Dr. Strange: Dark Nisse (fanfic)

Mark (The O.G.eek)
Jul 10, 2017 · 39 min read

Bell A Thrall,

Blood Is Spilled,

Illusion’s Power Known By All.

Thus Ikonn Be Returned To Whole,

And Prophecy Fulfilled

I

11/18. One Week Ago.

S’ylie is a ball of glowing magic — but tonight she dims herself, so as not to wake the sleeping couple below. She hovers over the couple in their bed as they lay, exhausted, from work and from lovemaking. S’ylie knows that this is when her Master, Mistress Clea, is her happiest: when Clea is close to her partner and mentor, Doctor Stephen Strange.

For his part, Doctor Strange’s sleep is also restful, but not as deep. An evening’s sleep is not so much an escape for the master of the mystic arts as it is another leg on his perpetual journey. After all, most of his daily tasks are done in dream-like states of one kind or another.

S’ylie wonders: would either the Master or the Doctor disapprove of what she is about to do? She meant to ask at least one of them, but now…?

She continues on into the antechamber between the sleeping quarters and then on into Wong’s room. Wong’s sleep is soundest of all. Liker S’ylie, Wong is tasked with protecting the townhome where they all stay, this Sanctum Sanctorum. Wong is the Sanctum’s Chief and Curator, and he understands the special relationship that the Sanctum has with Strange. With the power of the Sanctum and its relics at Doctor Strange’s disposal, Wong is convinced that, as long as Doctor Strange’s personal needs are met, there is very little that any of them need fear.

But S’ylie is restless. Even this far away, she senses the…energy…and she is compelled to feed on it. She flies outside into the chill winter night.

S’ylie is a “nisse”, in the mother tongue of her homeland. Here she would be called a sprite — or a “fairy”. But nisser are real. They congregate where great magicks are about to occur. Like plants in photosynthesis, nisser feed on the extra-dimensional energies brought forth by magicks. And Nisser emit the replacement power that extra-dimensional entities demand in exchange. They naturally do what sorcerers like Doctor Strange train their entire lives to achieve.

S’ylie leaves the Sanctum, traveling through time and space. In time her flight takes outside the city, to someplace sea side. The source of these particular magicks turns out to be a large, dark mansion overlooking the coast. A small break in a front window. She darts to and fro, just beneath the ceiling…downstairs, …Yes, there, down below.

S’ylie surges forward. No need for secrecy. Any being who could summon the amount of magical energy sufficient to lure her there would surely be able to sense her approach.

The long stairwell down to the cellar ends at a wooden aperture. She pauses. Her wings vibrate a simple charm, and she moves through the solid wood, leaving a fading spot of eldritch energy dripping down the heavy oak door.

On the other side, a cloaked figure stands, facing away.

The room is spartan — only a small desk and a few tables of books and flasks. But where…? There! — the far corner: my, such a strong spell…that was what summoned her. But, wait, the summoning was only a side-effect, the spell was not a summoning. It was a, something else…containment spell! NO!

“Hello, little one,” the figure turned, gesturing of magic and menace, eldritch energies snaking out: “Du’m flithe ectus Cyttorak. Join us.

And then S’ylie’s will was not her own.

II

The Present: Day after Thanksgiving, 11/25, 8:30pm.

Production assistants and lighting crew pirouette around the sidewalk, circling around and around Sara Wolfe in an elaborate technical dance. Various gelatins are tried, both to the lights and to Sara’s face, until finally the assembled professionals decided that everything was ready.

Sara wasn’t used to wearing makeup, but accepted that no one is allowed on TV without it.

Finally, Newsday, Everyday, Channel One, or “N-E-1”’s, Special Newscast Reporter Terrance Scrawl emerges from the truck; arriving only a millisecond behind the gleam of his smile. His company windbreaker being the only article of clothing not dry-cleaned and pressed to perfection. A marble tie with a gold diamond-studded tie-clasp hints at the wealthy compensation for his reputation as cable’s number one investigative reporter of sensational news.

“Miss Wolfe! I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.” He’s holding out a handshake, which he deftly rotates into a long kiss on the back of hers. Okay, she thought, a little effete, but that bit of old-fashioned chivalry works for me…especially when I look into his blue eyes. Good looking. I didn’t feel a ring under that glove.

“It wasn’t any problem. But I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Shouldn’t we be going inside? It’s cold out here. Aren’t you just going to be taking quick camera shots of our displays? I don’t want this story to be about me…”, she lied.

Rather than answer directly, the veteran reporter readjusts his smile, turns on his microphone and locks eyes with Ms. Wolfe. To his cameraman: “Are we running? Okay…Ms. Wolfe! Thank you for speaking with us. Here I have some pictures of Mr. T. Boone Bowen leaving your establishment, the Memorial Metaphysical Institute, on the night of his death. Can you tell us exactly what Mr. Bowen was doing at your museum, after hours?”

She managed to suppress any look of shock. So that’s what this was about. Damn. Even the police didn’t have those. Where the hell did he get them?

“Mr. Scrawl, as we have told the police, there was a private party for donors, and their invited guests, here at MMI that evening. But we have no guest list with which to verify anyone’s attendance..” All true. As far as it went. “Now, if you will excuse me, this interview…which I thought was going to be a documentary on the occult tourist industry in New York, is over! If you have any concerns about someone’s death, I suggest you take them up with NYPD. Good Day, Mr. Scrawl.”

The reporter wasn’t done: “Sara, what was the item in his left hand that he took from here? It looks like a dagger…”

Something different in his tone stopped her from leaving. She turned and glanced at his outstretched hand and the picture it held. It clearly showed Mr. Bowen holding the Dagger of Ikonn. Finally, she raised her eyes to his…or was that the camera?

“No comment.”

III

After she walked back up the stoop and slammed the door in their faces, she leaned back against it, letting her trademark long, black Cheyenne hair fall over her face. For a long time she didn’t breathe — until she gasped to herself in a whisper. What have I done?

She thought back to just two nights ago — Thanksgiving Eve. It was the culmination of a simple request, made long, long ago, by Mister Bowen and his old friend, Stephen Strange…

Mr. Bowen was a millionaire. But, far from looking like a million bucks, his suit looked mostly ‘lived in’. He had a couple of days worth of stubble framing his nervous face. He spoke with a lock of combover sticking to the flop-sweat on his brow:

“Sara, I am telling you — it is mine now. And I am taking it!”

Legally, she couldn’t stop him.

