Disclaimer: I own nothing of Psych and its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.
Rating: T+
Spoilers: Hard to say. Could be through entire series, but likely won't be many.
A/N: I really need to brush up my knowledge of guns I don't personally own. For example, I don't own and thus know virtually nothing about Glock. That being the type of gun Lassiter seems most commonly to use in the series, I really hate not knowing anything about it. Fortunately, he has been seen with many different types of guns so I can throw in whatever I want to and it should seem plausible. He's a collector, as am I. I figured Nick Fury (the one-eyed man identified here as "Colonel": the original Nick Fury is white and I haven't read any comic books recent enough to have the Samuel L. Jackson version in them) would carry the most powerful handgun that doesn't blow holes in everything for a couple of miles. Lassiter, too.
Chapter Five: Introduction of the Quiet Man
Wong led him through the endless corridors to the vast dining room. While the Christmas decoration in the rest of the house appeared limited to that one anemic wreath on the front door, this place was quite heavily decked out for the holidays, with garlands and lights and presents and an eighty-foot evergreen tree standing on the middle of the massive round dining table at which scores of people were already seated. Many of these people were quite odd to see. There was a man, seated near the Richards', who appeared to be made of rock - Ben Grimm? or whatever his real name might be. Another man colored dark blue, with yellow eyes and a spade-tipped tail. He didn't recognize that one exactly, but thought he might have caught a glimpse of him in the previews for one of the X-Men movies, which he'd never seen. There was a man who looked to be utterly naked and made out of silver. There was a duck, that looked a lot like Donald. Then there was quite a large, muscular-looking fellow covered in blue fur. And a Native American man with a very cleverly-designed prosthetic arm and leg, both of which seemed to function exactly like a real arm and leg. There was a man with black eyes - totally black, except for the irises, which seemed to be red - and a distinctly African-looking woman, quite beautiful, in very fine, African-looking clothes with white hair and blue eyes. There was a bald-headed man who looked oddly like Patrick Stewart who was seated in a kind of wheelchair that appeared to be somewhat levitated. There was a woman holding forth rather a loud conversation in a distinctly Mississippian patois with the red-and-black eyed man who had a large white stripe in her brown hair. There was a perfectly ordinary-looking woman, rather pretty but more or less unremarkable in this crowd, that he felt inexplicably drawn to for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom. There was a graying, military-looking man with an eye patch over one eye and a shoulder holster containing two guns.
Wong introduced him to this crowd, though he tried to disappear into the molding, then sat him in the empty chair between the white-haired African woman and a very short, very burly dark-haired man with thick sideburns and a distinctly Canadian accent, who was the only person Lassiter had seen who was not dressed up. He was, in fact, wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a red flannel shirt. From the three buttons undone at the top of this shirt, he appeared to be even hairier at the sternum than Lassiter.
"Howdy, bub," this man said, and turned his attention away. The white-haired woman smiled at Lassiter and offered her hand.
"My name is Ororo Hdala. The Marvel Reports call me Ororo Munroe. My codename is 'Storm.' It is a pleasure to meet you, Detective Lassiter."
He clasped her hand briefly and stared at his empty plate.
"I take it you do not have a codename or a Marvel alias yet?" Ororo said. "Of course, if you are anything like your mentor, you'll never have a codename. You are rather shy, aren't you, Detective?"
He shrugged, still staring at his plate.
The red-and-black eyed man was sitting on Ororo's other side. He leaned over and said, "We can't have that. Gotta get you shaken up, put some fire in them eyes, get some life in ya. Laissez les bon temps rouler, m'man." He had a strong Cajun accent.
"Yeah, I've got a feeling my idea of 'good times' differs from yours just slightly," Lassiter said in a very quiet voice.
"Remy, leave him be. He's obviously far too uncomfortable here for your brand of bon hommie," Ororo said.
Shannon came bounding in, barked at everybody, and settled in at Lassiter's side. Pepper flew into the room and perched on his shoulder next to Ororo. "Oh, what an adorable little creature!" she said, and Pepper trilled appreciatively at her. "What's its name?"
"Pepper," Lassiter said quietly.
"And the dog?"
"Shannon."
"You like animals?" Ororo asked.
He shrugged. "According to the Doc I do," he said, still in that very quiet voice, still looking down at his empty plate.
