The first light of dawn crept over New York, illuminating the Manhattan skyline like the dolmen stones of some vast, cyclopean henge, or the blunted teeth of an equally incomprehensible maw. People emerged from their apartments, from Starbucks and Dunkin' Donuts, clutching vats of coffee and hissing "my precious, my preciousssss" as they passed on the sidewalk.
Where the Hudson met the Harlem, a half-naked teenager shimmed down the fire escape and hailed a cab in his underwear, while the father of the girl swept the room with steely eyes. Somewhere on the Upper West Side, a tired police captain stood over the body of junkie in one of the city's many boarded-up tenements where people went to squat and shoot up and forget the misery in their lives. Thirteen blocks away, a young NICU nurse tied up her hair, patted the dog goodbye, and took the subway to New York Presbyterian – giving back to the hospital where she'd been born too early.
The Big Apple never slept, but it was shaking off the cobwebs for another day, its millions of inhabitants largely unaware of each other, just as they were unaware of the happenings at 177A Bleecker Street.
Peter yawned and toweled his hair off in one of the Sanctum's many bathrooms. It had taken him almost ten minutes to find the water shut-off valve, concluding a dangerous spelunking expedition behind the water heater, dodging decades of mouse turds and brown recluses while Strange illuminated the narrow crack with the crummy yellow beam of a Maglite.
On the upside, he thought, at least there weren't any cockroaches.
He'd had a strong dislike of them ever since that time he'd gone dumpster diving and an entire colony had hissed at him.
He hung up the towel and surveyed himself in the mirror. Going commando in a pair of sweatpants paired with a semi-dressy blue button down wasn't going to win any prizes, but options were limited, and it was better than wearing his Spider costume around the house all day. Or worse, having to borrow something of Stephen's. Imposing on the guy's wardrobe seemed like taking his generosity just a little too far.
I should head over to the Salvation Army and find something to wear. Pair of jeans, at least, maybe a couple of shirts. Gonna need new shoes, too.
Peter carefully made his way downstairs, forced to stick to the wall for part of the decent. He glanced through the floor (roof?) at the detritus of sodden books and splintered paneling, then turned his head up to observe the Sanctum's new skylight, an equally ugly, ragged slash through which he could see the first fingers of daylight.
Peter vaulted the rest of the way down. He stood in the middle of the foyer for a long moment, eager to help, but unsure of what to actually do. He moved a pile of broken boards to one side, then went back to growing roots, cluelessly tapping his arms against his thighs. His stomach rumbled. And inspiration struck.
He stuck a hand into his pocket and pulled out three crumbled bills and a handful of quarters. He always kept some money in his costume in case he had to take the subway home, or needed a sandwich at 1am.
5… 10… okay, fifteen bucks. I can make that work.
He retrieved his phone with the other hand. It was an older model, and he couldn't put it in a case because the extra bulk wouldn't fit in his costume's skin-tight excuse for a pocket, so the screen had a lousy, glittering crack down one side, but it worked and his minutes were still good. He dialed GrubHub and stepped outside to wait.
It was the perfect October morning, the cold yellow sun pulling mist from the asphalt in long feathery coils. The smell of garbage and brewing coffee hung low over the street. Soggy leaves stuck to Peter's toes as he bopped in place like a boxer, wheeling his arms to stay comfortable. A little chill in the air was nothing compared to swinging through New York's infamous December sleet. Although to be fair, that one time he'd come back from an outing in January and found the shower in his apartment gargling lukewarm rust-
Yeah, Mr. Ditkovich came reeeal close to getting my fist up his butt. Wait. No. That came out wrong.
A refrigerator truck grumbled by on the street, curlicues of steam drifting from its exhaust. Peter glanced back at the Sanctum's door, off its hinges and scorched black as though somebody had stuck a branding iron to the painted wood. Something about it left a pit in his stomach. He turned away and tried not think about it.
When the delivery guy arrived, he didn't comment on why Peter was standing on the sidewalk in his bare feet, or on the half-burned door hanging crooked on the stoop behind him. Peter didn't know if it was because he couldn't see it at all, or if it was a testament to how used you got to seeing weird stuff in this city. Honestly, there was no telling what'd you'd find on the streets; drag queens in glittery alien makeup, hairy fat guys in Speedos, people bumpin' uglies in the back of a taxi – New York had it all and then some.