It was about two years prior, when Doctor Strange asked her to keep the Dagger of Ikonn. Mr. Bowen’s daughter, Tandy, had a semi-mystical mutant ability to generate psychic daggers of light. With that ability and the codename “Dagger”, she and her partner Tyrone, named “Cloak”, had assisted several other costumed heroes, like Doctor Strange, in protecting the world from various menaces. Dagger projected psychic daggers that could harm or heal. And Cloak’s mystic cloak was a portal to a void realm that could absorb any amount of mystic energy. That was key. Dagger could use her power for good, but her power was a menace, too. When her partner Cloak was not around to periodically absorb it, she needed some kind of storage vessel that could contain her psychic bursts. So, when Tyrone was slain, she needed some way to periodically siphon off her power.

That was where Mr. Bowen came in. Long before she discovered her powers, Tandy had run away from home as a teenager. She had run from the neglect of her supermodel mother and the abuse of her alcoholic father — magnate T. Boone Bowen.

But, unlike his wife, Mr. Bowen deeply missed his daughter. He sobered up as part of his efforts to find her. Eventually, he saw her on a newscast that showed a brief glimpse of Cloak and Dagger, alongside Doctor Strange, battling some super-villain. And so he left for New York and a confrontation with Stephen Strange.

No one found the Doctor unless he wanted to be found. But Sara Wolfe was a known friend…so Mr. Bowen had come to her. And she had arranged the meeting.

In that meeting, Doctor Strange was asked to help Mr. Bowen to reacquaint himself with his daughter. But, unbeknownst to Mr. Bowen, Tandy Bowen requested just the opposite from the magician — she did not want to see either of her parents ever again. As sympathetic as he was to her, he also understood Mr. Bowen’s desires for assurance that she was all right.

So when Stephen Strange later showed her how to channel her power into the Dagger of Ikonn, he also cast a spell which permitted Mr. Bowen to receive psychic impressions from his daughter left behind in the Dagger. Once a month or so, Mr. Bowen would arrive at the Memorial Metaphysical Institute, where the Dagger of Ikonn resided, and Sara Wolfe would allow him to hold the Dagger and ‘see’, in his mind, images of his daughter — her exploits, her feelings. It wan’t real interaction, but perhaps it was the next best thing. He could experience his daughter and see the heroine she had become.

Anyway, for two years, he seemed satisfied. And he paid MMI handsomely for this privilege. The actual contract said that he was paying for ownership rights over the relic. Doctor Strange was not aware of that contract…but, doting father or not, Mr. Bowen was a businessman. He had plans someday to insist on seeing his daughter: Doctor Strange and his half-measures be damned.

For her part, Sara Wolfe did not mind signing over rights to the Dagger if it meant a stream of considerable donations. Just before the contract expired her plan was to have the Doctor somehow cast a spell to prevent any overt mischief.

But she lost track of time. So, this year, this month, the contract was fulfilled. He had made all the payments. This time around, Mr. Bowen didn’t wait a month to return. It had only been a week. This time he was going to take the ancient relic with him.

Sara tried summoning Doctor Strange to try and save the situation…but her calls for him failed. And, so, at Midnight on Thanksgiving morning, T. Boone Bowen walked from the MMI with the Dagger of Ikonn in hand.

As he left, neither he nor Sara noticed the small, glowing fairy hovering around the streetlamp, alongside the moths and Christmas decorations.

Only later did Sara Wolfe hear and see what happened next, on the NE1 news broadcasts.

Thanksgiving Morning. Midnight.

T. Boone Bowen stood in the middle of the street. There was no traffic, but it would not have mattered. He focused only on it, on her. As with many times before, the relic glowed in his hand and he saw the images of Tandy in his mind. But this time, it was different…the Dagger of Ikonn was also speaking to him…showing him things, terrible things about his wife, his daughter, his parents…why they didn’t love him. No one loved him…his daughter HATED him…the Dagger glowed brighter and brighter. Soon, a crowd of onlookers gathered, but not too close — afraid of the strange man who looked like he carried a small sun in his hands.

Mr. Bowen didn’t notice as the fairy flew about his head, trying to warn him, trying to absorb what it could…he didn’t hear as the NE1 camera-crew truck, fresh from a job at the Hellfire Club, pulled up. He didn’t hear the voices of the camera crew yelling into their phones (“Cheezus! Guys, are you getting this?! Is someone calling Terrance? Well, wake him up! He’ll want to talk to this guy if he survives…where are the cops?”).

It was only a second, really — only a second between when he stood holding and listening to the Dagger, and when he followed the Dagger’s final instructions —

— and plunged the burning, white hot glowing dagger directly into his heart.

And since it was on camera, that would have been everyone’s lead story on Thanksgiving that day. Except that when one of the production crew tried to grab the dagger from his hand at the very end, the crewman ended up holding the Dagger…and looking at it, and listening to it..

Within a few minutes, all three crewmen killed themselves the same way. And two other bystanders did, too. The camera caught much of it…and although the camera had been dropped early on, it somehow was filming everything at eye level, levitating, as though it were still being held.

It was only when a police officer was holding the dagger that the curse was lifted…

…by a costumed hero.

Oblong bolts of argent crackled through the air, knocked the Dagger of Ikonn from the policewoman’s grasp, and knocking her to her knees.

Only after a few moments did the patrolman turn to the mahogany-cloaked figure and ask: “Who?”

It seemed that was his cue: “THE PRECEPT — at your service, Officer!” The hero, ‘The Precept’?, held out his hand to help the policeman to her feet. The camera still floated in mid-air, red light indicating that many would hear and see that particular entrance line.

Television viewers would see a tall, stocky man with hints of long brown mullet sticking out back from under an awkwardly placed red-brown headcover. Under that, matching black cloak and tunic emblazoned with a silver and brown rune reflected the the stray city-lights. Around one arm floated a shimmering silver shield-shape of magic force. His deep voice resonated with practiced self-confidence. The Precept had been arriving on the scene to foil various mystical occurrences for the past several weeks.

On the other hand: the dagger had fallen to the pavement, suddenly lifeless. And ignored.

The wee fairy, too, was gone.

Ambulances and authorities arrived. The Precept gave his statement. Six dead before he showed up. Although he was, of course, a person of interest, the New York City “Superhero Protection Act” gave him a rebuttable presumption of benevolent intent, so he wasn’t arrested for vigilanteism.

Finally, the crowd started to press in and ask for autographs and selfies, After granting them all, the Precept departed, dramatically, as with everything. His glowing shield enlarged until it encapsulated his entire body, and then, in a flash of light, he was gone.

