Chapter Text
September 1, 3:24am
Unknown
It was cold in this place—that was the first thing Stephen noticed. Humid—most people felt humidity just made it hard to breathe but in cold, humidity made the air cling to you. It made the cold burrow through skin and clothes, settling it like sickness in the marrow of your bones. Here it was definitely Fall, cool and humid, yet the breeze itself was cold enough to bite at any passerby’s exposed skin.
Stephen Strange found himself scowling the firmer his consciousness became. He wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable here, which was odd given the weather practically begged for the embrace of a jacket or sweater. Instead, he felt a bizarre detachment from, one which made him the likes of an observer rather than participant here. It was disquieting, as it had been in the past several dreams in which this had happened to him. One would think that after years of delving into the labyrinthine intricacies of mystic arts he could distinguish dream from reality faster than this…but alas.
This was of course another dream—or rather, something far more persistent and irritating than a dream, but dream nonetheless. No rational mind would doubt it—their intensity, their frequency—it was easy to understand yet the concept of these past few, they unsettled him. The sensations within them felt so vivid, almost corporeal; better yet the fact stood that it was the ninth dream this month.
He looked around, his sharp gaze scanning the strange, dreamlike landscape for the source of its anchor point. Every dream had them, just as every timeline and universe has its own—if dreams could serve as the windows to the multiverse, then repeated dreams should be…concerning.
The road stretched endlessly in either direction before him, slick with rain that shimmered beneath a familiarly dull, gray sky. The skeletal outlines of trees lined his path, their branches swaying faintly as if whispering words to the wind. As with the other dreams he could see a lone woman come into view, standing just ahead and framed by the oppressive emptiness of the scene. She was stationary, her posture unnervingly calm despite the sheets of rain cascading over her.
Stephen found himself frowning, like the other dreams this woman was woefully underdressed for the weather. Her clothes clung to her, thoroughly soaked whilst dark hair dripped water cross her eyes and face. She wore no makeup or bags, her features bare yet noticeable in their simplicity. The relatively basic scene shouldn’t spark anything of concern but as with the other eight dreams, it’d been her eyes that unsettled him the most. They were wide and blue, unblinking yet fixated on the sky with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the layers of whatever this place was—reality, vision, dream or otherwise.
He took a hesitant step forward but paused for assurance, glancing down on instinct. As he’d come to expect his feet didn’t touch this ground. He wasn’t wet, wasn’t cold, wasn’t physically present; disembodied, as he’d been the last eight times this vision unfolded. When next he blinked there was a city forming round both he and the figure. Slowly at first then with increasing speed, as if the dream itself were a film reel being spooled forward. The details that could name this place to a state or location were too blurry to make-out, of course, but it seemed like it had the potential to be…populated, known. New York, perhaps? Jersey?
Streetlights, foliage, and people appeared then, the latter now hurrying down the street with umbrellas and windbreakers. It was clear that the people were trying to find refuge for the weather, weirder though that none seemed to pay the woman in the street any mind—shouldn’t she catch their attention?
Stephen watched a few of them but like that of the buildings they were hard to describe, hard to detail—the subject of the dream, however, she was different. The woman was the focus, an anchor point, he’d learned; she’d recurred in all eight dreams before and by now he knew she’d appear in those after. Long, dark brown hair clung to her face, plastered there by rain that too seemed immoveable and unyielding. These tendrils framed her skin which, to his trained eye, bore the telltale signs of illness. The hollowness of her cheeks, the deep, bruised circles under blue-grey eyes, it was hard to miss given her much too-pale skin.
Around the scene Strange could now hear water draining, shoes on pavement, conversation, even a few squelches when shoes met sidewalk still covered by various, rubber shop rugs. She didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t even seem to register her own presence. Her gaze remained fixed upward, staring into the stormy sky as the rain pelted her face.
He blinked again, the scene shifting to once again detail itself; like the eight before there were no signs, no distinguishable landmarks of note, of course, but there was context. Always context.
The faint hum of engines roared; cars and trucks hurtled past him in a blur of blazing orange and yellow, their headlights carving thin streaks through the wet haze. They streaked by with a speed that felt unnatural, as though the highway had a momentum of its own, detached from time and logic. Strange glanced around, his sharp gaze noting every detail. The road they occupied was wide, too wide, but there were no lines to mark the lanes, no traffic lights or signs to direct the chaos. It was a highway in spirit, an amalgam of motion and sound that pressed against his senses like a pulsing heartbeat.
As he looked down his left, then right, Strange could see a pair of bright, bluish headlights suddenly closing in on both he and the oblivious woman. His breath caught as the car’s lights illuminated her figure, painting her skin an even harsher white—to his chagrin, she still didn’t move.
He opened his mouth, prepared to shout and cast some sort of portal, spell, something to move the woman from the oncoming vehicle he knew, knew would hit her. Words formed in his mind, spells he could summon with precision on any other day were suddenly vacant—a portal, a shield—there was nothing. A gasp left him instead, a wordless one, one which choked him with air and rain like a rope had been tied to his throat. He gasped, tried again, but the effort strangled him further, his lungs burning as if the dream itself were silencing him.