Peter paid for a large, slightly greasy paper bag, including a tip he couldn't afford. The guy cracked an earnest smile, eyes bright with the forced alertness of too much caffeine, and thanked him profusely in Spanish. Peter waved as he motored off.
The house was still unhelpfully quiet when he went back inside. Peter blew a raspberry. Considering how big the Sanctum was, with its innumerable rooms and backrooms, connected to god-knows how many hallways, Strange could be anywhere. He could be lying down, or asleep. Or maybe he'd jetted off to Oz to hobnob with fellow wizards.
"Stephen?" Peter yelled. "Yo, Stephen!"
"In here, Parker," came the distant reply.
There was a door concealed behind the curve of the staircase that Peter hadn't noticed before. He tracked Stephen's voice into the library, which to his dismay looked even worse in the light. Half the floor was covered in towels and ugly, gingham tablecloths sopping up puddles the size of koi ponds. There was a lot of broken glass. Peter was careful where he stepped.
He was glad to see that Strange had cleaned himself up, at least. He still looked like he was getting over the flu, but his dark hair was neatly brushed and he'd gotten dressed in his usual ensemble, cloak swaying as he bent to retrieve something from the debris. Loose folios slipped out between the painted wooden covers, pages decorated with the smiling ghosts of bodhisattvas in vermilion and gold – all smeared into an unrecognizable blur. Red water dribbled over Strange's fingers.
Bad memories sucked at Peter's ankles like mud.
Happy's condo, with all its sports memorabilia, overstuffed furniture and classic game consoles, had felt like a second home when things had gotten bad – a sanctum where bricks wrapped in hateful messages didn't come sailing through the kitchen window. It was hard for him to picture the place now. All the white, airy rooms were marred by broken concrete and the sight of blood gleaming in the fitful light.
"Sir, I- I'm sorry about the mess," Peter blurted. "I don't know if you noticed or not, but I, uh… I sorta trashed your bedroom, too. Well that lady did most of the trashing, but she was groping your stuff and I should have just chucked that thing out the window, or grabbed you and got the hell out of Dodge, something, not just- freakin'- WRECKED the place. That happens a lot w-when I'm involved. It's my fault."
"Oh, don't be melodramatic," said Strange without looking.
"DUDE!" Peter exclaimed, aghast, as if that one word could encapsulate an entire essay on Strange's apparent lack of eyes, MLA format and all. "Are you even awake yet? This stuff must be thousands of years old!"
"And?"
Strange turned to look at him, eyes boring into his with crystalline intensity. He had a weird, perplexed look on his face, like he didn't understand what the issue was. While he was figuring it out, he took a step closer. Peter resisted the urge to step back, swamped by the uncomfortable recollection of the last time Strange had been angry with him. He snapped his mouth shut on something uncomplimentary.
"Parker," Strange intoned gravely. "If you hadn't been staying the night, I'd probably be dead. Given that, do you really think I care about a few broken relics?"
Oh, he's not mad. Good. That's good.
His brain was trying to be helpful, but the blood had already drained from his face. Because it wasn't about the mess. Or the water. Or the ruined antiquities, amazing as they were. Peter's hands clenched on empty air.
"W-well…" he stammered. "If you put it like that."
"I am putting it like that," said Strange. He set the folio on a nearby towel and carefully spread the pages apart. "Besides," he added wryly. "This place gets trashed more often than you'd think."
"Really?"
"Really. The Hulk put a hole through the grand staircase once. Then there was that incident with Kaecillius and his little troop of malcontents."
"Ka- Kasilliest- You know what, never mind. If this place gets broken into that much, then you need to invest in a better security system. ADT or something. And if you don't wanna do that, maybe you ought to consider getting a piece. Next time somebody busts in you can go "Yippee Ki Yay, motivators! Avada Beretta!"
Peter whipped a revolver from his sweatpants and fanned an invisible hammer. Strange looked at him askance, face screwing up as if fully contemplating the utter insult of such a thing. The silence dragged, and there was a moment where Peter almost took it back. O-kay, bad joke. Got it. Great, now you look stupid. Stephen probably has no clue where either of those references come from, and context is super important because-
Strange's mouth started to twitch, eyes glittering with suppressed laughter. Peter went limp with relief. He made a heroic attempt to keep it off his face, which in turn made it even funnier. He sniggered and looked away. Then he remembered he was holding a paper bag.