As the crowd dispersed, a lone figure covered in a long velvet duster overcoat and multiple scarves, stood next to the abandoned relic. His dark, wavy hair was no less black than his eyes and his severe jaw began with silver temples and ended at a, similarly obsidian, van dyke.

He bent down and muttered something — and the forgotten Dagger of Ikonn disappeared from the pavement.

Then he turned to his partner, Clea: She was a beautiful alien woman, with short white-gold hair, and dressed in the purple maillot of her heritage. She wore the plum and violet jumpsuit under her winter coat…but the coat was not for warmth. As a native denizen of an alternate dimension, she was resistant to so-called “extreme” temperatures of Earth. No, she learned long ago that her appearance in tights on the streets of New York was too much of a distraction to male passers-by. And, her partner Doctor Strange was not fond of drawing that particular type attention, either.

She approached, with love in her eyes, but resolve in her gait.

“Stephen, I have located this ‘Precept’.”

“Remarkable, Clea,” his tone betrayed a note of surprise, “Which…?”

“Well, he is still shielded from us. As you have said, no revealing spells seem to work. But it occurred to me…perhaps he is not teleporting at all, but rather his mystic shield is just rendering him ‘invisible’. So…” And she turned to reveal faintly-glowing footsteps leading from where the Precept had stood, and trailing off into the city streets.

“Ah. Brilliant. I’ve sent the Dagger of Ikonn back to the Sanctum. Let’s hope we can follow this Precept’s trail and…introduce ourselves.”

It was then that S’ylie flew up to Clea and said something only she could hear.

Clea answered the nisse, glancing at a nodding Doctor Strange for approval: “No, dear. I thank you for your offer, but I believe we understand what has happened — and how you were drawn by the powerful magic here tonight — but we do not want to expose you to any further danger. Please return to the Sanctum. You can share what you saw with Wong, and he might need your help with securing the Dagger. Go on, friend.”

The Master of the Mystic arts turned for a moment to regard the bizarre, floating camera. And the he and his protege’ disappeared, leaving S’ylie behind.

Then the camera saw S’ylie leave as well, apparently following orders…

IV

The Present. About 10pm, night after Thanksgiving.

She recognized the faint ripple in the air. She didn’t turn around: “Have you found out anything new?”

“Unfortunately, no. Nothing you cannot already see on the news. We are still looking for the main suspect, this ‘Precept’.” said Doctor Strange, “But why did Mr. Bowen have it in the first place?”

Sara explained the contract. And the confrontation with the media and how she had tried to summon him the night before. Sara asked why Doctor Strange did not respond.

“We were distracted — misdirected, in fact — twice! Someone is playing some deadly games with us. Two nights ago, while Mr. Bowen was taking the Dagger of Ikonn, someone managed to lure us away by unleashing what was reported to be a minor demon in Queens; but that turned out to be a vengeful newsstand vendor who was given some stolen hologram tech from Stark Tower and was using it to harass his ex-wife. And for the past two days, we’ve been led on a merry chase by The Precept’s fake trail…,” Clea sniffed her disgust at this, “which led us to a mentally ill vagrant in a soup kitchen half-way across the state who thinks he is Spider-Man — when he isn’t drinking his weight in alcohol, that is.”

He paused a beat: “So we erased the memories of the one, and offered a spot in the Defenders to the other.”

“Oh, Stephen! Stop with the jokes, can’t you see how upset Sara is? What can we do for you, dear?”

“Oh, I’m fine, Clea. I just didn’t need any more bad publicity for MMI. Stephen, couldn’t you…?”

He sighed as he gently grabbed her shoulders and shook his head: “Sara, we’ve talked about this before. Although I have been witness to it once or twice, I am not comfortable with being the one to perpetrate the wholesale rearranging of reality — the people of New York, your neighbors and mine, ultimately have the right to decide whether or not our places of residence are too dangerous for them to keep around. And they can’t do that if I keep mind-wiping the populace. Remember: my mentor, the Ancient One, eventually relocated to the Himalayas. Maybe there’s a lesson, there.”

“I suppose you are right,” she forced a smile, “Hell, it can’t be any colder there than Winter in New York. So, what will you do, now?”

“Well, I will consult the Orb of Agamotto. It is not lightly used, but now that people have been killed, I can’t wait any long — What?” As if on cue, the Amulet — also from Agamotto — which clasped the cloak at his neck opened and a brief firework spew from it, like an alarm. “The Sanctum!”

Then in a crackling of folding dimensions, he disappeared, along with Clea…

…leaving Sara behind, no less worried than before her friends’ visit.

Then her doorbell rang. And she knew her day was about to get much worse.

She opened the door, and a young blonde woman stood there. This one younger, but no less intimidating than Clea. She stood in the MMI doorway with her long, blonde hair back in a ponytail and a deathly look in her eyes. Sara knew this girl was a superhero, too; but right now she looked to be just another confused young person, wondering why life had to be so unfair.

Sara Wolfe greeted her: “Hello, Tandy. I am so sorry about your father.”

V

Master Wong was a strange mix of ancient tradition and modern skills: He was sworn majordomo to Sanctum Sanctorum of the Sorcerer Supreme, but unlike previous majordomos who kept their emotional distance from previous Sorcerers Supreme, Wong was also a faithful friend and confidant to the man who was both his Master and pupil;

Wong wore a ceremonial tunic, but also comfortable jeans;

And he unlocked the front door both by punching in a complicated combination of numbers into the digital keypad, and by mumbling the charm-word that bypassed the warm wave of protective spells which scanned his mind, body and soul — and then permitted his entry.

He brought his groceries into the kitchen and set about putting them away when he realized something was amiss…

…and he ducked just in time to feel the kitchen knife thrust past him and land firmly with a THUD! in the cupboard door. Honed by years of training, his muscles reacted automatically, dropping to his knees and spinning back to his feet, ready to do battle with —

S’ylie! The shock of seeing his friend was absolute. The fairy hovered along with several other kitchen implements. She glowed — not her usual amber, instead her hue betrayed an angry gold and wine.

He ducked again as more knives and plates were flung in his direction. He yelled as a few of them struck.

He would not hurt his friend, but he had to alert the Master. He stood as best he could and grabbed a chair. He flung it as hard as he could toward S’ylie; She was far too agile for that to work, but the chair continued well past her and crashed through his real target: the first-floor parlor’s bay window.

This created a physical breach. The Sanctum’s spell defenses were triggered.