"Well, it is rather difficult to gainsay that source, isn't it?" she said, with a smile. "Allow me to introduce you to a few people. This renegade to my left is Remy LeBeau, known as Gambit. The man sitting to your right is Logan Huddy, known in the Marvel Reports as Logan Howlett, otherwise known as the Wolverine. The dark-haired woman I see your eyes occasionally straying to is Jessica Edmunds, known to Marvel as Jessica Drew, or 'Spider-Woman,' and the reason you find yourself strangely attracted to her? is because she produces a pheromone that drives men absolutely batty. She can't help it. You can learn to ignore it if you try."
She introduced him to a few more people, just the ones who sat nearest. Lassiter barely paid attention. Eventually she returned to conversing with those around her and Lassiter was left alone.
Finally Doctor Strange came in, and all conversation ceased as though an "on air" light had gone off somewhere. He sat himself down in the last remaining empty seat and made a gesture, and suddenly the plates were filled with food. The man next to Lassiter, Logan Huddy-whatever, had a whole beef roast on his plate. Lassiter applied himself to his food when he saw everyone else doing so, and the man Logan raised a hand over his meal.
Twelve-inch metal blades popped out of his fist and he used them to slice his roast. Alarmed at the sudden appearance of weapons, Lassiter acted on instinct, leaping to his feet, disturbing both Pepper and Shannon, drawing his gun and shouting, "SBPD! Drop the weapon!"
Everyone stopped and stared at him. Snickt went the blades, popping back into the man's fist. "Easy, bub, I was just slicin' up my meat. Jeesh, when you wanna be loud, you are damned loud."
"You're out of your jurisdiction, Detective," Doctor Strange said. "Don't forget that. And try not to be over-precipitate in your actions. I know you were charged with 'protect and serve,' but you'll have to alter that slightly. Most everyone here is armed in some way, generally in some way they cannot help. No one here…ahem…under my watchful eye," he said, giving a glare to a perfectly ordinary-looking man in spectacles sitting nearby him, "will hurt anyone else here."
"What's your piece?" the military looking man, the one with the eye patch, asked.
"Pardon?" Lassiter said as he sat back down, speaking very quietly again.
"Your hardware. Your gun."
"Oh. Smith & Wesson Model 4506 .45 ACP."
"Nice." The man drew one of his own weapons. "I carry the Desert Eagle .44 Magnum."
"Damn good guns." Lassiter said, not speaking with any more volume but showing far more interest than he had in much of anything all day.
"Detective Lassiter has quite a nice collection of firearms, Colonel," Dr. Strange said. "What is that pepperbox thing you kept under your pillow back home, Carlton? The Derringer COP .357 Magnum, isn't it?"
Lassiter nodded.
"And then he has the Desert Eagle .50 AE. Titanium-gold finish. Beautiful weapon."
The "Colonel" whistled appreciatively. "Nice. No one does weapons manufacture like the Israelis. Get another one and you could join the Avengers program without needing magic."
"Ah, I don't think I could fire that gun with one hand, let alone fire another one with my other hand simultaneously," Lassiter said.
"Doc'll make you stronger," the "Colonel" said.
Lassiter ducked his head down and concentrated on his meal. There was plenty to eat, which suited him fine: all day he'd felt oddly disconnected from the state of his depression, but it had closed in on him again and he could eat mountains of food. He shoveled down turkey, venison, roast beef, ham, mashed potatoes, vegetables of every description - he didn't taste any of it, and every time his plate cleared it filled up again. Logan looked at him with an expression of near awe.
"Jeesh, I thought I was a big eater. How is it you're so damn thin?"
"Detective Lassiter is blessed to have an exceptionally high metabolism and the gustatory capacity of Eunectes murinus - the anaconda," Dr. Strange said. "He eats a startling amount for a thin man. Mostly, however, this level of bingeing is unusual for him. He did not want to come here, and he is depressed about it. It was a matter of life and death, not just for himself, but for the woman he loves. Leaving her behind is something quite difficult to accept. When Detective Lassiter is depressed, he eats. Like a hog. I've given him some volition he would not otherwise have had today, but I'm allowing him his head at the moment simply because it is his last chance for awhile to eat as he pleases. His rations hereupon will be a bowl of rice a day."
