"Schiller and Stark stood together in front of a damaged Mark II armor.
"Listen," Stark said, pointing at the exposed mechanisms, "the problem here is the braking system—it's completely wrecked. Before we try any modifications, we need to fix this first."
He grabbed a wrench and started hammering away at the armor.
Standing behind him, Schiller muttered in his head to the symbiote: "No. You can't eat his brain."
"But his head looks so tasty. Really tasty. Smells delicious."
"But—"
Schiller rubbed his forehead with one hand, hands on his hips. He tried to rephrase. "You can't just eat people's brains, because…"
He hesitated. Honestly, this race all looked bizarre, but their palate was remarkably consistent.
"If we eat his brain, we can make our own," the symbiote suggested.
"Absolutely not!"
"…Fine."
Completely oblivious, Stark kept tinkering. After a while, he tapped the railing with his wrench and shifted positions. "Magic armor? That does sound cool. Feels like some special atomic force. What's the best application? Vibration? Or extreme compression?"
Schiller asked inwardly, "Best application? Vibration or compression?"
"Deconstruction and reconstruction," the symbiote replied.
"Deconstruction and reconstruction," Schiller said aloud.
Then he pressed his hand against the broken joint. A flicker passed over the damaged parts, and when they settled, they were as good as new.
Stark froze, wide-eyed, arms crossed. "This 'magic' you're talking about looks a hell of a lot more powerful than your little gravity trick."
"I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome!" the symbiote screeched in Schiller's head.
"Yeah, yeah, you're awesome," Schiller sighed.
Truth was, the symbiote was more useful than his magic. His own magical skills were still low-level—fine for showmanship, but when it came down to real utility, the symbiote carried the weight.
"Shrink the armor. Really small," the symbiote said.
"Shrink the armor," Schiller echoed.
"Of course I've thought about that," Stark said. "My Mark V—later versions—were designed to fit into a suitcase. But it's still incomplete, can't carry it freely yet."
"I think the suitcase idea is too conservative."
"Smaller than that?"
"Much smaller."
"How small are we talking?" Stark asked.
Schiller turned inward: "How small?"
"A vial of Fear Toxin."
"Shrink it down to a vial of toxin?" Schiller asked.
"I want a drink," the symbiote demanded.
Schiller rolled his eyes. Bargaining, seriously? After it gulped down a bottle of liquor, the symbiote finally relented: "A cigarette. You can shrink it down to the size of a cigarette."
When Schiller passed this along, Stark grew excited, pacing around the room. "That's atomic-level reconstruction. If that's true, maybe even smaller—maybe even nanotech scale…"
"Smaller than a cigarette?" Schiller asked inside.
"Yes. But unfolding it would cause an explosion."
So Schiller told Stark: "It could go smaller, but I can't guarantee it would unfold safely."
Stark clenched his fists. "No matter. We'll work on this, develop a truly groundbreaking tech. Then I'll dump all the old models on the military. Let them deal with my scrap metal—it'll save me disposal fees. Pepper will love it."
He punched his palm with excitement. "So many advantages to being always armed! And I could even compress a full version of J.A.R.V.I.S. into a single phone. Imagine a phone with an AI butler that powerful. Can you believe it?"
"…God bless J.A.R.V.I.S.," Schiller muttered.
After a while, Stark pulled the old Mark II off its rack. Before he could take a closer look, a gray mist shimmered and the entire suit vanished.
When Schiller reappeared, he held what looked like a metal cigarette. He handed it to Stark.
"…That's it?" Stark asked.
"What else were you expecting?"
"Shouldn't there be an incantation, a ritual, maybe a staff—"
"No need. That's low-tier stuff," Schiller replied.
Stark blinked. Suddenly, he had endless fantasies about what magic could do. Later, that same fantasy would nearly drive Strange mad—because in Stark's eyes, magic became a fix-all. Everything was: "Let's leave it to almighty magic."
When Stark found out the Sorcerer Supreme still needed prep time, he mocked Strange as a "low-tier wizard." Strange nearly snapped his sling ring a in half.
But for now, Stark was thrilled. "So how do I switch it back? How do I wear it?"
Schiller asked inside: "How does he transform it? How does he wear it?"
The symbiote burped: "Just imagine it."
"Just imagine it," Schiller said.
Stark hesitated, then pictured the Mark II's assembly sequence in his mind. Instantly, the armor reformed on his body. No steps, no process—just atomic-level reconstruction.
"What principle is this?" Stark demanded.
Schiller repeated the question inwardly.
"Mental disturbance," the symbiote answered.
"'Mental disturbance,'" Schiller told him.
"You mean brainwaves? Bioelectric signals?" Stark asked.
But the symbiote was drunk and offered no further details. So Schiller simply said: "Don't explain magic with science. Just accept it works."
Stark was itching to dive into research. He waved Schiller off: "Fine, fine. I get it. But you wait—someday I'll master this better than you."
And with that, he practically kicked Schiller out of Stark Tower.
Schiller didn't mind. That was just Stark—once the lab bug bit him, he forgot everything else.
When Schiller got back to his clinic, Steve was waiting.
"Nick sent me," Steve said. "He wants to see you. I think it's about Stark."
Schiller looked at the air and called out: "Ten million an hour. Deal, Director Fury?"
"You're overcharging," came Fury's voice—from the phone at Steve's hip.
Schiller shrugged. "Funny, I was thinking of billing you a hundred million."
Silence. Then Fury replied: "…plus fifty million in late fees."
"Deal," Schiller said.
Soon, Schiller was in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s international reception center. Fury shook his hand, then sat across from him. Coulson poured espresso for Schiller, black coffee for Fury.
Schiller downed his in one gulp. Fury sipped slowly.
"Business first, or invoice first?" Schiller asked.
"Invoice," Fury said.
After the paperwork, Fury leaned forward. "I know Stark's given the military some tech. Doesn't matter. We don't want the suits."
"You want the man."
"Exactly. S.H.I.E.L.D. was founded by his father."
"If you bring that up, you'll lose him forever. And anyway, don't come to me about this. I'm his shrink, not his dad."
"We're not asking you to persuade him. He won't listen to persuasion. But tell me—what do you think of this idea? A team made up of… special individuals."
"It depends. Who do they work for?"
"For S.H.I.E.L.D., of course."
"And who does S.H.I.E.L.D. work for?"
Fury frowned, sidestepping the question. "We'd like to invite you to join."
"I'm no special individual. I've never jumped more than ten feet."
Fury just stared. Did Schiller think he was an idiot? "We don't care how you vanish and reappear hundreds of meters away. Or that yellow rat with the Canadian accent. Or your uncanny psychoanalysis. But when a neurologist swears you threatened him with a floating pen…"
Inside, Schiller muttered to the symbiote: "You can't eat people's brains whenever you want—except Strange's."
Aloud, he said: "Do you believe in magic, Director?"
"I believe some powers come from science, others from… elsewhere. Are you one of them?"
"No. Just an ordinary man. But I'll trade you a piece of intel for my freedom."
"About what? Magic?"
"Exactly. Use your satellites. Track a certain missing network in New York. See where it connects."
Fury's brows knit. But Schiller offered no more.
The New York Sanctum's Wi-Fi wasn't magic at its core—it was still hooked into the human-made network, just masked with spells. If Fury wanted, he could find traces.
Schiller wasn't about to reject S.H.I.E.L.D. outright. He knew in the coming crises, the Avengers would be the ones saving the world. He wasn't about to fight lizard-men or Red Hulk himself.
At most, he'd toss in a little help—just enough to play the part of a clever, untouchable… agent of chaos."