Suddenly, gale-force winds lifted both Wong and the fairy, as well as much of the knick-knacks in the parlor, and spewed them out the open window, and onto the street.

Wong was hurt and he looked about him to see himself surrounded by a remarkable scene.

S’ylie was not alone. She was lifted from the sidewalk by several other nisser. They all glowed reddish-orange, intent on his harm. But, off to the side and across the street, was a crowd of people standing behind a mystic shield-shape, which had been conjured by a brown-cloaked ‘hero’…none other than The Precept himself.

Not far away was another of those ubiquitous “N-E-1” camera-crew trucks. And, yes, cameras were rolling.

The nisser surrounded Wong. But, just as suddenly, The Precept was at Wong’s side.: “Fear not, sir!”

The other fairies flung small stilettos of energy at the pair, but The Precept’s argent shields bubbled and burst in reply, not only deflecting the bolts but striking the attacking nisser.

It was over in seconds, and only a still-wobbly S’ylie remained aloft; but when The Precept raised his hand to hurl his mystic might at S’ylie, Wong grabbed The Precept and attempted to subdue him, wincing from his own injuries.

The cloaked hero reversed Wong, throwing him to the ground. Wong slammed painfully onto his wounds and laid there for a second…The Precept turned to face Wong and it seemed that Precept might just visit more violence on Doctor Strange’s aide.

Until a deep voice spoke from within the broken window:

“Watoomb asserts, As Seraphim’s Averts!”

As Strange’s spell struck the scene like a temple bell, Wong instantly mused: I should write a layman’s book about spell-craft.

What a casual observer might not understand is that far more was involved to Doctor Strange’s magic than simple rhymes (Although Saturday Night Live’s “Doctor Strange Children’s Books” sketch was one of his favorites). Extra-dimensional entities like Watoomb, Cyttorak, and the Seraphim might or might not answer the call, but only if the one naming them has the skill to both see into their dimension and to manipulate the energies that they offer. Then the rhythm of the speech is designed to help the sorcerer achieve just the proper psychic trance-like vibration in his mind so as to be receptive to those energies. While, finally, the gestures are literally the sorcerer reaching out and moving and shaping those energies into the physical effects they wish to create, and to send back their own psychic energy to the entities…all done, as they say, at the speed of thought.

But without exactly the properly trained mind, the proper gestures, and a properly-crafted spell rhyme, the entity might as well ignore the spell-caster, or worse, destroy them out of spite for bothering them. Plus those entities must respect that, should the entities themselves not respond properly, the sorcerer might well retaliate by calling forth energies from another entity against them. Entities feared no human spell-caster, but surely they feared each other.

Such was his skill that Doctor Strange’s spell struck everything at once: All of the strewn-about belongings from within the building now glowed inside impenetrable force fields. No one would be able to so much as touch a single item that belonged to the Sorcerer Supreme.

Meanwhile, The Precept’s own shield energy now answered to Doctor Strange’s control. Quickly, the argent energy gently removed the bystanders and camera-crew, and it enveloped

Wong, as well.

Only the Precept was left unprotected.

That fact was not lost on the hero.

“Please! Don’t hurt me! I was only trying to protect these people…”

Doctor Strange emerged from his Sanctum Sanctorum, flying, clothed in his full battle regalia: His blue and black costume largely hidden beneath his crimson and gold cloak and the brilliant glow of the Eye of Agamotto at his neck, shining with blinding energy.

“Enough of this. The time is long past. You have been present at too many tragic events. Are they your doing? Are you public hero or publicity hound? Now you shall answer for your actions!”

Then, to the eyes of the onlookers and the camera, all three of them, along with all of the fairies, conscious and unconscious, simply disappeared.

Strangely, just as before, a single floating camera continued to record all of this. Until, from far off, the camera’s master allowed for it to rest, and it fell to the ground.

VI

“I thought I would be happy when he was gone. But I ain’t.” Tandy Bowen sat staring at the nothing on Sara Wolfe’s tile floor.

Sara leaned against the sink. “I am just glad you aren’t angry with me. I thought you would blame me…”

“No, I told you both that I didn’t wanna see him. If getting impressions of my life from that Dagger made him happy…well, that’s good,” her bottom lip welled up and her eyes watered while she sobbed between sentences, “I think I always knew he would end it this way…he was always so miserable. I just wish I had the chance to tell him…? Tandy got a hold of herself. “It’s all kinda sweet, actually. Compassionate. Didn’t know Doc had it in him.”

“Tandy, your Dad didn’t commit suicide. Doctor Strange said the dagger had been cursed from an outside source — some rogue sorcerer,” Sara poured herself another cup, “but who would want your Dad gone?”

“Oh, hell, he had lotsa’ enemies. To hear him tell it, nothing but. But a sorcerer? Dunno,” just then her cellphone rings to the tune of the Spider-Man theme song: “Oh. It’s my Mom.”

“Aren’t you going to answer it?”

“Got nothin’ to say to her.”…catches thieves, just like flies. Look Out!…Tandy hits reject.

“She was a shitty Mom, but now that your Dad is gone, maybe this is a chance for you to find common ground.”

“You don’t understand. This call was ‘from Mom’, but it wasn’t her. It was the guy in her publicity department…they’ve left lotsa’ messages. See, they’re scheduling a photo-shoot for me and her to have done, at the funeral home. So, she can seem like a good parent. Like she’s the victim. She’s an actress. You can bet she’ll cry well during this.”

“Really?”

Tandy Bowen nods: “Ain’t nothin’ my Mom can’t turn into PR.”

“I wonder if it bothers her that you are more famous than her, these days…I mean her successful movies were, what, fifteen, twenty years ago?”

Another nod. Tandy holds out her teacup for a refill.

“Hmmph. It’s funny. Now I really am all alone. Tyrone is killed last year. Now my Dad; who I guess was a fan, if I had bothered to — “ More tears.

While Tandy sobs, Sara moves in and envelopes her in much the same way that Tyrone, “The Cloak”, used to with his ur-mystic powers. Tandy, “Dagger”, would shine so bright that she would be the only thing visible under Tyrone’s, “Cloak”’s, all-encompassing darkness.

But this is only a hug. And this time the darkness is in Tandy’s mind.

“We’ll find who did this, sweetheart. I promise.”

VII

The sun was too bright. He held his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare and the outline of Doctor Strange floating above him in the sky was all he could make out. The Precept instinctively tried to raise a mystic shield…to no effect. My god. He took my power from me as easily as a parent takes a dangerous object from a reckless child.