The red-and-black eyed man grimaced. "I don't envy you, my man," he said. Lassiter thought for a moment - what was his name? Remy? "Growin' up in the Guild and trainin' there is tough, but I don't think much of anything is tougher than joinin' up with sorcerers. They gonna run you ragged. For centuries, more'n likely."
He couldn't help himself. As depressed as he was, curiosity was still a strong character trait, so he asked, "What Guild?"
Remy smiled and chuckled. "You a cop? I think maybe I'll keep that information to myself for now, M'sieu."
Logan leaned in and growled in a whisper, "A Thieves' Guild, copper."
Lassiter cocked his head to look at Remy with one eyebrow raised high. "You're a thief?" he asked.
The man grinned. "You din' hear me confess to nothing," he said. "Besides, what was it the Doc said? You outta your jurisdiction."
"Remy is a former thief, Detective," Ororo said. "Never fear."
"Yeah. Glad you think he quit the business," Lassiter said, with a sniff, but he turned his attention back to his food.
When he was finally sated and his plate cleared for the last time he tried to sneak away, but Wong stopped him short. "Not before the presents are passed out," he said. Lassiter rolled his eyes and sat back down, knowing that between Wong and the Doc they had ways of making him obey. He sat with his arms folded, slumped down insolently in his chair with his chin on his sternum while presents appeared in front of everybody, so intent upon not paying attention to the revelry he didn't at first notice the brightly-wrapped packages that appeared in place of his empty plate.
"Open your gifts, Detective," Ororo said, trying on her new emerald necklace with a nod to the presents before him, and he looked up in disbelief. Blushing furiously, he sat forward, wishing his place was empty. He did not want to open presents in front of all these ever-so-strange strangers.
Pepper nibbled at his earlobe, as if to encourage him. Shannon laid his head on Lassiter's leg. Quickly, he grabbed a package and retreated with it so that he held it below the line of the tabletop, so as few people could see what was inside it as possible.
Much to his surprise, a shining steel revolver proved to be inside a zippered case within the box behind the wrapping. He identified it within a matter of moments as a .454 Casull, a gun he'd always wanted to get hold of. After the mess he'd made of the dinner, he didn't know if it was wise for him to have any further weapons at this time. He zipped the gun back up in its case.
The next package was the same: it contained a zippered gun case within which was an original 1860 Colt New Model Army .44 caliber revolver. The next package…contained a shining golden Desert Eagle .50
AE, identical to the one in his gun vault. Uncertain why he should be getting guns, let alone a duplicate of a particularly expensive model, he hid them under his chair and sat uncomfortably, not at all ready to open the last package on the table, which was quite a bit longer than the others.
Finally, tentatively, he reached for it. It was certainly heavy. He lowered it to the floor and tore off the paper to discover what he'd been fairly certain he would discover: a hard case for a rifle or a shotgun. Inside was an original Spencer repeating rifle from the 1860s, one of the guns that gave the Union army a great firepower advantage at the battle of Gettysburg in particular. He didn't blame the gun for sharing a name with someone who annoyed the piss out of him.
We will put these safely away in your gun vault for you, the voice of the doctor said in his head, and the gun cases disappeared.
Uhh…my gun vault is full up, he thought.
It is now, yes, but that is no impediment to further collecting. If you wish to leave the celebrations at this time, you may.
Lassiter did wish. He pushed back from the great table and slunk away out of the room while everyone was too preoccupied with their gifts to notice him, if anyone was inclined to in the first place, which was doubtful. Although the dining room hadn't been on the grand tour that morning, and the house was a labyrinth he wouldn't be at all surprised to discover hosted its own minotaur, still he found his way unerringly to the one place he thought he could sit and think: one of the many expansive "halls of history" the house contained, this one boasting the history of warfare, from the armor worn by the huge and now-extinct Roman war dogs - Molossids, ancestors of the Saint Bernard and other large Mastiff-type dogs living today - to modern military weaponry the world over. He sat down in front of a depiction of the surrender at Appomattox and lost himself quickly inside his own head.
He didn't know how long he sat there, lost in deep thought. Minutes? Hours? It could as easily have been one as the other. He wasn't even truly aware of what he was thinking. It was down too deep in his head. This strange turn his life had taken was part of it, his shattered dreams were another, and overriding everything, the loss of what he had so briefly had with Juliet - sweet, sweet Juliet. He felt now he would never overcome the pain of that loss. Was life even worth living without her? There was an open question for you. Sure, he'd done it for a long damn time, but now that he knew better…
"I rather thought I'd find you here."