The car drew closer, its engine roar near deafening now. He reached out instinctively but his hands felt disconnected, heavy and slow as if moving underwater. Every spell he tried to summon fizzled to nothingness, the threads of magic slipping through his grasp before they could ever coalesce. Some passerby’s screamed, matching in pitch to the tires that carved through the rain-slicked asphalt. The faint murmurs of the dreamscape were pressing in on him: the fading cries of the witnesses, the hiss of rain hitting the pavement, the distant hum of vehicles still moving along their paths as if nothing were about to happen. He could feel time momentarily lapse then, slow, and suddenly propel forward at the sudden punctuation of a crunch.
That.
That crunch was visceral, final—it was a sound that didn’t just register in his ears but reverberated deep in his chest. It was the finish to the nightmare, the harsh exclamation mark that left no room for denial.
Stephen Strange couldn’t bring himself to look at the scene that followed, he didn’t need to. The water and pavement beneath his feet were a fast, fading crimson, confirming it without visual—her, again, committing another suicide.
September 1, 7:43am
New York, Sanctum Sanctorum
Wong gave the silver-templed sorcerer a hearty laugh as the latter managed his way down the Sanctum’s long, wooden stairwell. He was seated in one of the red-tinged couches that framed their foyer, a matching pair the two had fashioned by the fireplace for cooler months in New York. At least, that’s what they told inquisitive visitors—Strange knew there’d been another reason for the movement in furniture, specifically the accidental Siberian-gateway-icing-the-Sanctum-because-Stephen-didn’t-cover-bills reason. That was a shared secret, one both men opted to leave behind following their ordeals with Thanos and the Blip.
This morning his sorcerer friend sat with a leg perched on his knee, flipping absently through a selection of books he either gathered from the Sanctum library or Kamar-Taj, it was always hard to tell. Stephen cast Wong a glare, noting his friend had already prepared and dressed himself for teaching today, it seemed. Master’s robes in colorful golds, reds, and blues created that ensemble, though he’d yet to put on his slippers or belts to accompany them. Strange, on the other hand, looked like death—felt like it too given his inability to float round the Sanctum as he normally did. Given the recent nightmares his magics were a little too heavy to draw upon this morning, the dragging gait and heavy, slumped shoulders taking their place—even Cloak felt the need to leave him alone. “Stephen.”
“Wong.”
“I see someone slept well.”
Strange gave a snort to his colleague, walking past him towards the large, wrap-around hall, then the kitchen beyond. “Any coffee left?”
“Brewed some about an hour ago.” The current Sorcerer Supreme took a long draw from his tea, eyeing the latter atop the brim of his cup. Stephen reemerged, yawning, with a steaming mug of black coffee in his ever-trembling hand, “I’m guessing last night was more of the same?”
Stephen gave a low hum before plopping himself down into the large, burgundy armchair, coffee suspending itself ‘til he was comfortable. The porcelain cup floated down to him obediently once he gathered his cloak round himself, crossing his legs. To an onlooker he looked every bit a grumpy, petulant child, the only true signs of his forty-something age being the grey temples and frown-lines near the corners of his mouth. He eyed Wong, “Becoming predictable, am I?”
His friend shrugged, “Figures, though the Sorcerer Supreme knows all, Strange.”
The named sorcerer rolled his eyes, “Yes, and you know it’s the same anyway. Suicidal woman, macabre theatre, the works—so when do you want to explain to me what they mean, ‘o Sorcerer Supreme?”
Wong raised his eyebrow, “If I told all then I wouldn’t be the Sorcerer Supreme, now, would I?”
Stephen reached out and with a flick of his hand, a few of the tomes from the table floated over to stand in front of him. He fanned his fingers in a spinning motion, turning each so he could read the spines, “Let’s see…Dream Eating Practices and their Walking Brethren, Aponello’s Study on Diseases of the Mind, Molecular Rune Mites and Where to Find Them?” Strange raised his own eyebrow, looking back at his friend knowingly. “What was that about you knowing everything?”
“Ah, now that I think on it…There’s another rule about getting this position that I forgot to mention;” Wong added, “Don’t question the Sorcerer Supreme.”
With a secondary wave of his hand, Strange cast away the books and bunched them into a manageable pile on the table. He gave an unimpressed hum as he sipped at his coffee—Wong was still touchy about him refusing to bow for him. “Noted, then.”
Following the events with Kaecilius and the most recent with Thanos, the sorcerers of Earth were left behind without both Ancient One and a Sorcerer Supreme. Stephen had taken her place, of course, ascending the title by vote of Kamar-Taj master’s but he, like that of many others, fell victim to the Blip. Wong, on the other hand, had fortunately been among the population left unaffected by this mass erasure. Thus without a Sorcerer Supreme once more, Khamar-Taj elected the longstanding master and librarian to serve in Stephen’s place; someone was needed to balance multiversal dangers threatening Earth, after all, and Dr. Stephen Strange wasn’t there to do so.
