At S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Coulson stood outside Nick Fury's office, frowning. Every agent who passed him turned right at the corner. Not one went left.
Natasha stepped out of Fury's office, and Coulson intercepted her.
"What's going on? Why's everyone taking the long way? The elevator's left."
"Because," Natasha replied dryly, "our overpriced genius shrink is down that hall, waiting for patients."
"You actually brought him here? How much is he charging—don't tell me it's a hundred million an hour."
"Relax. Fury's paying fifty million."
Coulson nearly choked. "So if I went in now, that's fifty million dollars' worth of free therapy?"
"You could say that."
"Then there must be a line out the door. Do you think I can still get in today?"
Natasha smirked. "There's no line. Not a soul." She turned right.
"Hey! Wrong way. That's the emergency stairs!"
"Exercise," she called back. "For my health."
Coulson was still muttering when Fury himself came out.
"Morning, Director."
Fury nodded. Romanoff is clear of Stark Industries. She'll handle the 'Hand' case. You—keep that kid in tights from causing trouble."
"Yes, sir." Coulson noticed Fury, too, was heading right. "Uh, Director… the elevator's left. Going that way adds five minutes."
"Taking the stairs," Fury said. "Cardio."
Coulson stared after him, baffled, then decided to go left himself. He found Schiller's door open and knocked. Inside, the psychiatrist looked up from his notes in surprise.
"Someone actually came…"
Coulson blinked. "Isn't this supposed to be open today?"
"Of course! Please, sit. You're the first—and maybe the only." Schiller even pulled out a chair for him.
"I don't get it. Fifty million an hour, covered by the agency, and no one shows up?"
"Probably because it's fifty million, and Fury agreed to pay it."
"How's that a problem? Doesn't that prove he values you?"
"Or maybe it proves I'm the last person they want seeing inside their heads."
Coulson hesitated. "I thought it was just stress management. Easing anxiety."
"You can smoke a cigarette for that."
"Not here. The damn alarms are too sensitive."
"So… what are you here for?"
"Well… I noticed you and the Captain are close. I was hoping you could get him to sign my trading cards."
Schiller sighed. "Figures. Fine. Give me the set, I'll make sure he signs every one. At least then my fifty-million fee won't feel wasted."
After Coulson left, Schiller leaned back with his coffee. But just as he stepped out for air, a shrill alarm shrieked. A red light blinked above him. Sprinklers blasted open. Schiller dodged just in time.
Coulson and several agents ran up. They looked at the smoke detector, then at Schiller, dripping coffee cup still in hand.
"No smoking," Coulson said flatly.
"I wasn't smoking."
"You look exactly like Natasha did when she got caught. Tossed the butt down the sink?"
"I don't smoke indoors."
No smoke smell, either. Coulson sighed. "Fine. Guess it broke again."
"You people really get a smoke alarm to scream like an air raid siren?"
"When you've had thirty-two fires in a month, you'll understand."
In his head, the symbiote groaned: "I feel sick. Let's get out of here."
"Agreed," Schiller muttered. "That's enough therapy. Bill Fury for the full hour."
Because he knew it wasn't an accident. Someone wanted him gone. Five-minute detours around his office were slowing everything down.
Humans always dreamed of being understood. But the moment someone could read their minds, everyone ran. Especially here, under Fury's bizarre idea of talent management.
Back at his clinic, Schiller collapsed onto the couch. He hadn't slept in days. The symbiote hummed a lullaby in his head, and he drifted off—until the phone rang.
"What?… Ask Pepper. She's busy? So am I. Fine, I'm not. But I'm not going back to the lab to screw in light bulbs again."
"Yes, yes, I know it's a revolutionary suit, not a light bulb. Get to the point."
"Jarvis found anomalies in the parts inventory? Missing components? You sure you didn't miscount?… Okay, fine, you're precise. But what do you want from me? I can't conjure them. Not even with magic."
"…That's hard to say," Schiller muttered, pacing. "Ask Jarvis what he suspects. He's more than just a computer."
"He's hesitant? Then you already know. You just don't want to admit it…"
"No, my so-called mind-reading isn't for this. But the suspect you're thinking of? I'd put it at eighty percent."
After hanging up, Schiller scooped up Pikachu and rubbed its cheeks. "A steel fortress always falls first from within. Hard to say who's behind it."
"What's wrong with the tin man?" Pikachu asked.
"Some of his parts are missing. Jarvis pointed to a suspect he doesn't want to believe. Now he's doubting everything."
"You humans love pointless worries," Pikachu said. "That Parker kid—when we gamed, he worried about killing hostages. It's just a game! Even if they die, as long as we win—"
"So you ran in and shot the hostages first?"
"Otherwise, he'd never move. You people overthink. You fear what hasn't happened, but you run from what already has."
Schiller blinked. "Didn't expect a rat to be so philosophical."
"Detective Pikachu, thank you."
Meanwhile, Stark Tower lay dark, lit only by blinking instrument lights like scattered stars. Stark sat slumped on the lab floor, phone glowing beside him—Jarvis was there.
"I'm trying to comfort you, sir," Jarvis said.
"So you shut the lights?" Stark rasped, voice hoarse from exhaustion.
"Dim light calms the brain."
Stark leaned back, eyes closed. "…Maybe this is karma. Stark weapons displaced millions. Now the people I trust will leave me, one by one."
"We cannot yet confirm Obadiah is guilty," Jarvis said. "He is 96% likely."
"Say it straight."
"…That means 4% chance it isn't him."
"Who else?"
"Professor Schiller, two percent. Parker, 1.2. You, 0.8."
"Schiller? The man who can't tell Mark II parts from a toaster? And Peter—he's a naïve kid who gasps when I smoke. He wouldn't steal."
"I am attempting to comfort you."
The lab grew quiet. Half-asleep, Stark's mind conjured his father's face: Howard, young again, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Uncle Obadiah.