The new principal, Smith, was actually a man of considerable ability and experience, with an extensive network of connections. His only problem is? His luck is… well, terrible.
No—perhaps "abysmal" would be more accurate.
Of the six professors his friends had recommended, one just happened to be none other than a future Gotham villain: Victor Fries, the man destined to become Mr. Freeze.
After reviewing the files, Smith decided to hire three of them. Among those chosen—of course—was Victor Fries.
When the invitations went out, only one professor accepted the offer to teach at Gotham University. And that one, naturally, was Victor Fries.
Gotham University seemed cursed by fate. No sooner had they driven out a few "demons" than they found themselves welcoming new ones. Scarecrow—Jonathan Crane—was gone, and in walked Victor Fries.
Fries seemed almost desperate for the position. Before Schiller or Bruce even had time to discuss stopping Smith's hire, Fries was already on campus. The invitation had gone out at noon one day; by the following afternoon, Victor had arrived. He acted as though missing this job would leave him unable to provide for his family.
Still, much like Scarecrow, Victor—for now—was just an ordinary academic.
Schiller knew that even later, as Mr. Freeze, Victor was considered one of Gotham's more "mild" villains. He often preferred freezing Batman solid and then engaging him in philosophical debate rather than destroying the city. His obsession and madness stemmed not from hatred of Gotham or its Dark Knight, but from love for his wife.
When Schiller first met Victor, he found him strikingly similar to himself: the quintessential academic. Tall, with neatly combed hair and glasses perched on his nose, Victor wore a suit pressed to perfection at the collar and cuff. His face bore a touch of weariness, yet still carried the air of a seasoned scholar.
Every professor had their own office, but shared faculty spaces encouraged conversation and collaboration. When Jonathan left, his seat in the common area became vacant—and Fries filled it, right next to Schiller.
During their very first conversation, Schiller noticed Victor's gaze lingering on the ring around his finger.
Eventually, Victor steered the topic toward family. "You seem to be married," he asked. "Is your wife also here in Gotham?"
Asking about someone's marital status upon first meeting is usually considered intrusive. But it was clear Victor wasn't in the best mental state—he seemed anxious, grasping for connection.
Schiller hesitated. He certainly couldn't explain that his "companion" was a talkative symbiote who watched too many TV shows.
Victor interpreted the silence in his own way. People often do that—when anxious and insecure, they unconsciously seek kindred spirits, searching for comfort in shared experiences.
Given Schiller's extraordinary résumé, Victor imagined there must be some tragic romance behind his life's adventures—something even more poignant than his own.
And so, bonded by this sense of shared melancholy, Victor and Schiller quickly grew close.
In later conversations, Schiller discovered they truly did have much in common. Victor loved discussing ancient philosophy, modern art, and religious aesthetics—topics Schiller himself was equally passionate about. They could spend entire afternoons debating ideas whenever neither had classes.
Schiller never would have guessed that the first real confidant he'd find in this world would be Gotham's future Mr. Freeze.
But he had to admit: before his descent into villainy, Victor Fries was a man of deep charisma—polite, empathetic, articulate, and thoughtful, with a sharp mind and fresh insights into every discussion. Talking with him reminded Schiller of debating fellow experts in his previous life: conversations full of sparks and ideas.
Everyone in the shared office agreed: this "gentle villain" left a strong impression.
Through their exchanges, Schiller gained a deeper understanding of Victor's current situation. Victor had already placed his wife in cryogenic stasis using low-temperature technology—but the process was expensive and required specialized facilities.
His former research institute had run out of funds and refused to support him further. Desperate, Victor had rushed to Gotham University—not only for the decent salary, but also because the Wayne family had financed a cryogenics laboratory there. It was the only place where he could keep his wife frozen and prevent her condition from worsening.
To someone aware of his future, this might seem obsessive—even unhinged. But to most of his colleagues, Victor's actions were understandable. After all, in that era, many theorized about freezing the incurably ill until medical science advanced enough to save them.
Victor was simply one of the pioneers.
Schiller thought: in this state, Victor Fries could be a reliable ally—even without the accident that would someday turn him into Mr. Freeze. Compared to the still-developing Batman, Fries—with his cutting-edge cryogenic expertise—seemed far more dependable.
If one truly wanted to "solve" the problem of Mr. Freeze, the real issue to cure was his wife's degenerative disease.