Stephen cleared his throat—his lack in acknowledging his comrade’s ascension had left the two at an…odd impasse, of late. He was too proud to say anything…positive about it, and Wong was too annoyed with the former to give him anything but errands, reading, and trouble. Their friendship wasn’t in jeopardy or anything, but it definitely served to spark a few…heated arguments.
This morning seemed to simmer with the threat of one.
September 9th, 4:43am
New York, Sanctum Sanctorum
A mix of both autumn sunshine and bitter cold met the sorcerer as he peeled away his large, fluffy duvet. The contrast between the warmth of his cocoon and the chill of the air in his room sent a shiver rippling across his sweat-slicked skin. He grimaced, feeling the clammy sheen clinging to his chest and arms, a now-familiar side effect of the dreams that had plagued him for...what, weeks now?
Stephen squinted against the brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust between the muted hues of his dream and the vibrant light of morning, reality. The tall, paned windows looming cross the foot of his bed, unobstructed by curtains he had neglected to draw the previous night, allowed streams of sunlight to pierce the room. It painted the worn wooden floors in streaks of gold and shadow, their warmth stark against the cool stillness that lingered in the air. Judging by the hour it seemed it was still morning, a good two or three hours earlier than the regular hour Strange woke by. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting the cold wood with a dull, muted thud. A shaky hand rose to his face, dragging over his tired eyes and down his mouth, the motion a half-hearted attempt to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare.
This eleventh one had been…different.
More vivid.
More disturbing.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to sit upright despite the heaviness in his chest. Stephen pressed his palms against his thighs, grounding himself in the tactile sensation of reality—the cool fabric of his pajama bottoms, the firm edge of the mattress beneath him, the faint hum of the Sanctum responding around him. The dream replayed itself in fragments, unwanted but relentless.
The woman, the same woman, and her drenched form standing resolute in the rain. The vague, oppressive sense of inevitability came, as per the last dreams, but then there was a gun—a stark, metallic presence in her trembling hands. In this instance he’d been another witness, watching as the woman swallowed the business end of a 45 after failing to successfully overdose on medication. He’d always hated gunshot wounds, their cruel efficiency. As a neurosurgeon they’d been the cases he dreaded most, the damage they inflicted on fragile human brains both horrifying and irrevocable. He’d pulled himself awake before seeing the result—thankfully—had he of, Strange knew he’d be doubled over and sick for the better half of his day.
That said, both he and Wong had now spent this August and September researching the probability and importance behind sorcerer and visions. Wong, ever diligent, had unearthed accounts of similar phenomena—mirages tied to the mystical currents of the universe, a form of warning or insight gifted to sorcerers. Some tomes described visions increasing with solstices, others more medically caused, stress, insomnia, all things Stephen has been afflicted with his entire life. Yet, their combined efforts yielded no resolute explanation as to why it was only Stephen experiencing these visions, or why they revolved so specifically around this woman. Humans took their lives every day, tragic though it was, thus one woman’s despair, one woman’s decision—or indecision—shouldn’t be haunting his mind like this...yet here he was, eleven dreams deep, each one more vivid than the last.
He took in a breath, sighing when he found the cracked wrist-watch he kept at his bedside ticking back at him—4:45am. Strange winced as he continued the meditation of breathing in-out in-out, he'd been too lost in thought to feel that a pain had settled in the top of his sternum. It didn’t take much to know what it was, given both the hour and dream. Years of experience in the medical field told him he was having, or did have…a panic attack?
How odd...A dream of a suicidal woman gave him a panic attack, him, Dr. Stephen Vincent Strange.
It was almost laughable.
Almost.
He breathed again, clenching his fists atop his scarlet, embroidered blankets—no, he was fine. The absurdity of it didn’t help, of course, but he was fine.
In control.
It was a dream, a dream that didn’t even involve him.
He shut his eyes tightly, forcing himself to focus on the rhythmic cadence of his breath.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
It was fine.
He was fine.
When he tried to shift his mind, venture to happier, calmer thoughts, memories of Christine and the watch suddenly flashed to mind. Her name hit him like a sharp gust of wind, cutting through his already fragile composure; images followed, unbidden and painfully vivid. Her hands, steady and skilled, stitching up his wounds with a tenderness that still made his chest ache--literally and physically. The two of them at dinner, laughter and conversation flowing effortlessly between them. The warmth of her skin against his, the intimacy of those quiet, stolen moments where everything else fell away. They were quick, painful—he squashed all of it back down, burying them beneath layers of resolve and detachment.He needed to regulate, to center himself before the weight of it all crushed him—again.
Strange shakily grasped at his sling ring, slipping the long, golden band through the familiar digits of his left. His hands responded automatically, forming the familiar gestures of a meditative spell to assist in his breaths. A faint golden glow began to emanate from his fingertips, soft and warm, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through a fog-filled forest. The spell wasn’t particularly powerful but it was steadying, surrounding him with a subtle warmth that swept away the remnants of his restless night. The sweat clinging to his skin evaporated, his clothing shimmered, transforming into a clean set of his usual off-day attire: an old Columbia hoodie, a plain tee, black sweatpants, and padded brown slippers. In his mind, if he at least made an attempt to ready for the day he could deceive himself into forgetting all that’d happened this morning, last night.