“Is that not what you are!?” Doctor Strange’s voice boomed in The Precept’s mind, further shocking the younger man.

Doctor Strange: “The Dagger of Ikonn, which I personally transported back to my home, has somehow been redirected — stolen! I would prefer to use the Orb to find it, but that is only one puzzle. You are the other. So I thought a change of scenery might move this along.” The good doctor made a dramatic swing of his arm to indicate their surroundings.

The Precept stood up slowly, his eyes adjusted, and he looked around.

It was a mountain top, one among many. Majestic. Ten steps in any direction would lead to a fatal fall on to the snow-covered, rocky ledges below. But the nearby mountains seemed ridiculously close…like a good running jump would land you there…AAAAAHHHHH!

The Precept was levitated until he was on eye level, if not on a par, with Strange. “I have lots of questions for you, but this is quicker.” At that, the amulet at Doctor Strange’s neck, the revered Amulet of Agamotto, given to Stephen Strange by the Ancient One herself, …opened!

And from within the Amulet came a mystic eye, tethered to the Amulet by a mystic trail. It, too, briefly scanned the surroundings, rotating to one side, then the next, and then it came to rest upon the startled gaze of The Precept.

Power screamed in The Precept’s mind.

And then the next thing that the Precept, who was born Marshall Champion, knew, he was back on the snow-covered ground of the mountain-top. With Doctor Strange sitting next to him. The sun was setting, now…

Dr. Strange’s manner was gentle, now: “You have done remarkably well, for one who was never trained.”

Instinctively, Marshall knew: Somehow he read my mind. With that EYE-thing. He knows all about me.

I’m drawn to magic. That’s why I became a ghost-hunter…acquired some fame, regionally, back in the midwest. But once I touched one of the scrolls of the seraphim (“Purchased at a garage sale of all things!” Strange opined to himself), it all changed. I wasn’t just drawn to it, I could do it. Make shapes. Throw blasts. Fly, if I really concentrate. Recently there has been a huge upsurge in magic events in New York, so I moved here. Now I use my abilities to find when dark magicians are up to something…try to protect the citizens.”

“So that what happened to your little brother doesn’t happen to others.”

Precept nodded. “The news said it was a frat party gone wrong. But that particular frat was also host to a subset of demon-worshippers. Turns out that his arrival was prophesized…he was their sacrifice.”

“I recall that event. I stopped them, but not in time to save your brother.”

“I drove up to their frat just as you flew away. I was first on the scene…I hid the trappings of demon-worship so that my brother’s good name would not be tainted by what they had done, too. For a long time, I thought you had killed them. But, as you became more famous, I pieced together what you must have had done. Saved his soul, if not his body. I guess you ultimately inspired me to do what I do now…will you give me my powers back?”

“Hm? Oh, no. I never took them. I merely borrowed them. Mystic forces are like a river, they will follow new channels if you make them.”

A pregnant pause, and then: “So effortless…how?”

Stephen Strange regarded Marshall Champion for a long time. And then finally sighed. Even at his most arrogant, he had always been a teaching Doctor: “Perhaps one lesson.”

And they disappeared.

To reappear at a beach — Stephen Strange’s least-favorite beach — the one in Oregon where his sister received her fatal blow to the head when they were both kids…the site of Stephen’s single greatest failure. He could still see his sister’s body falling, just beneath his outstretched hand, falling from the cliff that he had convinced her to climb when they were children…

Enough. He looked at the Precept long enough for the younger magician to get used to his new surroundings and told him: “Place your hand in the sand.” He pointed down.

The Precept did so.

“How does it feel?”

“Warm.”

“Yes! The Sun’s energy is right there for you to feel, to absorb. Now move your hand from side to side. How much sand are you moving?”

“It piles up, the more you push. You can move a good amount.”

“Exactly. And does it take much effort on your part?”

“No.”

“Right. Now press your hand deep into the dune. Deeper. Now how does it feel?”

“It’s colder. Wet.”

“And harder to move, yes?”

“Hnngf! Yes, can’t really move it much…”

“Right. In fact. If you go too deep, you can’t move your hand at all and you are trapped. And, were you to pull your hand out, you would hold only a hand’s full worth of sand, no more. Yes?”

The Precept did so: “Yes. So…?” He looked at the Doctor for understanding.

“Marshall, when cast your magic,” Doctor Strange kneeled down on one knee to meet The Precept’s eye, “you are pressing.”

Doctor Strange was satisfied with the lesson. He stood and faced away from his newest student. There were so many…

“Where would you like to be returned to?”

“I live in Queens, on — ,” the Precept began.

And in the blink of an eye, he was back in his living room, laying in bed. For a moment he was dumbstruck. Was it all a dream? No, he was still in costume.

The Precept raised his hand and allowed it to glow with the ancient energy he possessed…

Pressing, hunh…?

Meanwhile, Doctor Strange continued to stand on the sand. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. For all his bluster, these exertions of power did truly drain him. He could hear Clea now: New York to the Himalayas! To Oregon! Back to Gotham? Really, Stephen?

What can he say? He liked to make a firm first-impression with new mystics.

He gathered his scarlet cloak about him and looked around. Several tourists and a few locals. Many cell phones aimed his way — taking pictures, no doubt. Agamotto you’ve got nothing on these folks.

Cameras, indeed. One mystery was solved: The Precept really was just a novice hero with a penchant for bad in-fight dialogue who kept stumbling into this thing. And it had not been the Precept who had been distracting him, casting curses, and stealing the Dagger. Nor was it him who was running the TV cameras to capture all the mystic events. Somehow that was key…cameras…no, he still wasn’t tracking yet.

Perhaps Clea has had luck figuring out what happened to the fairies?

In an instant, he too was gone back home.

In the next, a videotape of his lesson to the Precept was uploaded to the Internet by a bystander.

VI

The greatest living acolyte of Ikonn stands outside MMI’s front door. This is the moment that was foreseen. He rings the bell.

Sara Wolfe answers it and smiles at her visitor: “Wong?! What a pleasant surprise. Come in!”

“Ah, Ms. Wolfe. Thank you. Pardon my interruption. But the Doctor asks me to return this to you.” As he enters and removes his coat, he shows her the Dagger. Then without looking at her, he addresses Tandy Bowen. “Hello to you as well, young friend.” ‘Young friend’ was what Wong always called Tandy.

Tandy noticed something a little odd about Wong’s manner, But Sara did not. She merely clasped her hands in relief at seeing the relic: “Good! Do you know how he found it?”