"Oh, I bought breakfast. I dunno if you're hungry or not, but-"
Strange snatched it out of his hand. "I am starving."
They cleared a spot at one of the tables and divided the contents of the bag. Strange went to puncture his carton of orange juice, then appeared to change his mind. Peter glanced away long enough to unwrap his Egg McMuffin, and when he looked back, Strange was sipping tea out of an earthenware cup.
"Feeling better?" Peter asked quietly.
"Much better, thank you."
"What happened last night? With your magic, I mean."
Strange's entire face pinched.
"I'm… not entirely sure. There are spells – wards, if you will – that can negate the use of magic in a certain area. It's typically used for defensive purposes, preset traps for would-be attackers, or places one would consider a prison… but attached to an artifact? I've never encountered something like that before."
"So it's anti-magic… magic?"
"A better term would be anti-life. Our bodies are much more than just the sum of flesh and bone," said Strange, in a tone that suggested this was a revelation he'd only recently come to himself. "There are certain pathways in the body that carry the flow of qi..."
He began to trace diagram midair, leaving burning lines behind. Peter stared at the mandala as it floated between them, first an empty box, then a circle, then another circle, spinning and overlapping in shimmering fractals of light. Peter studied them intently.
Is that…? Yep, it's a Fibonacci spiral. Rotational symmetry, too, just like in the Mirror Dimension. You know, these things look really flashy and decorative, but there's a LOT of math going on in there.
"Qi is energy, in the very broadest sense possible," Strange continued. "It embraces all forms of energy, from the most material, like muscle tissue and computers, to the most immaterial – light, heat, nerve impulses… and so on. We use the flow of qi to tap into the energy of other dimensions, and from that, we create magic."
The self-assured authority of his words carried a hint of showmanship, like a preacher flexing at the pulpit, but the distant, almost reverent look in his eyes suggested something else… like he wanted to see his own hands draw upon the magic, fiery and half-real, just to reassure himself that he still could.
"You're describing a conduit," said Peter, nodding. "Your magic comes in from different dimensions, like a current, and your body connects to it with these qi pathways functioning as a grid that you can manipulate. You make or break the, uh, the "circuits" to direct the energy to different nodes… and that creates different effects?"
It took a minute, but Strange appeared to get the gist.
"Essentially, yes. If you sever a person's qi, their magic goes with it."
He clenched both fists and the mandala disintegrated. Suddenly he seemed uneasy. He rubbed his palms together as if they were cold, then quickly rustled in his breakfast. Peter waited until he had gotten a few bites before a startling thought occurred to him.
"But you just said qi was life. Like, your literal life. If I hadn't…?"
"Prolonged exposure to the artifact would have eventually killed me, yes," said Strange. He washed down his McMuffin with another deep quaff of tea and set the cup down on a book. Peter fiddled with his hashbrown.
"So why didn't it affect me?" he mused.
"Are you a corpse?"
"Um… no?"
"Then it affected you," said Strange, dusting salt from his fingertips. "Everything possesses qi, even non-sentient things like plants. The correct question is: why were you not affected as strongly? If I had to guess… I'd say that my meridians are more robust than yours. Think of the different between the aorta and a cephalic vein. Both are essential, but you're going to notice a lot sooner if the first one springs a leak."
Peter sucked on his orange juice for a moment, thinking. "When I got close to the field, I did feel a little dizzy… like I was getting carsick."
"Like I said, not immune. Merely effected to a lesser degree."
"Lucky us."
"Mmmm."
"What did those guys want, anyway?"
"Shenmu was after an artifact. He called it the "mechanism"."
Suddenly reminded of the fact, Strange went to examine a hole in the wall between two bookcases. Peter licked a glob of cheese off his thumb.
"That's his name? Shenmu?"
"That's what he called himself, at least."
"And he got the thing- the metal box. What's it do?"
"I have no idea," said Strange irritably. "As you can see, it was bricked up behind the wall."
"Yeah, cause that's not ominous at all. Really loving the whole Goosebumps vibe," said Peter. He gestured at the various artifacts, weapons, and smashed display cases dotted around the room. "Considering all this stuff is out in the open, why stash that one? Unless it's-"
"Extremely dangerous, sought after, or both," Strange finished. He felt around the interior of the hole. "The Sanctum is over a century old; there's no telling how long it was interred. In any case… there might be a mention of it... somewhere around here..."