The blankets slipped from his lap as he stood, pooling haphazardly on both the mattress and the floor. Stephen stretched, a stiff, perfunctory motion more for show than for any real benefit, as though the act alone might convince him he had control of his body, his thoughts. His breathing had steadied, the tightness in his chest now a dull echo of what it had been, but the unease lingered, stubborn and unwelcome.
With a sweep of his hand, he called to the Cloak of Levitation. The deep crimson relic stirred to life in its corner, a subtle ripple moving through its fabric as though it had been dozing, waiting for his command. At his gesture the Cloak perked up, floating across the room with a sort of eager grace that only an old, sentient relic could manage. It settled over his shoulders with its usual flourish, the beveled mantle adjusting itself to perfectly fit the width of his frame. The upper collar brushed lightly against his neck, a soft, affectionate gesture as if it meant to soothe him, too.
Stephen sighed, his lips quirking into a faint, crooked smile. The Cloak had a habit of doing this—offering small reassurances in its own peculiar way. Normally he’d reprimand it, a reflexive response to its antics, but not today. Comfort was comfort, and if it came in the form of an ancient relic with a penchant for unsolicited affection, who was he to begrudge it?
He adjusted the Cloak as he stalked off from his chambers, the fabric warm and comforting against his back as he moved. His gait was deliberate, each step calculated as he left the sanctuary of his room for the quiet, breathing corridors of the Sanctum. Stephen rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he walked, Wong wasn’t going to be happy—not that he could blame him, of course. Eleven dreams, all involving the same mysterious woman and her demise—yet here he was, still withholding details. It wasn’t as though he didn’t trust Wong, quite the opposite, in fact. Wong’s wisdom and pragmatism had pulled Stephen back from the brink more times than he cared to count but this…this felt different. How did you even explain something like this? Wong, by the way, I’ve still been having those recurring dreams about a woman I don’t know dying. Repeatedly. I know you know a little about it, research and all, but it’s getting worse in increasingly vivid ways. Thoughts?
Stephen winced.
September 10th, 8:35pm
New York, NY
Wong and Stephen darted down the paths of Central Park, yelling both at each other and their targets despite the smattering of chaos unfolding round them. It was later in the evening, yet New York was just as busy as it always was. The streets were crowded, people and cards loud—and currently, under attack.
A set of upturned trees crashed in front of the pair as they turned past a set of street performers. Others, who had seen the blazing hellhounds, were terrified but this set didn’t seem to have caught sight of them, “I told you they’d take off, Strange!”
Stephen blasted a pair of runes towards them, blocking the would-be tree damage with the curve of his trademark, circular shield. Wong growled as he, too, sliced through the fallen foliage, jumping over remnants of both bark and leaves as the sorcerers bound back on the trail. Strange floated over the pair a little more gracefully than he, though both had to pull twigs from their robes when they landed, “And I told you to bind them before we went on this ridiculous goose-chase, o’ Sorcerer Supreme!”
Pedestrians and on-lookers were shoved aside as the two carried on at full, breakneck speed. In the distance a pack of demonic, hound-like creatures sprinted and clawed their way through the park. Each creature bore flaming black fur with glowing eyes and foaming mouth, paws and drool alike leaving pavement flaming in their path. Equally smoldering chains and sparks shot off from shackles round the beast’s legs, providing a hollow chime that accented their howls and snarls. It was clear they had been hunting something, though the something was unknown and unimportant given the destruction they’d left in their rampage. If this continued, Tony would be alerted, the Avengers may be called in--
“We have to slow them down,” Stephen called. In the distance he could see an unsuspecting municipal band performing on one of Central Park’s many stages—a veteran’s salute, by the sound of it. He gestured, “Take the ones on the left.”
“Strange, what did I tell you about—”
“Sorcerer Supreme, take the ones on the left!”
Wong shot Stephen a glare but complied, veering off with a muttered string of expletives that would have done Kamar-Taj’s elders proud. With a flick of his wrist golden mandalas spiraled into existence, their edges crackling with kinetic energy. Wong hurled one after another, aiming for the legs of the demonic hounds to trip them up, their blazing chains clattering as the beasts stumbled.
Stephen vaulted over a bench, the Cloak of Levitation twisting around him like a coiled spring. His own mandalas shimmered to life, the familiar warmth of magic coursing through his hands. He hurled a volley of precise, explosive bolts toward the center of the pack, scattering them like embers in the wind. Audience goers—now clearly distracted by the ruckus—scattered too, lawn chairs, popcorn, and performance programs forgotten as they made way for the hounds.
“Keep them away from the stage!” Stephen barked, noticing the band still obliviously playing through their patriotic set. Brass instruments gleamed under the park’s spotlights, the triumphant notes of Sousa barely audible over the cacophony of snarls, magic, and crackling flames.
Wong snorted, darting past a terrified jogger clutching at her dog, before pulling up a twisted mound of earth, effectively steering the creatures to the East, to Strange. Stephen shot mandalas of sorcery back, deflecting one of the lunging hounds with a rapid incantation. Thankfully, the creature’s fiery maw snapped yet Cloak yanked him back just before it snapped inches from his face.