“No, Ms. Wolfe. He did not share that with me. But he did say I should show it to you and that it should be placed with Ikonn’s other relic.”

“The Bell? Well, I don’t know what you mean…that isn’t here…”

“But he said it was. The Doctor would not be wrong about such a thing.”

The two locked eyes for a moment and then Sara turned to get her coat: “All right, you’re right. But it was a secret…it’s in the loft, locked up. Just let me get my key…”

The man who looked like Wong scanned her mind and found the deceptions, both of them. The other relic was not here after all, and: “Ah, you mean, your crystal so that you can alert the Doctor? No, I think not. Observe, ladies…”

And then his form changed, morphing gently, colors and shapes readjusting into a familiar figure —

Before the ladies stands not Wong, but Doctor Strange, holding the Dagger of Ikonn. And his words seem to echo in their minds: “By Shifting Sands of Sesserath, kväva deras ljud, By Ikonn’s will, nevermore be heard.”

The relic of Ikonn glows bright as the spell strikes the two ladies at once, rendering them mute and momentarily stunned. Then, the front door opens and a familiar sight appears…yet another floating camera enters, capturing the scene.

Tandy Bowen, the superhero, herself known as Dagger, wordlessly screams something and then rushes to defend them both. Her glowing round argent tattoo appears around her right eye to indicate that she is summoning her mystic strength. She shoulder-rolls to behind the hallway wall and to re-emerge and fling silver bolts towards the ersatz Doctor.

With a gesture, the bolts are deflected, no, redirected, towards Sara. They hit Ms. Wolfe as MMI’s curator crumples to the ground with a soundless shriek.

“No!” Dagger mouths. At that, Dagger gathers herself and flings a large ball of energy at her enemy, which is also redirected to hit the slumping form of Sara Wolfe, as though it were aimed at her in the first place.

Then Doctor Strange speaks, holding up the relic for the camera to see: “No, I cannot stop her! This artifact, the Dagger of Ikonn, is too powerful. She is cursed with it’s power…and now…so am I!”

At that, just like Tandy’s dad a few nights before, he plunges the Dagger into his own chest, apparently killing himself. He falls to the floor, in a growing pool of blood. The camera zooms in.

Tandy Bowen continues to say things that no one hears. She stares at the camera for a while until, in a fit of anger, she uses her own bolts of ur-mystic energy to blast it from the air in a shower of sparks.

She stood over the form of the Doctor and eventually turned him over, to see if the Dagger was still glowing or not. But when the form’s face was revealed, it wasn’t who she was expecting, at all:

“Hello, Dear. Time to go meet your fate.”

And then they both disappeared in a flash, leaving Sara Wolfe alone on the floor of her Institute, among the shattered furniture and shrapnel of mystic battle.

VIII

Doctor Strange reappears in his Sanctum Sanctorum, to be greeted by his faithful allies.

Wong: “Good Day, Doctor. I have prepared your usual meal.”

“Thank you, Wong. Please report.”

“Clea returned from her journey with the item you requested. Also, she fixed the broken window and now is upstairs continuing her studies of the nisser. I have phoned the authorities to tell them what happened…although I did not know what to say about this Precept…”

“You can tell them that he is an ally.”

Wong smiled, knowing what that meant. Another student. No doubt someday soon he will come to stay with them for a while, to learn under Doctor Strange. They all do.

Doctor Strange, for his part, dismissed his cloak of levitation and sat on the floor to enjoy the meal. He had the utmost faith in Clea. She understood the nisser better than he — being from another dimension herself, she had an affinity with extra-dimensional populations who tried to assimilate into Earth.

But Fairies were among the most interesting of those creatures. They travelled time and space, drawn to mystic energies. And they possessed a certain amount of power, themselves, though they were loathe to use it. But, were someone to somehow militarize them, they could be formidable. Especially since their numbers were unknown. And would an exertion of their own power draw yet more of them, in a sort of snowball effect…? Yes, yes, that makes sense…

Clea emerged just as he finished his meal.

“Have you eaten, dear?” he asked.

“Yes. Stephen, I wanted to wait until you got back…but this is horrible. I think what was done to these creatures cannot be undone.” His silence begged for an explanation, “They have not been possessed so much as altered. Their violent outburst is not just angry, it is self-loathing. They hate themselves but cannot stop…they are drawn to their own power.”

“What did S’ylie say”?

“She is despairing. She asks to be allowed to end her own existence.”

Stephen Strange took a last sip of coffee and drew a heavy breath.

“They have become addicted to their pleasures. It is an illusion, addiction. Short term pleasure in exchange for longer term misfortune. Such healing is beyond my arts, even; it is a sickness of the soul…and the unhappiness that prompts such dependence — well, were I to magically remove that unhappiness, then they would merely begin to need my spell as their latest drug…

…but there is one whose magicks actually remove the addiction. It isn’t properly magical, but rather the ur-magic that is channeled by Tandy Bowen’s mutant power…” Doctor Strange snaps his fingers, in much the same way as he could cast a spell. But this time he merely conjures a solution.

“Of course, blast my eyes! She has been the target all along. Come, Clea! We don’t have much time. Bring what I sent you to get. It will be needed.”

“Where are we going?”

“Let’s consult the Orb of Agamotto to be sure. But I suspect our enemy is already waiting for us. What have you done with the nisser?”

“I put them under a sleep charm.”

Just then a knock on the doorway.

Wong enters, signaling that the Doctor and Clea should follow.

On the internet was a report. It was a special uploading of Terrance Scrawl’s NE1 broadcast on New York’s magical tourism trade. But the centerpiece of the report was an expose about Doctor Strange: Scenes from the incident were inter-spliced with eye-witness accounts of being harmed by the exploits of Doctor Strange and his allies: the scene where the Sanctum Sanctorum threw debris at innocent bystanders, a scene were the people’s protector the Precept is attacked by the Doctor and taken to an unknown beach and later transported away, and, finally, to cap it off, a scene from inside MMI where Doctor Strange is defeated by Dagger and the Dagger of Ikonn, which he names as being the most powerful object of all.

From a community college in Latveria, a Professor Mordo gleefully explains how Doctor Strange has always been a menace. Norman Osborne, star of “Celebrity Secretary”, is interviewed about costumed heroes in general, and the collateral damage their activities cause to the city.

Terrance Scrawl is the lead reporter of the piece, of course. But the narrator of the video was a female voice who was strangely familiar but that no one in the Sanctum could place.

The video was uploaded only minutes earlier, but it was already getting thousands of hits.