He gazed around the library, eyes roving over the hundreds of books.
"Many of the former caretakers kept journals, records..."
Peter swallowed the last of his McMuffin. "Study hall?"
"It would appear so," said Strange.
Eager to for something to do, Peter crumpled their greasy wrappers into the bag. After he'd cleared the table, he and Strange spent a half hour mopping up the water in the immediate vicinity, then a further twenty minutes sweeping broken glass and tossing smaller debris into a pile as their activities spilled over in an intense, but futile attempt at tidying up. After an hour, they abandoned the endeavor.
Strange went over to one of the bookcases.
"Professor Trevor Bruttenholm, 1943 to 1990, volumes 1 through… 11," he muttered, pulling down books. "Alexandra Bruttenholm-Roivas, 1991 to 2002. Master Daniel Drumm, 2002 to... 2016. Ahem." He cleared his throat uncomfortably.
Peter grabbed the first one without looking. He expected something cool, something dusty and mysterious and befitting the records of a Master of the Sanctum – like the book Gandalf had found on Ori's crumbling corpse. What he got was a battered yellow Moleskine, its elastic band so stretched it barely stayed put. Peter looked at the stack again, his very soul offended by this discrepancy with reality. The next one down was exactly the same, albeit in a brighter shade of yellow. Strange reclaimed his seat on the other side of the table, the movement drawing Peter's covetous eye. Or, more specifically, the vintage leather journal he was holding.
"Trade ya?" Peter suggested hopefully.
"Not a chance."
"Ass."
"Yes."
Peter flipped the Moleskine open and began to read. It was a lot less impressive than he'd initially figured. The planner contained large gaps where nothing was written at all, and when there were entries, they usually related to mundane stuff like the stifling, humid summer of 2012, or a car crash on Fenno Place that left a hydrant dead and water spewing down the street. Here and there were brief notes on who came to visit the Sanctum, including an initiate who brought in a Japanese magic mirror that'd turned up on eBay.
I journeyed to Kamar-Taj today to assist in the training of new initiates. I had almost forgotten the smell of the chai wallahs in the street. I was suddenly homesick, though I have not been here in many years, not since Kaecillius and I parted ways. I am also told there was a recent earthquake, though damages appear to be minimal. I observed the usual crop of seekers; the embittered and the starry-eyed hopefuls. There were a few who showed remarkable talent. Mordo has taken an apprentice of sorts, whom he introduced to me as Steven Strange. He is a very arrogant man, like many who come here. He is also a broken one, in body and very nearly in spirit. Not your typical combination. Still, I liked his eyes. They are steady and clear, and hungry to learn. He may make something of himself yet, if he doesn't give up. I also spoke with the Ancient One this evening to discuss recent events. She scares me as much she did when I was a boy. I'm very sure she knows it, too. Had paneer tikka over a bed of rice tonight. It was delicious. I need to remember to drop by more often.
Peter flicked a surreptitious look over the table, feeling as though he'd spied on a private conversation. Like any self-respecting millennial, Peter had Googled "Doctor Stephen Strange" at some point before he'd called on the Sanctum to beg for magical intervention. He'd been surprised at the sheer amount of information that'd popped up, from Strange's exemplary career as a neurosurgeon, to several hospital wards dedicated in his name. Then came the car crash and after that… nothing.
Strange closed his book on a finger and used his other hand to write something on a neon Post-It-Note. Several more were already stuck to the edge of table. Between the tremors and the fact that he had the most incomprehensible doctor's scratch Peter had ever seen, he might just as well have been writing in Elvish.
Peter quickly dropped his gaze back to his book. Thankfully for his guilty conscience, Strange was never mentioned again in Drumm's day-to-day affairs, which ended suddenly in November of 2016. Peter set the planner aside and picked up the previous one. It contained more of the same, though there was an interesting note in 2004 regarding the acquisition of a scepter of unknown, but possibly Aztec origin acquired after a battle at the British Museum.
"It wasn't a scepter, was it?" Peter asked. "Maybe inside the box?"
"No, I don't believe so. The box itself seemed to be their goal."
Peter wrote it down anyway.
The sun tracked overhead on its journey into the west, sending soft, slanting rays into the library. They caught in the jagged edges of the rose window and spun rainbows onto everything in sight. A pleasant breeze ruffled Peter's hair. It smelled like wet paper and exhaust, and sounded like the murmur of people on the street. He threw his chair back and propped both feet on the table, moving on from Drumm to Roivas.
