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The scheme to locate some brains for the symbiote to consume failed—because Schiller found that, despite all its zeal, his symbiote had rather sophisticated taste.
"Look at that man," Schiller advised. "I'd bet he's killed a dozen—pure gangster scum."
"No good. His brain smells like something else. I reject it."
"Then what about this one? Smart, right? A defense lawyer for serial killers—wise?"
"Also, no. Does not appeal to my taste."
"Then, this one? I heard he stole from the largest Manhattan bank."
"Too bitter."
Empty-handed, returning to his office, Schiller argued in his head, "Why are you so picky?" You're unable to compromise, surely. Why not simply consume a few brains of regular criminals?
The symbiote shot back, "Then why do you not drink Americano?"
Schiller opened his mouth, not able to refute that. The thing was becoming rather intelligent.
"Wonderful. At least tell me, though—where precisely do you intend to get your elegant espresso?"
Not sooner than the clinic door opened had he considered that. Steve Rogers walked inside after an early run. The symbiote flashed right away:
"Espresso's here."
Steve came behind Natasha. Something yellow shot across the room before Schiller could talk: Natasha flung Pikachu squarely into his arms.
With hands on her hips, "First of all, S.H.I.E.L.D. does not run a pet-sitting service!" she said.
"But the contract—"
"We just changed it. No rodents allowed!"
"That is discrimination! Dogs and cats are OK; why not mice?"
"Yeah!" Pikachu curled his small arms. "Why not mice??"
"Shut up!" everyone yelled in unison.
"Now dogs and cats are banned too," Natasha remarked. "The staff as a whole voted unanimously."
"I left him there just for a few days—"
"A few days?? Coulson went through six phones in a week; Fury burned his whole vacation to hide off-grid; the U.N. delegation fled in two days; even that army general who loves torturing us bought his economy ticket out overnight!"
Natasha sighed with frustration. "The only bright spot is… The damages and therapy reimbursements he generated will increase the budget for next month by fifty percent."
Schiller lowered his gaze to Pikachu. "I remember you promised you'd behave while I was gone."
Holding the paws of the small creature, he gazed straight into its large, round eyes. Pikachu hopped onto the couch, blinkingly innocent, and wrinkled its nose.
"PIKA—PIKA!"
Steve said, sitting down, "You've been gone a bit this time."
"So—anything big happen lately?"
"No crises ending the world," Steve remarked. "Just a heap of minor ones."
"Oh?" Schiller asked from the sink while cleaning a cup. "What kind?"
"Stark's totally collapsed with the military," Natasha said. "Apparently, he found hard proof they were behind his kidnapping in Afghanistan—though personally I think Obadiah staged it."
"You mean Obadiah organized it personally only to frame the army? That much he detested the thought of Stark Industries collaborating with them."
"Obadiah's like a hen protecting her last egg," Natasha said. "He would destroy anyone who attempted to touch the work of his life."
The military had been squeezing him even before the abduction. Their appetite never stops; they yearn even for the basic technology of the company. Obadiah found them to be intolerable.
"At first they just bought ordinary weapons," she said, taking the glass of water Steve handed her. "Still, Stark's designs worked too brilliantly. The generals aimed to pilfer the technology and turn it into their own. Obadiah would never let it happen."
Steve pouted. "Still, he hired terrorists to kidnap Tony to sour his ties to the army. That is nuts."
"Obadiah's clever," Natasha said. "He knew Tony would ultimately create something revolutionary for the planet. Tony almost died defending their core tech, but he needed to give him a reason never to submit to the military so their core remained safe."
"At the price of his nephew's life," Steve remarked.
"Obadiah would not give a damn." Natasha started smoking a cigarette. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Go ahead," Schiller advised.
"I don't smoke," Steve said, "but I have enough battlefield experience. Doesn't concern me."
A long, smoky exhale spun around the room. Stark's split with the army clearly wasn't entirely favorable for S.H.I.E.L.D. either.