It probably should have startled him, the doctor's voice coming up from behind him without so much as a creaking floorboard to tell him he was approaching. But he didn't startle. He felt too utterly steamrollered inside to feel anything so bright and vivid as startlement.
"I have a question," he said, in that quiet, level voice he'd been using lately. "Did this room exist before I came here, or was it created to make me feel more 'at home?' "
"Does it really matter?" the doctor asked.
"I suppose not," Lassiter said. "Just curious as to how far you went to make me welcome."
"Well, the truth is…the room existed, but wasn't quite so extensive previously. All the halls of history are that way. Your interest is a bit greater than mine especially, probably because I lived through so much of it. Wong takes more of an interest in history than I, but again, he's lived through quite a bit more of it than you, and his interests tend to lie to Eastern civilization, not Western. You, I believe, would take as much interest in a documentary on the Mongol hordes as you would on the reign of Emperor Caligula - Speaking of whom, your Juliet O'Hara shares a birthday with him, did you know that? And you thought you had it rough sharing a birthday with George Washington."
"Yeah, I knew that," Lassiter said, in an even quieter voice. "Asked her once if she ever slept with a horse. She didn't get it. Slapped me."
The doctor's voice grew quieter now. "You will get over this feeling. Little by little. Yes, it will take a long time: you loved her dearly, long before you could call her your own, and you are, above all things, a tenaciously loyal man. You even tried to hold on to that wreck of a marriage of yours for far, far too long. This wasn't on that level. This wasn't a mistake. You and she could've had something beautiful, and for what little it is worth, I am sorry that it happened this way. I wish things could be different for you. Perhaps someday, they shall be."
Lassiter closed his eyes and said nothing. There didn't seem to be anything he could say. When next he opened his eyes, he found himself in his bare, prison cell room. There was a tin tub filled with what he was sure was stone-cold water, and a cake of what looked like lye soap. This was apparently the bathtub. He looked at it for a moment, blinking. If they expected to break him with discomfort, with pain, they had another think coming. They could teach him all they wanted about discipline, and he'd learn. He was more than willing to learn: learn to control everything inside of him, until he no longer felt anything. But this? A little cold water, the sting of a harsh soap, the cold hardness of a stone floor? He would scarcely feel it. It was nothing compared to what he felt on the inside, now that the doctor was no longer messing with his feelings, giving him "volition." He was trapped in a living hell.
Unable to work up the will to care about it even as he stood and shivered, Lassiter stripped off and climbed into the tub, which as he'd suspected was just a few degrees from frozen. He cleaned himself thoroughly, honestly not at all concerned with the chattering teeth or the faintly blue cast to his extraordinarily pale skin, and when he climbed out he wasn't remotely surprised to find that the tub disappeared and his clothing was gone, with nothing like, oh, say, pajamas, to replace them. Not even a towel. So he was to be cold and wet and naked, was he? Bring it. At least he still had his shoulder holster and his badge.
He wondered about that, for the first time. The Glock 17 that was his official service weapon was gone, apparently, but he still had his badge, which should've been turned in onto Chief Vick's desk right along with the gun and his resignation. Granted, his resignation had come more in the form of a suicide note than an actual official resignation (hopefully they didn't take away the idea that he'd actually committed suicide from that note). What did Juliet think about that note? She probably hated him now. He could imagine her taking off the ring and the necklace and sending them down the garbage disposal.
And that idea made him suddenly nervous. If she'd taken off the necklace, what did that mean? It was supposed to protect her - from what? Apparently not from the denizens of the evil dimension that were now after him, or the necklace he wore should've been enough. But what, then? He was still fretting about it when Pepper flew in.
Pepper clearly did not like his damp condition, but Pepper had the means to do something about it, if on a limited basis. The little dragon picked a spot - her favorite, or near-favorite, on his shoulder in the junction of his neck - and burned the remaining water away with her fire breath, only a little warmer than a candle flame. Then she snuggled in and went to sleep. Lassiter sat propped up in the corner curled up on himself and fretted away 'til morning. With the first creeping light of dawn appeared his new clothes, and he knew it was time to get up.