Grandpa's funeral took place today. Although the ceremony went well, it did nothing to console me. I felt empty. Lost. Returning to the mansion on Bleecker Street offers me no comfort...
Within an hour he'd discovered that Alexandra was only slightly older than he was when she'd lost her grandfather (the previous caretaker of the Sanctum), that she'd quickly taken up kendo at a local Greenwich college, and that she'd owned a cat named Socrates. She didn't seem to have studied at Kamar-Taj at all. If anything, she seemed to be an unwilling player in something much bigger.
Peter could totally empathize. Duking it out with Thanos on the ruin of some exoplanet hundreds of lightyears from New York – for the fate of the universe no less – was not how he'd planned to spend his Thursday. On the upside, Alex's journals were a lot more interesting that Master Drumm's had been. The pile of Post-It-Notes grew bigger.
"Oooh, listen to this one: The Essence of Mantorok was concealed behind a false panel in the bookcase – behind a vintage copy of the Call of Cthulhu. I should have guessed. My grandfather had a twisted sense of humor," Peter read aloud.
Strange didn't seem impressed. "I doubt it had anything to do with last night. The Black Heart is currently stored in the third floor reliquary, in an iron box to keep it shrouded."
"Oh," said Peter, disappointed. There was a long pause. "...Are you sure?"
Strange turned the page on his book. "Yes, I'm sure."
Another, longer pause.
He snapped the journal closed with an irritated grunt and levitated up to the second floor. It was only five minutes before he returned; plenty of time for Peter to snatch a tome the size of a phonebook and relocate it to his side of the table.
"It's still there, just like I said," Strange reported, drifting back down.
"Oh, good. What even is it?"
"It's the heart of an extra-dimensional entity originally excavated from a temple in Cambodia. It's power is highly corrosive, both to the mind and the physical body – particularly to the skin around the eyes. I suspect it might be a lesser creature from the Dark Dimension that became trapped on Earth sometime in the ancient past."
Peter snorted a laugh. "The Dark Dimension. Seriously, that's what you call it? The Dark Dimension? Whoooo-ooo..." He waggled his fingers at Strange. "Why not just call it "The Bad Place" or "The Hole of Forbidden Juju"?
"You wouldn't be so flippant if you had any concept of the realm," said Strange with a note utter finality. He went to sit back down and stopped, eyes narrowing. One fingernail tapped against the polished tabletop. "Did you touch my books, Parker?"
"Hmmm? No," said Peter innocently, every atom trained on Roivas' third volume.
"Uh-huh."
Sirens caterwauled past on the street. Even muffled by the Sanctum's walls, Peter could tell it was a firetruck; the deep, throaty honk of someone leaning on the horn gave it away. He started to reach for the scanner app on his phone, then with great effort, forced his hand away.
Strange didn't stay seated for long. After a moment he picked up his book, and that's how Peter discovered the older man had a habit of wandering when he was thinking. He tracked the soft sound of Strange's footsteps as he paced the edge of the library, mumbling to himself on occasion. Another half hour slipped by.
"You like music?" Strange asked.
"What? Oh, yeah. I like music."
"I mean, can you listen and think at the same time?"
"Obviously. It's you, uh, senior citizens that usually have that problem," said Peter glibly.
Strange flashed him The Look™ - which, if Peter was being honest, had maybe half the firepower Tony's had – and pushed a hand into the layered folds of his robe. Peter gasped loudly when he set a phone on the table and began flicking through various brightly colored apps.
"Oh my God! You know how to use a phone?!"
Something swept the legs out from under his precariously-balanced chair. Peter toppled out of sight with a hoot. He emerged wearing a shit-eating grin just as a pleasant female voice announced that the Bluetooth was connected and the punk riffs of Blondie's One Way or Another drifted down from concealed speakers. Peter twirled his chair upright again.
"Hey, Stephen-
"Don't call me Stephen."
"Mm-hmm, yeah, I got it. You gotta tell me, does Abracadabra actually do anyth-"
"DON'T!"
Something the size of a golf ball blasted out of a display case and went rocketing around the room, demolishing a glass cabinet and leaving several impact craters in the paneling. Peter ducked as it whizzed overhead with an angry whine.