“My god, …Sara!” Clea exclaims as she sees the climax of the report.

“I’m fine.” Ms. Wolfe had just entered the Sanctum Sanctorum and, indeed, seemed unharmed. “Tandy must’ve guessed that her final blast would also be redirected, so she made that one a healing blast.

“So you’re all right?,” asks Clea.

“Hell, not only do I feel all right, I’ll probably never need caffeine again.”

They all smiled at her joke. Tandy’s ability to ‘magically’ cure addiction was indeed the key to all of this.

“She has been taken, right?”

Sara nodded: “Yes, Stephen. I saw him transport them both away just as I woke up.”

“Right, Dagger is the only one who could’ve stopped his plan. But at last, tell us: Who was ‘he’? Who is our evil sorcerer?”

Sara Wolfe sneered in disgust, mad that she was ever attracted to him for even a moment: “Who else? Terrance Scrawl.”

IX

So much has gone right. He had the girl for the sacrifice. He had the created the link. Ikonn would be — and she, she, too, would be so pleased.

He checked his tablet. Ten thousand hits. Yes, YES…Ikonn would be ready when the time came.

He looked down the curved beauty stretched out naked on the wooden table, the makeshift altar, below him. He could see the resemblance, for sure. A momentary pang of regret. But this was necessary…she had always said so.

The Dagger of Ikonn hung suspended above her prone form for the hour in which it would strike young Tandy: the necessary sacrifice.

It would be soon. Time to launch the assault. He looked into the corner of the room where the fairies were all trapped…the ball of angry, swarming nisser glowed such a bright orange that he no longer needed the candles lit in his study. The fairy swarm now was as large as half the room, and, even as he glanced at them, a few more entered the cellar and was sucked into the maelstrom.

He murmured the enchantment that would trigger their attack. It was such a simple thing…just as before, when he had released only a few, they would be drawn to where the most magic was anyway.

Then, as one, they streamed from the dark, dank cellar of his mansion to the most powerful mystical nexus on Earth.

Doctor Strange’s home: his Sanctum Sanctorum.

IX

“They come.”

Wong readied himself for combat. While he was not a sorcerer on par with Stephen Strange, he carried a bo staff which had channelled his magicks through many battles.

And he wore a cloak that the Doctor felt was particularly appropriate for this day.

Wong knew his task, he would protect the Clea’s physical form while she projected herself astral self outward, away from the Sanctum, in order to battle the approaching horde. And Clea also knew her role…she was to delay the Nisser until Stephen could prevent Ikonn’s plans at their source. She did not want to hurt them, but she would do what she must.

“Farewell, beloved.”

“And to you, dearest.”

At that, they kissed and Stephen Strange lifted away, carrying the other artifact of Ikonn. This was the Bell of Ikonn, which he had never left at MMI, but rather had entrusted to the acolytes that maintained (his former master) The Ancient One’s abode. He had sent Clea there just before he and the Precept arrived nearby for their ‘talk’.

The Bell of Ikonn was the most powerful of Ikonn’s artifacts. The Dagger was really just a shard of the bell that had broken off during a battle between Dr. Strange and Ikonn many years ago.

Doctor Strange knew what was to happen. Anyone who knew the prophecy did, as well.

X

Clea’s purple-clad form sat cross-legged on the floor of the Sanctum’s scripture room. Stephen preferred the Orb’s chamber for such astral travel — but she always enjoyed this room. During her most intense studies this was the room she spent the most time in.

Her astral form slipped free from her body and shot forth to meet the oncoming horde. By Umar’s frozen soul! There were thousands! They came at her like a swarm of bees, these stings no less deadly on the astral plane.

“Nisser nigh, oncoming hive, by Cytorrak’s Snag surely survive!” As a crimson ball of enclosing tentacles emerged to encircle the fairies, the enraged horde merely re-calibrated themselves to pass through it, and to plow aside her astral form in a blast of amber force. Stunned, she reeled, momentarily.

They continued on their way towards her adopted home.

“No!” a wave of frantic fear rose in her throat and she hurled raw mystic energy, killing or severely wounding what must have been dozens. But the majority ignored her and continued. Sickened to her soul, she pursued them hurling more blasts, to whittle down their numbers.

Dozens, hundreds more were smitten by her hand.

But the swarm arrived at the Sanctum.

With a willful blast of speed, she intercepted the swarm of nisser and challenged them: “By Seraphim, you go no farther!”

The familiar argent force of the Shield of Seraphim flew from her fingertips and protected the entirety of the Sanctum.

Within a very few seconds, it became apparent that she would fail. The nisser were just too many. Cold sweat began to form on her brow inside the Sanctum where she sat cross-legged in meditation. Wong worried that the Doctor might not succeed in time.

Just then a new voice shouted: “Enough!”

And suddenly the Shield of the Seraphim was reinforced.

The Precept stood outside the Sanctum, adding his might to that of Clea’s astral form. Now the shield-shape appeared to be able to withstand the swarm’s energies.

But the Nisser had learned, or been taught, what to do. They adjusted their song, and spoke to the sleeping Nisser who had earlier been brought inside the Sanctum. The ones from the previous battle. And the entire swarm killed themselves and transferred their power to those in the Sanctum…suddenly the ones inside the building were awake again, easily breaking free from Clea’s sleep charm.

As one, they flew into the scroll room and Wong met them in silent battle, a mystic staff moving so fast that most of them did not see it about to strike them before it did.

But their attack was masterfully coordinated. As each one of the remaining nisser was felled, that one’s power flowed into one that still stood ready to fight.

Wong rapidly struck down most of them, but eventually the remaining three…three beings that contained the concentrated might of the entire swarm of mad nisser, stood poised to strike Wong.

Wong knew it was hopeless. Such might would incinerate him on the spot.

XI

Suddenly, Doctor Strange appears in a mystic flash in Terrance Scrawl’s cellar. Scrawl turns to face him…and Doctor Strange cradles the large Bell of Ikonn, saying nothing.

Nor does Mr. Scrawl. Such is mystic battle at its highest level. To an observer, it would appear that these too men merely stood, staring mutely, at one another.

But, on the astral plane, Doctor Strange shrugs aside whatever charms or spells Scrawl launches and instantly strips the inferior mystic’s mind down to its basest fears and hopes. No spells are needed. Something is amiss, This is no master Sorcerer No, he is acting as agent of another, not just Ikonn — but who? Ah, of course! Yet another illusion!