He fairly exploded out of the room and came face-to-face with Wong. "Your physical training starts now," Wong said. He clearly meant to say more, but Lassiter cut him off.
"In a minute," he said, fiercely. "First you tell me what this does. What O'Hara's does." He held the jade cut crystal up before the man's eyes. Easy to do, since he was a good seven inches taller than Wong.
Wong raised one eyebrow, unruffled by Lassiter's temper. "I do not know," he said. "The master gave those to you. You will have to ask him."
"Thanks, I will," Lassiter said, and strode off down the corridor at cheetah speed. "Doc. Oh, Doc…"
The doctor liked to take people by surprise - not the wisest move when dealing with a cop, but Lassiter was already looking for him to do it and whirled around almost before the man spoke, even though there was no sound whatsoever to hint at his sudden appearance behind him.
"Detective. You really need to learn to control your temper. It will bring you to a sad end. It may bring all of us to a sad end," the doctor said, quietly and calmly.
The words were enough to jerk him temporarily off-course. "What do you mean?" he said.
"Forgive me, I keep implying you don't know how to control your temper. The truth is you're really quite magnificent at it, but your temper is quite a powerful thing, isn't it, Detective? There is so much anger inside you - built up over the troubles of your childhood, the neglect of your parents, the cruelty of your peers, and coming to a head under years of witnessing the greatest brutality and darkness common human nature is capable of. You control that rage, that fury, but the little bit that seeps out around the edges of that wall you built inside of you is quite dangerous enough. And, every little once in a great, great while, a little more has worked its way out, hasn't it? You know what I'm talking about."
Lassiter's face was dead white. "N-no, no I don't."
"Yes, you do. There was the time you were seven, and dropped a rock on that boy's head. Remember? The one who called you Dumbo?"
"I didn't do that. Somebody else threw that."
"That was what everyone thought. After all, there were plenty of witnesses - teachers, too - that saw you did nothing more than cross your arms and favor that child with your best - and quite impressive - seven-year-old glare. And oh, how fortunate that it was just a single, relatively small stone that couldn't hurt the boy much. You weren't all that angry then, but you hadn't built that wall so high yet - if you'd been truly enraged, you might have dropped a boulder on that poor child. Or rained them down on him and every other child on that playground that day. And then, of course, there was what happened the day Victoria came to you with her beau and said she wanted a divorce. In a way, it worked. It did convince her to give separation and couples counseling a chance. Her religious upbringing made her think it was an act of God."
Lassiter sank to his knees, his head spinning inside. "Oh God…I didn't do that. Tell me I didn't do that."
"Lighting dropping out of a clear blue, Santa Barbara sky and striking just that man, even though he had his arm around Victoria's waist at the time? You know better. I'm sorry, but you know better. And I wonder exactly why it took you until that moment to get angry about it. You knew she was cheating on you. You'd known it for a long time. You just…let her think she was getting away with it."
"I…hoped she'd get it out of her system," Lassiter said, in a voice that was dry and cracked. "Oh dear God and Lady Justice…I'm a murderer."
"You didn't do it intentionally," the doctor said. "At worst, it could be said you are guilty of manslaughter, though no court would ever think to convict you of even that much - even if you came right out and confessed. The most they'd ever think to do is send you to a mental hospital."
"What am I?" Lassiter said helplessly, falling to all fours and starting to retch. Nothing came up.
"An adept. Adepts are born, not made. The average person could pour their heart into studying sorcery for the whole of a lifetime and never be able to do so much as pull a rabbit out of a hat. Had you not set your course in life so firmly and irrevocably so very early on, I most likely would have come to you long before now and offered to teach you. It might well have been necessary, no matter what your wishes, if you had not fortified yourself so very well. Magical adepts are powerful individuals. Frighteningly powerful, even the weakest of them. You have a natural aptitude for Catastrophe magic, with perhaps a touch of Chaos magic thrown in. Truly it is amazing that, without any training whatsoever, you've managed to keep from killing all but one unfortunate individual with your power. I sense that the power you've locked away is far stronger than that single lightning bolt. How strong I really couldn't guess, but I rather have the feeling that you could give the Incredible Hulk pause for thought. You are the Warrior - Hoggoth himself created you, I begin to believe, which would well explain your draconian spirit, as well as all the spirit I sense in you that seems to trace back to the greatest warriors in human history. I do rather worry about you, in truth. I am powerful - I am very likely at this time the most powerful individual in this dimension, assuming my master does not remain here in any shape or form - but if the Vishanti truly did create you, you may be far more powerful than I. If I cannot train you to be absolutely in control of every aspect of your emerging powers, or, heaven forbid, if I cannot keep you from falling down a darker path such as far too many sorcerers ultimately take, then I fear for the future of the world and its inhabitants."