"What the hell is that?!"
Strange tracked it with his eyes as it wreaked havoc on what was left of the library. "Roman Dodecahedra," he explained calmly. "Simple devices used for guarding temples. That one really doesn't like it when you say abracadabra."
The thing's rampage about the room doubled in intensity, crashing into things even more violently, if that were even possible. Now it seemed to be actively hunting anything that had survived the previous night intact. Strange pinched the bridge of his nose.
"And I am an asshole," he sighed.
Peter cautiously straightened up as the object made one more circuit around the room before a lucky rebound sent it zipping out the door. He could hear the sound of it going apeshit through the rest of the house, growing more distant every second.
"Sssssorry."
Strange gestured at the library with an open palm – the universal sign for "like it makes any difference" - and went back to his book as if a homicidal Snitch wasn't beating the crap out of the other room.
"Er… should I try and catch it?" Peter wondered anxiously.
"Even if you did, you couldn't contain it. Just wait for it to burn itself out."
Peter thought of the front door, all open and inviting. "You know, if it gets outside it's not like it has any natural predators. You'll wreck the ecosystem. EPA will get involved. Not a good look, man."
"It won't leave the premises," said Strange by way of dismissal.
The music rolled over from One Way or Another to Beyoncé's All the Single Ladies. Peter didn't know if it was a selection of what Strange typically listened to, or a random playlist on Spotify, but either way it was good music, a random mix of old rock songs, modern funk, and some occasional smooth jazz. He bobbed his head to the beat and scribbled down a brief mention of an ancient, bronze circle Alex had apparently secreted away in some box or another.
The sun continued its rise, crested at noon, and began its slow decline towards evening. As the hours wore down, so did the pair's optimism. Somewhere between the throb of Bon Jovi and the earthy contralto of Etta James, Peter finished his eighth or ninth journal and scrubbed the weary grit from his eyes. The library's wooden chairs weren't comfortable for long-term sitting, and he'd abandoned his in favor of a web hammock strung from the ceiling. He rocked his body to get it swaying again. A pigeon regarded him from the edge of the shattered skylight, purple and green scintillating in its feathers.
"You poop on me, you and I are gonna have words," Peter warned.
After making sure the bird wasn't plotting anything, he let his gaze roam over the Post-It-Notes rustling in the breeze. Nothing new jumped out, so he stuck a web to the tome he'd liberated from Strange and hauled it up. It was a gorgeous thing, bound in deep blue leather and an elaborate tendril motif deeply embossed in gold. Peter eagerly undid the clasp and stared at it for a long, long time.
"I can't read this one," he said dumbly.
Strange looked up from his scrawling. "That's alright, Parker," he said, reaching up to take it. "It takes years of study to be able to read..."
He trailed off, dark eyebrows knitting together.
"You know what, I can't read it either."
He tossed it aside on the floor. Peter flopped back into his web with a sigh. "So, how many magical languages can you read?" he asked.
"Two. Tibetan and Classical Sanskrit," Strange grunted.
He reached for another book, then changed his mind and picked up his tea instead. His chair started to sway gently. Unlike Peter's it was vintage leather, like something out of Indiana Jones, and the old bearings squeaked softly as it rocked.
Peter yawned. "What's the WiFi password in here?"
"Er… h0ggywartyh0gwarts, all one word, all lowercase, spelled with two zeroes."
"Pfft. Come on, dude. I'm serious."
"So am I."
Peter gave the older man a long look over the lip of his hammock. "…You telling me you've actually read Harry Potter?" he asked suspiciously.
"I've read it," said Strange stiffly. "It's only been out… what, twenty years now? I like to keep up on… current affairs…"
He was flushing, avoiding Peter's gaze. Delighted by this revelation, Peter slowly typed the password into his phone.
"Huh. Well, you'd definitely be a Ravenclaw."
"Or a Slytherin," said Strange, somewhat darkly.
"So? Snape was a Slytherin."
"I'm not entirely sure you're complimenting me."
Peter shrugged. "Aunt May said I'd be a Gryffindor, of course," he said proudly.
Strange barked a laugh. "Parker, if you are anything but a Hufflepuff, I'll eat my cloak."
His collar stood straight up, somehow managing to look alarmed. Strange turned his head to one side. "Don't worry. It's not possible, so you're safe," he reassured it.