Schiller accompanied Victor once to see the cryo-chamber where she was kept. Mrs. Fries wasn't particularly striking—just an ordinary woman—but Victor looked at her with unwavering devotion.
Schiller asked his symbiote silently: *"Any solutions?"*
*"Her nerves are deteriorating. It's… complicated,"* the symbiote replied.
Aloud, Victor gazed at the chamber and said, "My wife's neurodegenerative disease is nearly incurable. Her neurons die too fast. I barely managed to freeze her in time. Even if I slowed cell death, the inflammation alone would devastate her brain…"
He crouched down, his voice heavy with despair. He probably knew freezing her was little more than self-deception—a hope for a cure that might never come.
Schiller frowned, thinking. Victor might be one of Gotham's infamous villains, but he was also a world-class cryogenicist. Yet for problems like this, only a true specialist could help—say, a certain elite neurosurgeon.
The next day, Schiller returned to Marvel's New York.
When Doctor Strange opened his door to find him standing there, he tossed his coat aside in exasperation. "For heaven's sake—you just barge into my home like this?"
"I haven't even settled accounts with you yet," Schiller said. "You sold my information to some shady agency!"
"They asked. What was I supposed to do?"
Locked in a silent staring contest, Strange finally threw up his hands. "Fine. But don't expect me to act like some trained agent who never talks. And by the way—you threatened me first."
"Forget that," Schiller said. "I have a way we could both get rich. Interested?"
Strange eyed him skeptically. "Rich? If you really had such a scheme, why bring it to me? Last I heard, you charged Stark a million dollars an hour in consultation fees—and he actually paid it! When I heard that, I nearly re-enrolled in med school… for psychology."
"This time, it's different," Schiller said. "There's a woman with a devastating neurodegenerative disease. Her husband holds what may be a unique cryogenic technology—the kind of patent that could make us rich for life. If you cure her, we could share it."
Strange sighed, lips pressed thin. "I'll say it again: I'm a doctor, not God."
"You mean you can't treat it?"
"First of all," Strange said dryly, "shouldn't I see the patient instead of listening to a middleman?"
"For certain reasons, you won't be able to meet her. But I do have her complete medical file."
With a wave of his hand, Schiller conjured a thick stack of papers. Strange skimmed a few pages, then shook his head. "Impossible. It can't be done. Give it up."
Schiller began to protest, but Strange cut him off: "This isn't neuroscience anymore. Restoring her would be like taking a slice of cooked bacon and trying to turn it back into a live pig."
He glanced up, his eyes narrowing at the ring on Schiller's finger. "…Though maybe I shouldn't be so absolute. Try someone else—though frankly, I doubt you'll find a neurosurgeon better than me."
"What if you worked with Stark?" Schiller pressed.
Strange was about to scoff—but hesitated. "…Stark does know his mechanics. But applying his tech to neurosurgery would require massive adaptation and research. If you can convince him to pour his energy into it, I'll try too. Just be ready to pay me a very generous fee."
Before Strange finished, Schiller had already vanished. Remembering the strange ring on his finger, Strange muttered to himself with a sigh: "Ha. Love… what a ridiculous thing."
A moment later, Schiller materialized behind Tony Stark, startling him so badly he nearly dropped his tools. "Dammit! I know you've got magic teleportation or whatever—but that's no excuse to skip thirty-plus floors and walls! Aren't you worried about getting stuck in one of them?"
"What nonsense," Schiller said flatly. "No one gets stuck in walls with real teleportation—that would be idiotic."
"Right. Until I get a call from building maintenance saying there's a man-shaped dent in the wall of Stark Tower."
"Enough," Schiller said. "I came for business."
He produced the stack of medical files again.
After a long review, Stark finally said, "Actually… you came to the right guy. I've dabbled in neurotech."
Circling with a pen in hand, he explained: "You know, when I raided Obadiah's database, I found a mountain of biomechanical research. Some of it touched directly on modifying neural pathways for machine control. Dangerous stuff—but if it worked, it'd let human operators control suits with unprecedented precision."
"If the nervous system could send commands directly," Stark continued, "you'd cut out all secondary inputs. Armor would respond instantly—like moving your own arm."
"So you can do it?" Schiller asked.
"Not yet," Stark admitted. "Obadiah hit the same wall. There's still a key breakthrough we haven't solved. The bottleneck is right here—and none of us has cracked it."