Lassiter shook his head vigorously, setting his newly-long hair flying. "I don't want to hurt anyone," he said, in that quiet, quiet voice.
Doctor Strange knelt down and pulled him to his feet. "And I am here to ensure you never do, my boy. Not ever again. Wong and I will teach you everything you need to know to keep from ever hurting another innocent soul."
"Who…who the hell are the Vishanti?" Lassiter asked.
Strange laughed. "You're familiar with Marvel's version of Doctor Strange but never encountered the Vishanti? Hoggoth, Oshtur, Agamotto - the triad of godly beings from whom the greater bulk of my power derives? At the very least, you've read about how I will frequently shout out such things as, 'By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth!' Marvel reporters are so ridiculously over-dramatic."
"Don't forget 'By the crimson bands of Cyttorak,'" Lassiter said weakly.
"Ah, yes. You know, I've worked with the crimson bands of Cyttorak on occasion, and they are quite useful in their own special way, but I can't imagine why anyone would swear by them for any reason. I blame Stan Lee. He gets a kick out of that kind of ludicrousness, and being the Big Man On Campus as far as Marvel is concerned, everyone after him pretty much follows his lead. Now…didn't you have a question for me?"
"Oh. Yeah. This. What does this do?" Lassiter asked, holding up his necklace again.
"I told you before you didn't want to find out," the doctor said.
"I have to know. I have to know what it protects against."
The doctor sighed. "Very well. May I borrow your weapon?"
"What?" Lassiter said, but he wasn't given time to understand the question. The gun was suddenly in Strange's hand, and pointed directly into his face, point-blank. The doctor fired. The gun went off. Lassiter saw the muzzle flash. Nothing happened.
"That's what it protects against," the doctor said, returning the gun to Lassiter's shoulder holster. Without leaning down, he made the empty cartridge and spent bullet leap up into his hand. He showed them to the stunned detective. "As you can see, the gun fired properly, and as you can further see, the bullet struck something hard at full velocity: it is quite squashed. What it struck was the spell. Both necklaces protect against such mortal threats as bullets and knife attacks."
Lassiter closed his eyes and shook his head. "Uh…isn't that…illegal? I mean…aren't you not supposed to protect people like that?"
"On a limited basis - a very limited basis - I am allowed to use my powers to such purposes. These are not my greater powers. The rules there are far more strict. Do you feel better now that you know?"
"Are you kidding? Now that she hates me, Juliet will take the damn thing off."
The doctor shook his head, eyes closed. "No she won't."
"How do you know that? You said you can't see the future."
"I know it because she doesn't hate you. She misses you, wonders where you've gone, and worries that you're hurt or sick or even perhaps kidnapped, but she still very much loves you and would not take off the jewelry you gave her if she were commanded to do so under threat of death. I knew so sudden a disappearance wouldn't be easy on anyone involved, but it had to happen this way. We'll send her more information on what happened a bit later on, when you're able to take it to her yourself. Seeing you again will do much to ease her mind."
Seeing Juliet. The sheer elation of the idea did much to lift his spirits. Even the idea that he was a murderer temporarily fell into the background and became manageable. It did occur to him to think that perhaps it would be worse, that a taste of Juliet would leave him wanting more, that it would be as bad for him as walking into a donut shop was for a fat man on a diet. He realized he didn't care. He needed that taste, no matter how much it would hurt in the long run.
Dr. Strange clearly saw the light come into his eyes. He smiled and clasped his shoulder. "We'll focus on those skills: they're easily learned, and when you have command of them you can start earning your keep around here, which knowing you means you'll probably throw yourself headfirst into doing them. For now, allow Wong to begin teaching you the martial arts you need to learn to bring your body under your full control."
"All right. Sorry I flew off the handle, Doc," Lassiter said, shamefaced.
"That's quite all right. Go on, now. The morning is wasting and there is much to do today."