Budget battles and the agency's outrageous power had always caused S.H.I.E.L.D. and the military to clash.
Stark's conflict with S.H.I.E.L.D. came from his father's history and Tony's refusal to be controlled.
And Tony's refusal to let his inventions turn into weapons—along with the generals' avarice—defined Stark's conflict with the army.
Each one had enemies in that triangle; no side wanted to see the other two together. However, none of them wanted open war either, since whoever stayed out of the conflict would be the one doing the cleanup later.
"I suppose Obadiah wasn't the only hand behind Stark's fallout with the military," Schiller said softly.
"That's classified," Natasha said, then waved it off. "Fine. It's not hidden in secret. Stark wanted to work on medical exoskeleton technologies together. Bigger weapons were what the army desired. That's all."
"So S.H.I.E.L.D. gave them a little prod?"
"We only helped the push," Natasha said, flicking ash into a tray. "Obadiah did most of the setting long ago."
"Tony couldn't see it was Obadiah's scheme?" Steve asked.
Schiller said, "Maybe he did," but "he's Tony Stark."
Natasha nodded. "Obadiah is familiar with him too well. Tony would rather fool himself and direct all his wrath outward, even if blaming the military preserved his uncle-nephew bond."
"More importantly," Schiller said, pouring himself water, "Obadiah's still in the hospital, comatose—a perfect victim."
"And the world listens when the victim names the offender," Natasha said.
Steve groaned. "Howard most likely never dreamed of this when he started Stark Industries."
"Perhaps he did," Schiller said. "He had the intellectual ability to know his genius would attract vultures."
"The situation's close to breaking point," Natasha said. "Stark gave several generals his fist on the table. General Johnson's scandal leaked, the army lost faith in Hammer Industries, and they are desperate to have Stark bend."
"How do you suppose it finishes?" Schiller asked. "Force?"
"They already experimented," Natasha said. "Johnson fell. Stark was unreachable to his drone army. Tony now uses nanotech armor; if he ever mass-produces that, they're finished. They have no option; they will return to the negotiation table."
Schiller said, "They'll want another round first." The army won't crawl to talks without giving Stark a beating to trade for leverage.
"For now, at least," Natasha said, "we are allies. S.H.I.E.L.D. can help carry some of his heat."
"You desire his nanotechnology?" Schiller questioned.
"I'm unsure. Depending on Fury. Though we had a warehouse full of nanosuits, agents are not soldiers. We wouldn't fit those suits. Fury most likely has other ideas."
"He never considered having Stark create agents' armor?"
Natasha put out her cigarette, stubbing it. "You really do not understand the nature of fieldwork. Simply said, missions without armor wouldn't profit from it, and missions requiring armor wouldn't be much safer with it. Agents are not supermen. Most of us make our living with our brains."
"Heads! Meals!" In Schiller's mind, the symbiote yelled.
"So are the medical research initiatives involving the army dead as well?" Schiller questioned.
"They hardly began at all." Stark was co-developing; he was not handing them technology. The army brought professionals; Stark provided funding and some statistics. But today it is all frozen.
"Any outcome?"
Natasha shook her head. "Science is not play for children. Not much significant occurs in a few months."
Steve whispered, "If they would really cooperate, it could save lives."
"That's not how it works," she remarked. "No one compromises until one side realizes it is losing. Profit trading, not humanitarian work, is it?"
Steve seemed nervous. "I understand you. Both sides test each other nonstop and feel out limits before cooperation. Still, if we really apply that money and technology, we could save a great deal. Who's left to take care of those who die from waste if everyone treats it as required and I do nothing?"
"Captain," Schiller said softly, "compassion's good—but you don't have to carry every sin yourself."
Steve remarked gently, "I just think we could do better. And I can't get rid of this sensation—that those people have suppressed. They'll stand up someday. And when they talk once more, it won't be using words."