Whilst Wong slowed them Strange wove the sigils for the Crimson Bands of Cyttorak. Long, red-orange whips responded like screaming snakes, barreling towards the creatures still nearest he. A few dodged, but the majority found their ankles ensnared by the sizzling binds—finally.
Stephen smirked and pulled the ropes downward, sealing them to the ground with a hastily summoned energy spear. Veins of gold seeped from the weapon’s sigils, digging down into the ground and pulling the glowing, angry ropes together like a leash. These would hold the creatures for at least a little while which was, hopefully, long enough that both he and Wong could round up the last and send them back to—well, wherever back was. Wong mirrored his stance and clasped hold of his own creatures, dragging them away from the larger group and pinning them down to the Earth like Strange. Red, runic ropes snapped to each, smoldering once they ensnared the hounds burning, inky black fur. He heaved a sigh, “Alright,” Wong panted, bending at the waist to catch his breath. His forehead was dripping sweat, “Alright, I’ll take care of these. Go handle the rest, Strange.”
Said sorcerer's eyebrow quirked as he surveyed his Wong's stance, “Ordering me around now?” He scoffed, mirroring the latter's exhaustion in his own voice. “Another perk of being Sorcerer Supreme, I take it?”
Wong’s eyes narrowed at him, though there was no real malice behind it. “It’s a duty, one of which you happen to share. Now, go.”
“Fine,” He muttered, making a show of turning away with Cloak. “I’ll handle the real work, then.”
Past the theater, the destruction was evident—burning cars, shattered windows, scorched sidewalk and grass. Pedestrians fled, some stumbling in panic, others frozen by the fear of this unknown phenomena they've witnessed. The hellhounds had done their work well, that was of no objection given the unmistakable trail of chaos now burning in their wake. He and Wong had followed these trails for the better half of the evening, though it was notable that the signatures of demons never quite left the air, allowing them the opportunity to pursue their quarry without issue. They’d taken down seven so far, so that left…two, maybe three still free in New York?
With swift purpose Stephen tapped Cloak's lapels and once more, he was jerked into the air. The resulting tremble from his relic was familiar by now, the sharp tug in his gut no longer a surprise though he could feel the annoyance of said relic. It never liked demon's, it seemed, and those feelings seemed to be creeping in as Cloak adjusted him into a familiar, yet high, hover. It was, after all, a creature with its own mind.
With the new perspective Strange branched his senses towards the visual and astral signatures now flaring up round the city. A few sparked, as per usual, but the trail left behind by the blazing demons was a relatively easy beacon to note amongst peace. To him, the remaining hounds seemed to be running towards the strip near Time Square; parallel to what might just be the busiest tourist district in New York. Great.
Strange descended closer, snapping Crimson Band’s of Cyttorak to each palm. The Cloak seemed to understand, fully lowering him to a glide before the creatures could bolt from his, or it's, sight. Strategic though it was, in the long run, it was inconvenient given the crowd. Lowered angles could allow him to bind the beasts’ legs, if only he could just get a better vantage of their path—
The crowd below was oblivious to the threat, it seemed, a decidedly concerning note that could increase the risk of potential, civilian casualties. He needed to put these beasts down before they reached more people; shouting at the top of his lungs, Stephen tried to clear the streets. "Get inside! Move! Move!”
His deep voice rang out among the crowd, cutting through the noise despite the on-lookers slow reaction. A few pedestrians glanced up, confused, until they saw the flaring bands and the faint shimmer of magic surrounding him. A few had the presence of mind to step back, others fumbled with their phones to snap pictures or record videos of the “Avengers Wizard” in action. He attempted to block them out but after a while he could make out chants, cheers calling that he, Dr. Strange, was their savior and hero. What he’d done was out of a duty for all heroes but he, he’d vanquished Thanos, saved them from the Blip, from nothingness—gah, they were all so oblivious.
With a wave of his arm Stephen cast the glowing Winds of Watoomb towards the unaware pedestrians in his path. They scrambled, at least those that didn’t fall over—his power wasn’t strong enough to hurt them, but the effort managed a gust strong enough to pull the crowd away from the snarling, rancid hounds in his path. He alternated back to the Bands of Cyttorak, sending the red-orange ropes from his fingers like snakes. Those who didn’t clear from the spell look on with shocked faces and slowly widening eyes. Strange twisted his hands and summoned a portal before himself, willing a second, stronger wind through it to slow down the creatures for the snake-like bands. The answering gateway appeared to their front, blasting them backward with a powerful enough gale to stall out both demons, and the resulting traffic still trying to pass round he and the pedestrians. The hellhounds, thankfully, lost control with his second attack, tumbling and snarling together in masses of limbs, chains, and fur. Those who had managed to stay upright ignited trails of fire down the pavement, nails screaming to halt them as the binding incantation finally bound each to the Earth.
One—
Two—
Damn, he was still missing one.
Strange steadied his hand as he conjured another portal, this time beneath the creatures as opposed to in front of. Through the other side he could hear his comrade suddenly call out in surprise, cursing him and his, apparently, awful timing. “Incoming!”