Doc disappeared then, and Lassiter went back down the hall to find Wong. He spent the next three hours in the gymnasium, fighting him. Not making any headway whatsoever. In point of fact, he had the idea that the man was holding back, taking it easy on him. It pissed him off. Finally he got his opportunity. He grabbed Wong by the wrist and pulled him into a standard perp toss.
Instead of falling flat on his back as he should have, Wong floated through the air seemingly weightlessly over Lassiter's head and landed on the other side of him on his feet. "God damn it," Lassiter said furiously. "Can't you even fall like a normal human being? You have to be Bruce Fuckin' Lee all the goddamn time?"
Wong smirked. "Please. Were he still alive, Bruce Lee would eat my dust. And you have my apologies. I meant to allow you to pull me off my feet. Training kicked in, however, under sheer instinct."
He gestured toward a nearby bench. "Please, have a seat. Rest yourself. We've done enough for your first day: you're doing splendidly, though I can imagine you don't feel you've accomplished much of anything yet. It takes time. You don't have to be anywhere just now, so relax for a moment. Catch your breath. Then, if you wish, you may ask me those questions I see hovering 'round your head."
Embarrassed, Lassiter sat, shoulders drooped and head hanging. Poised, Wong sat nearby. After a brief period of studying his bare feet, Lassiter looked up.
"I was just…wondering how you came to this life," he said.
"I was born to it. I told you, I believe, that my father was a student of the Ancient One. He 'capped out,' as you say, long, long ago, but was content to remain as the Ancient One's servant for the remainder of his time in this dimension. My father still lives in the temple in the Himalayas where the Ancient One held sway, greeting pilgrims who come to feel a breath of the Ancient One's presence that yet lingers there."
"I see. And then…how did the Doc come to it? I mean, I know what Marvel said - drove off a cliff, nerve damage in his hands, went looking for a cure when there were no options left - but if he actually came to magic back in the thirteen-hundreds, I really doubt that's the true story."
"It was a direct result of the Black Death," Wong said, nodding. "Though the medical profession was
primitive at best at the time, Dr. Strange has always been a doctor at heart. When he can't save people, he takes it personally. Millions of people were dying all around him, and while he wasn't getting sick himself, he couldn't do anything to stop it from happening to others. So he went looking for a cure, wherever he could find one."
"According to Marvel, the Doc is or, at least, was an arrogant prick."
Wong grinned. "That's not an unfair assessment, actually. The doctor will admit it himself. But he's far more than just an arrogant prick, and when he is an arrogant prick, it's a defense mechanism. So, does that answer your questions? Or does it still confuse you how you came to magic?"
"I…I don't know. I guess I just came to it accidentally."
Wong shook his head. "No, you didn't. You didn't honestly believe that a Santa Barbara, California antique bookstore just happened to have an honest-to-goodness sorcerous handbook among its stacks that you, an Adept, just happened to find, now did you? Doc put that there for you to find. He was interested to see whether a rigidly pragmatic, intensely 'realist' individual like yourself, so violently opposed to the very concept of the fanciful, could be brought to an acceptance of something so fantastical as sorcery."
"Okay…does that mean he was trying to tell me that Spencer is the real deal?" Lassiter asked.
"Oh no," Wong said, smiling again. "You were quite right: Mr. Spencer is a fraud and a con man. Your Juliet realized the former some time ago, and it caused her to break up with him briefly. It was her realization of the latter which make her break up with him permanently. There are psychic telepaths in the world, those who speak to spirits and the dead, and even on very rare occasions those who can foretell the future with a high degree of accuracy, but the greater bulk of them, including 'Miss Cleo' and the 'California Psychics,' are frauds, pure and simple."
"Does Doc qualify, or is that just another magic power?" Lassiter asked.
"Just another magic power. It works to the same end, of course. If you want to meet a real psychic, a psychic telepath, I would direct you to Professor Charles Xavier, the most powerful natural psychic in the world today. He was the fellow at the table yesterday in the floating wheelchair. The one you thought looked strangely like Patrick Stewart. Patrick Stewart actually played him in the X-Men movies, so…that's one they got right."
"Who was that guy with the weird eyes I was sitting near last night?" Lassiter asked.