He took another bracing sip of tea. Creak, creak, creak, went the chair. After a long moment, Strange leaned back and closed his eyes. Peter gave him a sideways glance. He'd thought the sorcerer had been rocking the chair with his foot, but now he realized it was the Cloak pushing off the leg of the table. Peter smiled fondly.
He checked his emails for a few minutes, not that there was much in there to check, and searched for the release date of the new Batman movie he wanted to see. Showtimes indicated it was still in theaters, so he was going to have to wait a few more weeks before he could pirate a stream. On a lark he typed "magic mechanism" into Google and scrolled through the entries.
Magic vs. Mechanism in our Understanding of Human Cognition… Editorial: the Psychology of Magic… no. No. No. Definitely not. What's that got to do with the ducks in Ireland?
He scrolled back up and changed his parameters to "mysterious mechanism". Halfway down an embedded thumbnail showed him a crusty lump of green metal inset with a flywheel, or something that reminded him of a flywheel. Antikythera Mechanism – Wikipedia. The antikythera mechanism is an ancient Greek hand-powered orrery, described as…
Peter scrolled on, uninterested. He made it another quarter of the way down the page before his heart gave a sudden lurch. One of the related images showed an intricate brass cuboid about the size of a shoebox, the partial explosion showing an intricate assembly of gears, flywheels, and inscriptions that matched the clock face he'd seen peeking out of Shenmu's arms.
"STEPHEN! Stephen, I got it!"
Strange jerked awake with a startled snort. "Christ."
Peter dove out of his hammock so fast he nearly got tangled up in it. He leaned over Strange's shoulder and held the phone out for him to see. "Look! This is it. This is it, right? I don't know if you caught a look at the thing, but I swear it looked like this!"
Strange's lips were moving as he read the entry. He grabbed the phone and tapped up the article. They both bent close to read it.
"This is it," Strange confirmed, his voice low. "I forgot; he mentioned that word earlier. Antikythera. I told him it sounded Greek. How did you- did you just up and Google the damn thing?"
"Yep."
"Unbelievable," Strange growled. "Alright, pull up everything you can on that."
He handed the phone back and launched across the room, pulling books down from a new shelf. Peter dropped back into his seat.
"Hey, you got a printer somewhere?"
"In the corner."
Connecting to it was easy. Rollers whirred and grumbled as a stack of paper built up in the tray. Peter gathered it up and began sorting. He found a crumpled box of tacks in a drawer, along with several dead HI-LITERS and vintage fountain pens stuck to the bottom in puddles of their own dried ink. Just like homeroom with Ned and MJ. At least there weren't wads of chewed gum.
Strange tipped a stack of books onto the table and began flipping through them. Most didn't even have titles. Peter chose a flat, relatively undamaged section of wall and started pinning up articles.
"According to this one, the mechanism was an ancient "clockwork computer" found in 1901 at the bottom of the Mediterranean… apparently used for astronomical or calendrical purposes. X-Rays show 30 separate gear wheels… Wow. That's pretty amazing, actually. Anyway- I guess they discovered it in a shipwreck, dedicated to the museum by blah blah blah and currently stored in Athens. It's just rusted chunks, though. The bronze one I showed you earlier is a computer-generated model. But there's a real reproduction apparently on display in Bozeman, Montana. For some reason."
He handed Strange a copy, who squinted at the inscriptions on the face.
"…Ancient Greek not on your preferred reading list?"
"No. See if you can find out what it says."
Peter consulted the Prophet Wikipedia.
"Pachon, Payni, Epiphi-"
"Egyptian months," said Strange, interrupting him. "Written using Greek letters."
"Uh… yep. Then it goes Krios, Tauros, Didymoi, Karkinos- oh, it's the zodiac! It goes all the way around the zodiac, then some of the inner gears read out the longitudes for certain stars and equinoxes. You want me to make a list?"
"Just show me whatever you're reading. I have a photographic memory."
"Oh, that's cool. Why you sticking posties everywhere then?"
"For your benefit, obviously."
Peter handed his phone across the table. The music switched from Foreigner's Double Vision to an obnoxious ad selling diamonds. Neither he or Strange noticed. Up on the roof, pigeons cooed and rustled in the pink glow of early sunset. Peter read over the articles he'd already printed, feeling the last warmth of the day on the back of his neck.