The hounds landed in a disjunct pile by the rest and, with another wave of Strange’s fingers, their bonds snapped they to the other, already bound, pack like magnets. He’d been fully prepared, then, to step through and end his night, though before he could manage Wong promptly shut off the connection to the gateway…Mr. All-knowing Sorcerer Supreme probably understood that there was still one left, right?
With a sigh Stephen pressed inward to the amulet round his chest, coursing magics through it to feel for the remaining magic signatures round him. In the distance he could feel that one last creature curve, bounding on a path Northwards, just past the center of Time Square. He clicked his tongue as Cloak, thus he, took to the sky—it was a smart idea on its part, this would give a better aerial view of their target without the distraction of photos, crowds, and media. Not to mention that with the higher altitude he could also see when the people would disperse, a technique which he and Wong had used to initially tail the creatures from the Sanctum.
Elevated, now, Strange settled himself to the relics will and searched…
—and searched.
—and searched.
It all started when a tear had formed in the seals binding both the circles of Hell and dark dimension together; most didn’t know the two were connected, but…well, demons had to come from somewhere, right? The phenomena happened sometimes, tears that is, and demons were heedless of boundaries and multidimensional creatures were too stubborn to stay put for very long, so...
Normally the occurrence would be resolved by a pass of an incantation over the bonds in the Sanctum, but this time the seal shifted while Strange had been in the shower—unaware and otherwise, off-duty. Said shower had also been to comfort his mind, which was now running on fumes due to the repetition of his sleepless, dream-plagued nights. When he’d returned to his office to start his evening meditations, Wong had been there waiting for him with the seal in hand, pissed.
When he still bore no luck, Stephen resigned himself to the northeastern quadrants of Time Square whilst his comrade eventually joined, then took to the latter.
Minutes passed, hours, enough time that both he and Wong were becoming relatively impatient with the location and retrieval of their final, missing creature. Signatures sprang up every now and then, signaling where the hound was or wasn’t though none turned out to be anything solid, or at least nothing they could use to pursue it by. Thus, at the Sorcerer Supreme’s behest Stephen drifted onward, tracking what he could of said demon through his eyes and Cloak, pausing at skyscrapers, hotels, and the occasional large, gaudy billboard to do so.
By the Vishanti…
Hours were now gone, the tell-tale indicator that the demon was leaving, or at least fading, from that of their physical dimension. There was still a chance that the hound had ended its pursuit and made to return anyway, a slim chance, albeit, but a chance.
Hellhounds were messengers, gatekeepers to the borders of Hell and living—when something got out, sorcerers were meant to pursue them, retrieve them. If the remaining creature was fading from his view, and the Eye of Agamotto's, then it stood to reason that either it found what it was looking for, or it’d return and try again. Strange pressed out once more with his astral body; he needed to find a path best suited to intercept this damnable creature. Wong was going to be insufferable later, not to mention that he could be back out here, at who knows what hour, to round up the next pack—
As he hovered, trying to formulate some type of plan, Cloak dipped him round to the top of some nearby buildings to collect himself. For once, he appreciated the relic’s ability to pick up on his indecision. He’d been nearly prepared to call it, send word to his comrade to grab those captured demons and pack it in for the night. He almost did, almost, but as he looked on to the spaces beneath him Strange found himself rather…perplexed. There, on the roof of a rather narrow looking structure sat a...well, a someone.
He’d pay it no mind normally, plenty of people frequented rooftops in New York but this someone, this woman (upon closer inspection), seemed to be kneeling by the roof’s construction railing. Railing, which was obviously created to serve as a protective measure between free falling and concrete.
He blinked.
The rooftop was vacant besides her; one side of the building was still framed by scaffolding and pulley systems, presumably for lifting equipment, whilst the right lay covered in tarps, buckets, and large, varied sizes of drains. It was clearly under construction, or abandoned, so why would a civilian choose to loiter around here?
Upon a secondary inspection, Strange noticed that she must have climbed concrete slabs to get to that edge. Without any manner of mystical ability, a feat like that could've only been achieved by jumping round the slabs still leaning round beneath her. It was a...risky maneuver, especially to reach the area where she now sat, at the edge. Ordinarily he didn’t feel like this scene would be a problem; a lone woman climbed a building to view the New York skyline, that wasn’t unheard of, was it?
Well…it certainly wasn’t common.
Stephen continued to watch her, gathering context—the longer he looked the more he found issue with it, with her.
That edge was close and though she wasn’t leaning over the railing, per se, she looked dangerously close to doing so.
The sorcerer beckoned Cloak to lower him and it yielded, dropping the pair by the fire escape near the backside of the roof. The woman didn’t seem to notice, continuing to look out over the edge at something Stephen, himself, couldn’t see. He supposed the view could be nice if one were viewing people, or lights, both were innocent enough. When he took a few steps forward, however, Strange found he could see the anomaly in the picture—a water bottle and a plethora of pill bottles by her leg. A few seemed empty, though without stepping up beside her it was hard to tell just how many. He scowled—assuming the worst of a situation was a habit of his, and though he’d like to believe she just another star-gazing New Yorker, the context just…didn’t agree.