"Mr. LeBeau? He's one of the X-Men - Xavier's team of mutant civil rights activists and heroes. He's something of a psychic as well, in a manner of speaking; uses the power of his mind to affect biokinetic energy - a very basic form of telekinesis. He uses it to 'charge' objects and make them…blow up. He would be quite powerful indeed were it not for the fact that he had a genetic researcher perform brain surgery on him to 'limit' his out-of-control abilities. The world is happy that he did. As it stands his powers are classified as Alpha-level. As they were, they were most likely Omega-level - with the potential to destroy the world."
"Yikes. And mutants are…people born with…magic powers?"
"Not magic. Genetic traits far beyond what they call 'flatscan' people, giving them amazing abilities that may seem like magic. The X-Men are quite a large group. Storm and Wolverine, sitting beside you, were both X-Men, and quite a few others nearby you were as well. Most mutants with enough power to do something about the state of the world either belong to the X-Men or the Brotherhood - what Marvel insists on calling the 'Brotherhood of Evil Mutants,' because they stand in favor of a literal fight for mutant rights."
"Why don't I hear about this stuff on the evening news?" Lassiter asked. "Why only through a comic book?"
"The governments of the world like to keep a lid on such things. People know about it, of course, but…
well, they want as few people to know about it as possible. The only way the Marvel Reports are allowed to exist is to present themselves as fiction - and to make themselves at least slightly fictional. All the sensationalism isn't entirely their idea. That's why they like to play Alternate Universe storylines, just to make things even more unbelievable."
Wong clapped his hands to his knees and stood up. "The doctor would like to see you now, in what you like to think of as the 'grand hall.' I trust you can find your way there?"
"Oh. Uh, yeah, I think so."
"Excellent," Wong said, and disappeared.
Lassiter wandered through the twists and turns of the house until he reached the entrance hall, where he found the doctor standing near several well-dressed men, some of whom carried handheld recorders and two of whom carried pencils and sketch pads. Lassiter hung back at the top of the stairs, mistrustfully.
"Come down here, Carlton," the doctor said. "Allow me to introduce you."
"Somehow I don't think I want to be introduced," Lassiter said in that quiet voice that was becoming characteristic of him.
"Ah. You've guessed. Yes, these men are Marvel reporters, and yes, they did come here to get your story."
"How did they find out about me?" Lassiter asked.
"Not from me," the doctor said. "I expect someone who was at the dinner last night blabbed."
"Wow, he looks like the Doc," one of the men with sketch pads said. "Just younger, maybe."
One of the men with a recorder leaned over to him and Lassiter saw him whisper the words "Illegitimate son" with a significant waggle of his eyebrows. He felt his temper rise and swallowed it down with difficulty.
Another of the recorder-men spoke up. "Your name is…Carlton Lassiter, is that correct?" Lassiter nodded reluctantly. "Ew…I can't imagine any of us working with either part of that, especially for a magician's apprentice. Full pseudonym, or just give him a codename like Forge and Rogue and he can be a man of mystery?"
"I'm sorry, but I'd really rather you didn't mix me up in any of this nonsense at all," Lassiter said, not speaking up even a trifle but not having the slightest trouble making himself heard regardless. He turned and fled back into the recesses of the house.
A/N: Sorry for the delay. I should've had something before now, but I chanced upon an unbelievable bit of good fortune, something that absolutely never happens to me except once in a great while, in ones or occasionally twos. I found books…awesome books…in the secondhand stores in town. Five of them. Suffice to say, I've been quite busy with reading since Sunday. And then after I had finished off the new books, I realized I could no longer hold off on those repairs my vehicle really, really has required for a long time now, so I got the jump on that. By the time that was drivable again, I decided to do a little editing on that story - "Captain Hook Damnation and Redemption." Really wish I could get a beta on that, I tend to ruin stories when I edit them but that one sorely needs it, it was written by an idiot kid. Anyway, it looks a little better now, a little smoother. After that, the week was mostly gone. Just so you know, I am working on chapters of other things, just not as, um…devotedly. Can't help it. This one has a siren's call. Once I get it finished I'm going to try to reconfigure it into a wholly original fic. Difficult now that Dr. Strange is in it, but I think I can manage it. It's gonna have a female main protagonist, because I think I write tough women better. (Not Juliet. I…fear…she's too perky for me to fully trust her. Certainly not in my hands.)