The "superhero squad" staggered home from the nearest mega-market, each loaded with shopping bags.
Tony cursed the whole way:
"If my fans see Iron Man as a flying pack mule, I'm ruined! What am I, a domestic kitchen worker?!"
A flashbulb popped.
⸻
Next morning.
The New York Times splashed a front-page photo: Iron Man dangling ten shopping bags, with two others swinging groceries across skyscrapers behind him.
And Pepper, fuming at Stark Tower's top floor, screamed:
"You idiot! The high-gluten flour you bought made every loaf and cake in the cafeteria turn into rubber!!"