“It's quite dangerous for civilians to be up this high.” Stephen called, trying to sound nonchalant though it was a strained thing. “At least unsupervised.”
The woman’s head jerked to the side in a moment of panic, clearly startled by his presence. She looked left, right, and after both it took her a few beats to recognize that his voice had actually come from the area behind her. When she turned, fully, a pair of grey-blue eyes snapped to his face. They were...odd, the color uncommon yet...bland—they’d be quite striking if not for the darkened sockets that held them. The bruising seemed to be natural, rather than makeup the lower lid itself seemed tinted by what he could only assume was prolonged sleep deprivation or illness.
As his presence set in both the woman's hands grabbed for the guard railing and bottles, one for stability and the other to hide evidence. It was an odd reaction, given his sudden appearance and her rather isolated location, but perhaps not as much given the fact that they were several stories up, and he just...appeared here. Again, he wouldn’t have thought otherwise about her, nor the roof, though something about the woman's...person...was pulling at him, pulling to him. Long brown hair framed her pale face, he’d wager she was somewhere in her thirties given her clear complexion and slight wrinkles. She was dressed simply: a black top, jeans, and a denim jacket, odd given the context of season and their rather absurdly high altitude.
Whilst he made his appraisals Stephen realized she, too, had been staring, most pointedly to that of the Cloak billowing behind him.
Yeah, that would probably stand-out to someone.
A mortal, human someone.
“W…w-who the hell are you?" Her voice was a pleasant, unused alto, raspy and tight as if she’d either not spoken in a while or just finished crying—he suspected a mix of both.
Stephen held up his hands, trying to offer peace, “Doctor Stephen Strange, Master of Mystic Arts and guardian of the New York Sanctum.”
“Doctor Stephen…Strange?”
He nodded, simply.
The woman’s brow lowered as she considered him, “Master of…Mystic…” She let the words linger in the air, as if waiting for some sign that this was a joke or a misunderstanding. When none came, she went on, emphasizing, “Mystic arts?”
“Yes. Doctor Stephen Strange,” He repeated, “Master of Mystic Arts and guardian of the New York Sanctum—like I said.”
“Yes, I heard you,” She retaliated, equally as dry as he. “Issue is believing you..."
“Hm, I will say I didn’t necessarily expect you to believe me.”
Her mouth twisted to a thin frown, "In case you don’t know mystic things aren't real, Doctor Strange, and this is the 21st century,” The way she bit off the word made it sound like an insult, “Go away.”
The statement held, suspended between the two.
When he made no move to leave, however, her eyes narrowed, once again inspecting the details of his outfit and Cloak. He did look the part, at least, “...I don't believe you." She emphasized, watching him with those unblinking eyes, "...Wizards, mages—it's fallacy."
“Sorcerer,” Strange corrected, though there was a hint of bitterness underlying his dry word. "I'm a sorcerer."
She raised a hand in mock apology, her sarcasm evident. “Oh, apologies. Let me guess, Avenger too, then?”
“Just…sorcerer.” He replied, frustration creeping into his voice, “And before you go on, I helped them one time. By happenstance. I’m not the type to be part of their altruistic philanthropy club—so, yeah, sorcerer will do.”
Without waiting for a response she turned away from him, her gaze once again drifting to the city below. As if dismissing him entirely she lowered to slip her legs through the construction railing, positioning herself fully on the edge of the building. The move seemed almost playful, though to anyone else it had to seem dangerous in its casualness. “Alright. Well, it was great chatting with you, Doctor Strange, ex-Avenger, sorcerer. Have a good one.” She sat there, looking out over the skyline as if he no longer existed, as if the conversation had been nothing more than a passing distraction; however Stephen stood there, dumbfounded. Never had he been so brushed aside—so casually dismissed—especially not by someone in this type of situation. His usual authority, the weight of his name and position, power, it all seemed to mean nothing to her.
Behind him, he could feel Cloak attempting to beckon the pair of them forward. He tried to ignore it, at first, but the relic insisted, digging its lapels into his chest as if that alone could somehow force him listen, move. He knew it, sensed it, yet the relic itself seemed to sense something more—threat, or perhaps an opportunity that Stephen himself wasn’t quite seeing. He cast the relic a sideways glare, “Stop it.”
The woman sighed and looked back over her shoulder, “…Still here, sorcerer?”
Doctor Strange cleared his throat, finally giving in to take the first few steps towards her. That ebb of familiarity was making itself known, again. Odder still was that it shouldn’t matter—she was just some random woman on some random roof, with a bad attitude and a penchant for lingering at dangerous building corners. He didn’t know her, shouldn’t, but…he just couldn’t shake it. Cloak seemed to understand too, given it's…tenacity; this roof, context, her, it all resembled his dreams, the ones of that woman. “I would normally find it amusing for someone to dismiss me in the face of my titles and world…saving, but common courtesy tells me that I don’t know your name, nor why you’re here.”
“...you don’t need to.” She bit back.
Stephen skipped down from the stairway and glided towards the concrete slabs near her, curtesy of Cloak’s timely—yet insisting—interference.
