Chapter 15: Chapter Fourteen: Sudden Shift in Tone

In Hell’s Kitchen, thefts were countless, but Shieler had never heard of a thief here who targeted cakes specifically—not just cakes, but also the coffee grounds he’d ground himself, soda crackers, and jam.

Is this thief a glutton reborn? Stealing four pounds of cake wasn’t enough—he also took half a pound of soda crackers, two jars of coffee grounds, and three bottles of jam.

He doesn’t even worry he’ll choke himself to death, Shieler thought.

Of course, the stolen items weren’t crucial, but Shieler still had to catch the thief and figure out exactly how he’d done it.

Shieler set a trap, placing the thief’s favorite cake and a trace of fear toxin in the warehouse—the one place in the house he visited least—and waited for the thief to bite.

While waiting for the bait to take effect, Shieler wrote in a notebook the story he’d use to deceive Wong.

Implanting the concept of the Yellow King into Wong wasn’t arbitrary; in the Marvel Universe, countless cosmic deities existed—like the Triad of Vishanti, whose power Wong himself channeled.

Marvel’s origins of Cthulhu were fragmented: some said he was the embodiment of nothingness, others claimed he was the blood and tears of the universe; they weren’t a unified race, and their appearances were wildly varied.

True Lovecraftian literature was more systematic, beginning with the primal entity Azathoth—but Shieler told Wong of a different system: the cursed play invented by Chambers in his short story—The King in Yellow.

The lore within this play was more fantastical and romantic than Cthulhu’s mythos: in the distant Pleiades, above the lake of Hali in the ancient city of Carcosa, an elder outer god—the Yellow King—was imprisoned, having witnessed the fall of two black suns; later, he was designated as the representative of “Wind” among the Old Ones and became Cthulhu’s mortal enemy.

Most famously known was the unique mark belonging to the Yellow King—the Yellow Sign.

But none of that mattered; what mattered was that Shieler needed a plausible identity to speak with Wong.

He could speak to Stark as a psychologist, play the role of Spider-Man’s mentor, or let Daredevil think he was a criminal—it didn’t matter.

But Wong was different; if Shieler didn’t have a sufficiently mysterious and powerful identity, the mighty Sorcerer Supreme wouldn’t listen to him.

Because Shieler had read the comics, he knew the Marvel Universe also contained the Old Ones; now he’d alerted Wong, and if Wong investigated, she’d discover everything Shieler claimed as Hastur was true—once, a group of blind, foolish Old Ones had been imprisoned in extra dimensions, but no one knew if they’d ever return to Earth.

If Wong believed even a third of Shieler’s claim as the Yellow King, Shieler could extract plenty of the information he wanted.

While waiting for the trap to activate, Shieler gradually fleshed out the lore of the Pleiades—after all, to deceive the Sorcerer Supreme, his backstory had to be internally consistent.

And the thief didn’t make Shieler wait long.

On a dark, wind-swept night, Hell’s Kitchen was unusually silent—no gunshots. Shieler lay in bed, half-asleep, when he heard a loud crash from the warehouse below.

He snapped awake instantly—he knew his trap had worked. He hadn’t expected a single cake could actually catch this thief.

He crept downstairs without turning on the lights; if the thief was armed, seeing him descend would mean an immediate shot. For his own safety, Shieler planned to use Blink the moment he reached the far end of the hallway—to teleport directly and catch the thief off guard.

Just as he was about to Blink, he noticed the warehouse door had opened. Had the thief not been affected by the fear toxin? Could he even open the door and walk out? That was troubling.

Shieler abandoned Blink; teleporting would give the thief a moment to react, and Shieler himself always needed about two seconds to adjust to a new environment after each teleport.

He realized the thief hadn’t noticed him. He crept along the wall, down the hallway—and saw an extremely short, round, pudgy figure emerge from the door crack, muttering as it walked: “Damn it! Did I get drunk? Why does this cake smell like a swamp?”

Shieler stared at the figure, speechless, then turned and reached for the light switch—click.

The round creature shrieked, instantly dropped to all fours, and tried to bolt. Shieler extended his right hand—a telekinesis spell—and snatched the creature into his palm.

Shieler grimaced at the fuzzy texture in his hand—inside it, unmistakably, was a yellow creature with two long ears, round and fat, and a lightning-shaped tail—a Pikachu.

“Shit! Put me down! Don’t touch me with your dirty hands! What the hell is wrong with you?! How did you even catch me?! Let go!!”

Shieler’s face was a picture of disgust—he never imagined such a serious, even dark story could contain a yellow-haired electric rat.

Suddenly, he realized the Pikachu’s scream sounded vaguely familiar—wasn’t that Deadpool’s voice?

Shieler remembered: Hollywood had indeed made a movie about Pikachu—Detective Pikachu—and in that film, Pikachu was voiced by the same actor as Deadpool.