"I don't get something," he said. "This thing is supposed to be like an observatory or astronomical calendar, right? So… why bust in to steal it? It's 2025. They don't need some fancy astrolabe built by Zeus to tell them when the stars are gonna align. They could get that off of Google, or NASA- or any one of a thousand apps. Heck, they could probably just do the math themselves."
"Which means there is much more going on than what is obvious. I wonder…"
Strange suddenly grabbed a book and fanned the pages under his thumb. The leather one, Peter noticed. The one he'd made hungry eyes at earlier that morning. He watched with interest as Strange opened it to whatever he was looking for.
"Something good?"
Instead of replying, Strange began to read aloud.
Fractured at thirty fathoms down it lies,
By octopus and clam uncomprehended,
A brazen image of Hellenic skies,
The simulated flow of time suspended.
Athenian's year by Cyzicene amended,
The Babylonian's Suns blood red and black,
Mechanic's art with mathematics blended,
Aigila's dark abyss holds all in wrack.
The planets' globuled pointers and their stack
Of tight-spaced toothed disks revolve no more,
The densely lettered plates corrode and crack,
Muted the ancient Rhodian's astral lore.
Two thousand years the greening fragments sleep,
Imagination's spacecraft in the deep.
"You should do audiobooks," said Peter.
"Yes, I've been told my voice can be quite hypnotic," said Strange modestly. "Professor Bruttenholm wrote that in 1966, after several entries describing a trip abroad."
"Let me guess: Greece?"
"Istanbul, but you could hit either location with a rock. Especially with a dimensional gateway, which Bruttenholm clearly had…" He stood up in an abrupt billow of crimson. "I'm going to Istanbul. You're coming with."
"Like right now?! Uh, well- at least let me get dressed!"
Peter raced down to the undercroft and pulled his costume out of the dryer. It smelled comfortingly like Snuggle as he tugged the clingy material over his head. Istanbul. For crying out loud. He'd been in the area once. Sorta. During the vacay of horrible decisions. But Istanbul? Right now, on a random- what was it- Tuesday? Peter struggled not to launch into his usual speech regarding the fallacy of being a Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man in somebody else's neighborhood. On another continent. Possibly on another planet. He tugged the mask down over his face.
He hustled into the foyer just as Strange was fitting a sling ring over his knuckles.
"Should I, I don't know, pack something? A toothbrush, or-"
Strange dismissed his concerns with a wave. There was a noise up on the stairs, and Peter looked up to the see the dodecahedra creep around the banister like a hunting spider. They locked eyes. It spotted him and charged.
"Heads up!"
Strange deftly snagged it out of the air as it passed. It vibrated sluggishly against his fingers, like a bumblebee bumping against a window. Now that Peter could get a better look at the thing, a multi-sided Platonic solid made of brass nodules and hollow pentagonal faces, he realized that it it'd been named appropriately. He relaxed from his half-crouch.
"Nice catch. You play backstop?"
"Hold your applause," said Strange dryly, pocketing the device.
He opened a portal in the middle of the foyer. Peter peered through at low rolling hills spangled with the warm, glittering lights of a city, including several mosques whose minarets seemed to pierce the skyline, all slumbering under an orange October moon. A mild breeze that might have started all the way in China, caressing the remote, arid lands of Tehran and Cappadocia, following the memory of the Silk Road like a ghost, before drifting across the Bosphorus and into Peter's face on the other side of the world. He gazed out at the dark strait, with its ferries and tiny sailing ships gleaming like earthbound stars, and knew that come daylight, the water would match that brilliant, impossible turquoise he'd seen before Shenmu had disappeared. He felt a thrill of excitement ripple down his spine.
"Is there a plan? Or are we just gonna wander around and see if something shakes out?"
"There's a sorcerer's lodge in the area. We'll start there."
"You thinking Shenmu and his goons ran home?"
"Possibly."
"Good enough. After you."
They stepped through, and the doorway closed softly behind them. With its caretaker away, and no guests to entertain, the Sanctum slept. Fiery leylines, invisible to the naked eye and recast by Strange during the early morning, began to knit like broken bones. Up on the walls, John Waterhouse's 1886 painting Magic Circle – the true copy, not the one displayed at the National Gallery – leaned sideways, was still again, and then dropped to the floor with a muffled crash. A draft gusted through the Sanctum's hallways, almost like a sigh.
Poem by Anonymous, found on the "Antikythera Research Project" Facebook page.