She immediately recoiled from him, her movements quick and jerky as if she’d been caught doing something she hadn’t expected anyone to notice, again. Her feet scrambled to push her back, hands and nails scrapping concrete until they darted back round the railing, knuckles white against the cold, florescent-toned metal. She didn’t stand up, instead keeping her posture tense and drawn, defensive.
He did, on some level, enjoy seeing how people reacted to magic—he expected this feeling was similar to what the Ancient One felt when she met him for the first time. A musing for another time, perhaps, “And these are?” The sorcerer raised an eyebrow as he looked down, noticing for the first time just how many bottles were actually laying around her, and what type.
She looked down as well, giving a stiff shake of her head. He could see her attempting to cover them, “Noth—"
Strange waved his fingers and with a sharp, punctuating snap the bottles carted to him, lining up as if they were dominoes prepared to fall in pattern. Each levitated by aid of small, gold sparks, spinning as he turned them to read, inspect. The woman’s eyes were now fully blown, “It’s an interesting expression, isn’t it?” He rolled one over to his palm, lid quivering by courtesy of his ever-trembling hands; 40mg of Citalopram, 90-day supply prescribed…three days ago—empty.
When he didn’t elaborate the woman scoffed, grabbing at the few bottles he’d already outright dismissed. He let her do so, though the empty ones stayed suspended by his hand, “Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to take from people, sorcerer?”
“Doctor Strange,” He re-emphasized, though when he spoke again he made a conscious effort to keep his voice less...dry. “But that depends, did anyone teach you?”
She gave him an incredulous look, clearly not understanding. “What? What are you getting at?”
“You, taking your life, of course.” Strange rolled the bottles round to unveil his findings, “Curious thing, “taking-your-life.” I was never fond of the saying; what does it mean, taking it from whom?”
He could see her face deadpan; he may have called it a look of guilt, but this looked too close to acknowledgement, maybe even resignation. Had she some color to her skin he suspected she might have paled, “If…” Her voice faltered, barely above a whisper, “I-If you’re insinuating—”
“Oh, I’m not insinuating anything.” Strange countered, dismissing the spell. The plastic containers nearest him plopped to the concrete whilst the others fell to her lap—the empty ones, for emphasis. There were four in total. Of course he didn’t need to insinuate, he knew an overdose when he saw it; mydriasis, diaphoresis, tachypnea, it was clear as day. “But if I were to do so, and to no one in particular, I would emphasize that once it’s over it’s not you that will be there to miss that life.”
The woman’s blue-grey gaze shifted down between his hand and her lap, this time in what he knew was full appeal of her shame. She didn’t cry, or retaliate, she just…sat there, eyes cast downward, unable—or unwilling—to meet his gaze. He went on, softer, “In the same vein, I would also say they shouldn’t be judged for their choice,” She stiffened, “And I…would be curious as to what put them there, if they had time to tell the tale.”
There was a long, pregnant pause that came following that. He, nor she, spoke, the only sound remaining now being that of the late, New York streets and a rather bisque breeze.
"Here."
Doctor Strange didn’t quite know what made him hand her the card, whether it was a sudden urge to intervene or some deeper, unspoken sense of responsibility. Maybe it was the years he'd spent as a doctor, which had instilled in him a desire to help...or perhaps it was something else entirely, something more personal. Empathy was not a word most associated with him, considering his reputation, but there was something about this woman, the situation—whatever it was—that made him recall the sickly woman from his dreams...
He watched her closely, waiting for a response. She refused to meet his eye, of course, but she did acknowledge his offer by way of reading the card's contents aloud. “…177A Bleecker Street...Greenwich Village?”
“Me.” He stated.
“But...” Against any better judgement, she extended a small, trembling hand to him. He placed the card between her forefinger and thumb, allowing her to flip it over— “...why give me...this?”
Doctor Strange shrugged, “Like I said, you look like someone who has a tale; it just so happens I may have time to listen.” With a twist of his own fingers the bottle still left in his right transformed to a liquid, the outside appearance shifting to take on the visual of generic Mucinex rather than standard prescription. “Less obvious.” He noted, but his voice took on it's standard, clinical edge now, “Cyproheptadine, a serotonin antagonist. It should help.” The woman took it, eventually, though it was with significantly more hesitance than the card. “If you’ve any activated charcoal at home, I’d suggest eating some of it. Judging by those empty bottles I’d say you’re dangerously close to the need for an ambulance. Well past it, actually, but…” His eyes wandered over her position, reading her still tense body language. “...Well, you have options, at least.”
The air between them thickened again, charged with both an unspoken understanding and an odd, unexpected kindness.
The woman’s shoulders stiffened, eventually, the precursor for her trying to sift thoughts, speak. He could see it in the way she held her breath, the preparation, “Why...help?” Her voice was low, barely audible.
The question was raw, not so much asking for an answer but rather for some kind of clarity, some kind of justification. Strange didn't have an immediate answer, not a clear one, anyway. His gaze softened, “Well…” He sighed, rather dramatically, “I suppose I was an Avenger." He paused, "Once."