Shieler took a deep breath, turned Pikachu around, and gripped its tiny forepaws. “You’re the one who stole my cake, soda crackers, coffee grounds, and jam?”

Pikachu’s eyes darted around, its impossibly cute face expressing a distinctly human look of disdain—and in Deadpool’s voice, it said: “Hey, buddy, I have no idea how you got such terrible taste. Your soda crackers are butter-free? Unbearably awful. And the jam? Strawberry? That’s not even close to my flavor. And next time you cut a cake, don’t leave the knife on top. You know that’s filthy.”

Shieler held Pikachu in one hand, covered his eyes with the other—this was a massive psychic violation. He had no rebuttal; his tastes really were unlike those of a typical American.

“Listen, thief. First, you’ve stolen my food repeatedly. Second, you show zero remorse. Clearly, you’re a repeat offender…”

“Come on,” Pikachu waved a paw. “Clearly you’re not normal either. No ordinary person calmly chats with a talking rat.”

Shieler clenched his lips, locked eyes with Pikachu. The creature’s sudden appearance had shattered his worldview.

He’d just been discussing life goals with Batman in the pitch-black Gotham—now here was a yellow rat with Deadpool’s voice in front of him. How could his brain not short-circuit?

Was he next supposed to wander through the bushes, collect all the Pokémon, and challenge every gym?

This art style is completely wrong!!!

Worse, this yellow electric rat, though only reaching a human’s shin, had Deadpool’s mouth.

Deadpool’s most lethal trait!

He learned nothing useful!

He took the worst parts and discarded the best!

Shieler recalled how, in his past life reading comics, Deadpool’s speech bubbles often consumed half the page—now Deadpool Pikachu, Deadpool, and Spider-Man were all together…

Shieler felt that if he lived in a comic, he’d be completely obscured by dialogue balloons.

He also remembered: the Hollywood Detective Pikachu used the Japanese game’s lore—this Pikachu wasn’t just a cute “Pika Pika” pet, but a detective with a deep voice. From its reactions, it was clearly intelligent—not some simple pet.

After a while, Shieler and Pikachu sat facing each other on the sofa. Pikachu held a cup of coffee with its tiny paws. “Actually, I don’t remember anything. I only recall a flash of light, then I fell into a garbage truck. Took me forever to climb out. I was starving. Walked for hours—but every door was shut. Only your place—the back door of your warehouse was slightly open. I followed the hallway to the fridge… Yes, stealing was wrong. But I was starving. If I earn money, I’ll pay you back for the cake.”

Shieler clapped. “I must say, as a rat, your moral awareness is terrifyingly high. If all rats were as polite as you, humans wouldn’t need so many rodenticides.”

“So the cake you left out was rodenticide? That was awful—seriously, that smell nearly killed me.”

“Actually, it wasn’t rodenticide. It was worse than rodenticide… Never mind. You’re just a rat.”

Shieler set down the coffee cup and stared curiously at Pikachu.

“So… can you do that?”

“What? What can I do?” Pikachu blinked.

Shieler watched the impossibly cute yellow face express a distinctly human expression—his emotions were a tangled mess. “You know… that thing.”

“What thing are you talking about?”

“Alright, Pikachu, listen. You said you want to earn money to repay me for the stolen food. But I doubt anyone else would hire a talking yellow rat. So if you want to repay me, you’ll have to work for me. And to get that job, you need to show me your skills.”

“Oh, you mean electricity? That’s my specialty. With me, you could cut your electric bill in half. But I was starving before, and I haven’t recovered yet—I can’t do 100,000 volts, but charging your phone? Easy.”

Saying that, it scampered onto the table, grabbed Shieler’s charging phone, and trotted back to the sofa to demonstrate.

Pikachu’s lightning-tail extended—its whole body sparked—and Shieler’s phone screen lit up, showing it was charging. The speed, however, was slow.

To show off, Pikachu hugged the phone tighter, whipped its tail hard, strained—and its body blazed with electricity. The phone’s charge rate skyrocketed—nearly 10% per second. One second before Shieler could stop it, the phone exploded with a loud “BANG!!”

Pikachu’s yellow fur turned black. It spat out a puff of smoke, then looked down at its crushed phone with resignation. “Guess you’ll have to let me work here. Otherwise, I’ll never repay you.”

Shieler rubbed his forehead. “Your performance was spectacular. I’m genuinely surprised—never thought I’d find such a useful charging outlet.”

Pikachu sensed his sarcasm. It opened its mouth to reply—but Shieler cut in: “Alright, but that’s not what I want to see.”

“Then what do you want? What other skills do I have? I don’t even know…”

“You know exactly. That thing.”

Shieler stared intently at Pikachu. Pikachu’s expression twisted—like it had just eaten shit.

Reluctantly, under Shieler’s gaze, it turned around, leapt onto the back of the sofa, and let out a loud—

“PIKA—PIKA!!!!”

Shieler was satisfied.