By force of Dr. Strange’s will, the astral form of Tandy’s mother, the aging actress, Vanna Bowen, is torn from the dead body of Terrance Scrawl. Scrawl’s body — now revealed as a decayed and decrepit corpse, drops to the cellar floor. His spirit briefly regards Doctor Strange, before it is swept away to whichever nether-region claims him.

“Fool! You are too late!” screams Vanna Bowen’s astral form.

With a thought, the Dagger of Ikonn which was suspended above Tandy dropped to deliver the fatal strike.

But in that instant, Tandy/Dagger is revealed to be the Bell of Ikonn. And Tandy is no longer on the table — Dr. Strange had switched them upon his arrival there.

Tandy, not the Bell, had been cradled in the crook of Dr. Strange’s arm.

So the Dagger falls to the altar…

…and strikes the bell.

With an eldritch hissssss, they two relics fuse — completing it once again, with the low, clear BONNNNNGGG that sounds the arrival of great power.

At that, the air in the chamber is transformed and Doctor Strange now stands in the presence of Ikonn himself.

The Demon-Lord of Illusions, a green-orange monster that changes form and so quickly as to be a swirl of colors, stands as though he had been expecting everything to occur just as it had.

“Human magician, Foeman, I thank you for your part in this. I would take my Bell now.”

“The prophecy is not yet fulfilled,” replies the Sorcerer Supreme.

“Wrong, Sorcerer Even now the number of those who are witnessing the images that my acolyte uploaded count in the millions…my power has never been greater. Your so-called Sanctum will be rent in an explosion of mystic energy that will serve as my point of entrance.

“Perhaps. But you have no sacrifice. And I will permit you none. Unless you think to use me.” Doctor Strange permitted himself a faint smile at the thought.

“Ah, no, vain Sorcerer I know better than try direct combat with your brutish self. You would as likely cause the universe to collapse just in order to defeat me. But you underestimate how deadly serious my acolytes take their work! Hahahahahahahah!” His laughter merged with the continued after-ring sound of the Bell. “See?”

And Stephen Strange saw Tandy Bowen in tears, re-entering the cellar with her mother in her arms. Vanna Bowen’s astral form had rejoined her body, but she was clearly dying.

Tandy set her mother down and Doctor Strange regarding her with visible contempt.

“So, you bargained with it?”

The elder Bowen nodded, “Yes, I prayed that I would gladly die for the opportunity to be forever young. Ikonn appeared to me in dreams at first, but after I saw my daughter and you on TV, I realized that such things are real. Eventually, I found mystics who could teach me how — so I studied Ikonn’s spells and the prophecies. But, I couldn’t reverse the aging — my hair starting falling out. I could cast illusion spells, I would always be beautiful; but it wasn’t real. I wanted eternal youth.”

“You bargain with a demon-lord of illusions, and you expect anything but false results?”

“I know. I know. I, I just…I just needed to be young…”

The Demon-Lord was impatient. “It is TIME.”

“Avert, lordling! Tandy, go ahead…you have little time.”

“What? What do you want me to do?”

“She is addicted to the feeling of being young, Tandy. Do this for your mother.”

At that Tandy placed her hands upon her Mom’s chest and filled her being with a warm glow.

“Ahhhh. I see. Tandy…right. Oh, honey. My lovely child. Just the fact of you made me lovely, too…didn’t you? You..Tandy…”

And then the woman died, old and beautiful.

“At last!” the Demon-Lord roared. “My triumph is nearly complete.”

Doctor Strange knew that he did not have time to return to his home. Whatever plans he made, whatever courage his loved ones had, it would have to be enough.

XII

Wong, majordomo to the Sorcerer Supreme of this dimension, did not call to Doctor Strange for help. Something in Wong’s soul, as a human, knew what he had to do: He shouted for the only help that would matter:

“S’ylie! Please!”

One of the remaining three, one had held back. It was his dear friend. She was intoxicated by what she was seeing, what she was doing…but, deep down, she knew this was wrong. Nisser were attracted to magic. But they also were sworn protectors of magical places.

And Wong was her friend.

But she could not stop the others. Even if she did, the power would just flow to her…then she’d be the most powerful…

And that was it. She knew what she had to do.

She struck the other two down.

The combined might of her race throbbed through her being. She vibrated a riddle-song that only her friend could hear: Wong, now I am like unto a small star. But where can such a star shine?

Wong knew. The majordomo set down his staff and grabbed the sides of his cloak. It was the Cloak that was formerly worn by Tyrone, Tandy’s friend. And then Wong did what any friend would do.

He said goodbye to his friend with a hug.

S’ylie understood. She, too, said goodbye and then flew into the infinite darkness of the Cloak.

Clea returned to her body. Once Wong explained, she allowed other fairies, more who hadn’t fought, but who were still en route to the battle, to enter the Sanctum. As one, they, too, entered the mystic cloak and the void realm of the Cloak, following their leader, S’ylie.

XIII

“Once again, O Great Lord of illusion, your success looks much like failure.”

“Human! You insolent mewling! Mock me at your peril. I will have your soul for this, Foeman!”

“As ever, you present only illusions. We were never foemen. Observe! I give you your greatest weapon…” And Doctor Strange mentally flings the Bell of Ikonn at its true Master.

The Bell shatters into a million pieces upon the form of Ikonn, energy releasing and swirling about the Demon-Lord, until it eventually begins to orbit him and slowly come to be absorbed into him.

But now the Bell is silent.

Finally, Doctor Strange explains: “The prophecy was never for you to join the Bell here on this world, Ikonn. It was for the Bell to join you back on yours.”

Ikonn immediately begins to return to his dimension, as glowing letters spell a message in the air where he stood: “Thank you, Stephen Vincent Strange. Doctor. Until next time.”

EPILOGUE

Now, as she battles drug crime, Tandy wears her deceased friend’s mystic cloak, too. Doctor Strange taught her how to invoke its power. Now she can service her own needs.

But, from time to time, when sadness or despair gets the better of her, she allows herself to fully sink into the void realm’s cold folds…

Until she returns from the void realm, rejuvenated by the spectacle.

She lost her best friend.

And she lost her parents.

…But the void realm gained stars.

The CoffeeBeat Cafe

Fiction, Essays and other Opuscula (read: Stuff ‘n’ Business) from Mark-O (The O.G.eek)

Mark (The O.G.eek)

Written by

Father, Husband, Educator, Attorney, and Writer.

The CoffeeBeat Cafe

Fiction, Essays and other Opuscula (read: Stuff ‘n’ Business) from Mark-O (The O.G.eek)

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