I'd picked it up from a vendor at a street market on the way. "No thanks," I said. I pulled up my mask enough to bunch over my nose. I swear, one of these days I'm going to get a mask that leaves my mouth free. I crunched into the carrot because it was good for me. And because I hadn't had lunch.
Wong watched me soberly, then nodded and led me to the doctor's office.
It was a big room, the size of a large study, packed full of books, scrolls, tablets, and oddities, all in neat order, all terribly well organized and clean,
A
all set around an enormous mahogany desk. Though the ceilings were high and arched, the lighting there was always subdued, and lent it a cavelike mien. There was a fire crackling in a fireplace, and the air smelled of incense and cinnamon.
Stephen Strange sat behind the desk. He's a tall, slender man. He's got a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair, with those perfect silver streaks at the temples that some men seem lucky enough to develop. He looks like an extremely fit man in his mid-thirties, though he's got to be older than that, judging from the sheepskin he keeps on the wall behind him. Neurology. He was wearing a very normal-looking outfit, especially for him: a pale blue golf shirt and khakis. I was much more used to the electric blue tunic and Shakespearean tights, plus the big red disco cloak.
"Spider-Man, master," Wong said in calm, formal tones.
"Thank you, Wong," Strange said. He had a resonant voice. "Our guest has not had lunch. Do you think you could find something appropriate?"
"Eminently so, master."
"Thank you," he said, and Wong departed. Strange leaned his elbows on his desk and made a steeple of his fingers. "Good day to you, Spider-Man. I thought you'd be by today."
"Saw me coming with the old mystical Eye of Ag-amotto, eh, Doc?"
He moved one finger, pointing at a flat-screen plasma TV on the wall beside his desk. "On the Channel Seven news." He moved his hand and picked up a copy of that day's
Bugle.
There was a picture of the wreckage in Times Square next to the headline
Spider-man Runs Wild in Times Square
"You may not be the most subtle man in New York."
I pointed at the newspaper with my partly gnawed carrot. "That wasn't my fault."
"Of course it wasn't." Strange sighed. "Ignorance is part of the tragedy of the human condition. It is in the nature of man to fear what he does not know or cannot control. The average human being is no more comfortable in contemplation of his inner being than he is contemplating magic itself."
"You sound like Ezekiel," I said. "He was always trying to tell me my powers had come from some kind of mystic spider-god entity."
"Are you so sure they did not?"
"I was bitten by a radioactive spider. Period."
Strange smiled at me. "And who is to say that said spider was not the theoretical entity's choice as emissary? One does not necessarily preclude the other."
I looked at him. Then I sat down without being asked. "I was pretty sure I was done dealing with all this mystical muckety-muck."
Strange nodded. "Indeed, you are. The onus of that entire business has been appeased, the obligations completed, the balance restored, the necessities observed."
I tilted my head, like a dog who has suddenly heard a new sound.
"Your account ledger is cleared," he clarified. "That particular business is done."
"Well, it ain't, Doc. I take it you've heard of beings calling themselves the Ancients?"
Strange shrugged his shoulders. "Many claim such a sobriquet. Few deserve it."
"Morlun," I said. "Mortia. Thanis. Malos."
Strange hissed. "Ah.
Them."
"Them," I said. "Morlun tried to eat me. He wound up dead. Now his siblings are looking to return the compliment."
Strange lifted his eyebrows. "You defeated Morlun?''
"Yeah. With freaking radioactive material not unlike the radioactive freaking spider that gave me my freaking powers," I retorted. "No freaking mystical juju at all."
"Interesting," he mused. "Then their motive is not a factor of mystic balance, but one far older and more primal."
"Yeah," I said. "Payback. I need your help."
"Help?"
"Aid. Assistance. Advice."
Strange stared at me for a moment. Then he closed his eyes, settled back in his chair, and murmured, "Absolutely not."
Which made me blink. "What?"
"I cannot interfere in what passes between you and the Ancients."
"Why not?"
I demanded.
He leaned back in his chair, frowning, his expression genuinely disturbed. "You understand, of course, that all forces in the universe act in balance. In a harmony of sorts."
"That's kind of Newtonian, but let's assume that you know what you're talking about," I said.
"Thank you," he said, his voice serious. "The powers at my command are part and parcel of that balance. I am not free to simply employ them on a whim without serious consequences resulting—and in fact, it would be dangerous to do so around one of the Ancients you face."
"Oh," I said. "I guess they deserve the name?"
"Indeed. They are older than mountains, older than the seas. Since life first graced this sphere, and since that life called out to the mystic realms, echoing in harmony and sympathy, these beings, these Ancients, have been there to feed upon it."
"Really, you could have said, Yes, they're old,' and it would have been enough."
"My apologies," Strange said. "I occasionally forget the limitations of your attention span."
"Thank you."
"Yes. They are old."
"And you can't do anything to them?"
Strange frowned. "It is a complex issue, and does not lend itself to monosyllabic explanation."
I cupped my hands to either side of my head. "Okay. These are my listening ears. I've got my listening ears on."
"Let me know if you experience any discomfort."
Strange said, his voice dryly amused. Then he made a steeple of his fingers. "What you call 'magic' is a complex weaving of natural forces—life energy, elemental power, cosmic energies. And, like more familiar physical forces such as thermal energy, electricity, or gravity, they abide by a set of governing laws. They do not simply obey the whims of those who employ them. They have limitations and foibles. Do you understand that much?"
"Yes," I said brightly. "And I didn't get a nosebleed or anything."
"The nature of my access to these powers determines how I might employ them," he said. "I cannot simply randomly choose anything in my repertoire to counter any given situation, just as you could not expect to mix random chemicals and attain the desired results."
"So far, so good," I said.
He nodded. "The Ancients are predators, as you are doubtless aware. And while they are not a particularly pleasant part of the natural world, they are, nonetheless, a part of it. My powers are meant to defend and protect that world from those who would attempt to damage or destroy it. Were I to turn my powers against the Ancients it would be"— he actually turned a little green—"an abuse of that which is entrusted to me. A corruption of the energies in my charge. A most abominable blasphemy of the primal forces of our world."
"And what? The magic wand police would give you a ticket?"
"You speak lightly," Strange said. "But you are well aware of the evils that can be wrought with the abuse of power. Were I to turn the energies with which I work against the Ancients, the repercussions could be severe."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because of what and who the Ancients are. They are some of the eldest predators upon this sphere, creatures of enormous mystic strength— though they do not refine and utilize that energy in the way I do. It is, however, consciously focused by their force of will to give them enormous resilience, strength, and speed."