Tim shows up a good hour after his last text, because his cabbie decided to take some crazy detours thinking he knew the best way to get there. It's just like in his universe really, except Tim would have preferred a Lyft. But he couldn't get the Internet to work on his phone - just texting. Apparently his cell number was good in this universe too.
When he does show up, it's--well. He doesn't have a change of clothes, didn't plan on getting zapped into another universe today, so he's in full cape and cowl which definitely got him a lot of looks in Jersey but which doesn't seem all that weird in Greenwich Village. Just like in his world.
The building is easy to find, and he texts Strange as he knocks to let him know he's there.
While the newcomer waits on the steps of the townhouse, a few curious passersby snap occasional shots of him with their phones. (One man calls out to him, delighted: "Hey, man, are you the Devil of Hell's Kitchen? What're you doing down here?")
When the massive door finally creaks open by itself, a distinguished red-cloaked gentleman stands on the threshold. Doctor Strange isn't showing off for once, isn't levitating in midair, although the cloak itself is floating gently as if there's no gravity. He pauses, arches an eyebrow at the boy.
"Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum, Tim Drake-Wayne. You do look like you'd fit right into this world."
Red suit, black cowl, mask. He might as well be fighting crime alongside Spider-man, from the looks of it.
It's...kind of exactly what Tim had been expecting, if he's honest. With a name like Strange, he actually thought the guy would be, like, a different color or with wild hair down to his ankles or something. The cloak is nice, he's a pretty handsome guy, and definitely reminds Tim a bit of some people from his world. All no-nonsense, straight to business.
Which is fine. Good, even.
"Someone just called me the Devil of Hell's Kitchen," he says, quirking a brow in return. "Is that a compliment, or should I be offended?"
"Could be positive or negative, depending on what they think of Daredevil. Were they asking for a selfie or throwing a tomato at you?"
Strange steps to the side and gestures for Tim to come in through that grand entrance. The foyer is massive: wooden parquet floors in a shattered-mosaic pattern, a soaring staircase leading up to the second floor, paintings and tapestries on the walls, antique armchairs around the edges of the room. Fitting for its name, the townhouse looks bigger on the inside than it was on the outside; in here, it looks more like a lavish sprawling manor, weighted with history. The leylines hum faintly with a magical energy, like a distant and barely-perceptible vibration beneath their feet.
"The kitchen's down this way. So— what's your deal, kid? Are you a... Night...bird? Nighthawk? Do you fly?" Strange sounds curious, inquiring, like a professional asking a colleague what they do for a living.
Daredevil. Quite a name, if The Devil Of Hell's Kitchen didn't suffice. But then, Batman is called any number of things. World's Greatest Detective. The Dark Knight. It was good to know at least if they thought he was Daredevil, it didn't seem all bad.
"Uh, I'm not a kid," he says, grinning a little. Dr Strange sounds a lot like Clark in that regard. Kiddo, champ, buddy. But Tim has grown out of being a kid, and even if he's young, he's not fond of people thinking otherwise. "And I'm not a metahuman -- or, is that what they call people with powers in this universe? I don't have those. I'm completely human. No magic either." He tugged the cowl down, letting it hang off his neck like a hoodie. It revealed a young face, sure, but with its share of scars. Healed and fresh. Bright blue eyes and hair a bit long. "I fly, but it's because I use tools to help me. And technology."
He followed Dr Strange through the absolutely insane looking--house? What even was this place?
"This place is... I mean, wow. What is it, exactly?"
When Tim pulled off the cowl and Strange could see his face, he tipped his head in apology. Forty-five years old, and having lived through an unending span of trapped time in a time loop: he had a bad tendency to think everyone else was young now. Should probably work on that.
But more interestingly—
"Oddly, we don't really have a standardised term for it yet. I've heard enhanced, gifted, superhuman... there's Inhumans, too, but they're something else. You don't have any powers whatsoever? And your suit isn't powered by a nuclear reactor or anything?" It might be a batshit question, but he just sounded academic and intrigued while asking it, like someone asking what model car you drive. So. This newcomer was like Barton and Romanoff, then — although it always surprised him a little, when non-powered heroes pulled on the suit and jumped in to help regardless. People were so fragile and breakable. He should know.
While they spoke, he started leading them down the hall towards the kitchen. "The Sanctum is one of the homes of the Masters of the Mystic Arts. We defend this plane of existence from extradimensional threats. Which makes you incredibly relevant, but not a threat, I assume."
[ if you really focus, you can hear stephen sighing through the phone text, like the sea in a conch shell. ]
Thanks to those hacks, one day your spine is going to seize up in the middle of abseiling down a ravine, and one day far in the future they'll find your skeleton at the very bottom and there'll be mystic inscriptions on your bones saying 'DOCTOR STRANGE TOLD YOU SO'.
You heard about the attacks in your crystal ball, right?
[ even now, a while after he and olivia got out, there's still chatter. gossip in their circle spreads far and wide, and everyone's trying to downplay their involvement. not to mention what a catastrophically terrible idea it was. ]
Bernie Delacroix was running a smuggling ring for creatures. Faeries, unicorn, kelpie, wolf cubs, chupacabra, you name it. Auctioned off.
[ He lets that sink in for a moment. And then, approaching it sideways with his usual slanting humour to cover up his genuine anger: ]
You know, I’d like to state for the record that I was once obscenely rich, and I never did weird shit like buying a chupacabra for a pet or hunting men for sport.
Yeah, that was about my response. I'm too sober to give you the full story, but short version: It's taken care of. The creatures got released. Auction canceled, and folks are going to have second thoughts in the future.
I swear, you saw a doctor in half during a show one time, and then he runs off and becomes a sorcerer without so much as a thank you. The youth today, no manners at all.
[ zatanna, you're younger than him by at least a decade. besides, it's been a long time since a surgeon at a conference in vegas volunteered (by his colleagues) for some audience participation. she got him a few free drinks after, as thanks. ]
[ little doubt who’s texting him, since zatanna had certainly left an impression even all those years ago, and her name still up in glittering marquee lights—
and she looked younger than him, but hell, he’s got to ask. ]
Are you secretly a centuries-old entity keeping yourself youthful drinking the blood of the innocent? I have to ask these things in this line of work, you understand. Occupational hazard.
I went to a couple of Bruce Wayne’s fundraisers, back in the day.
Can’t say it made me particularly jazzed about going back, mind. I know New York’s got its own share of costumed nutcases but, like, per capita Gotham is objectively worse.
Lame as fuck pick-up lines, mansplaining slight of hand, and trying to poach my turf. Until he learned I was better than he was (not hard!) and begged for an apprenticeship.
[ zatara. giovanni zatara, a fellow bright enough that the masters of the mystic arts occasionally sought him for consulting. why he was never brought into the order fully is anyone's guess. ]
[ The magician’s passing had, of course, made the bulletin for magical New York, ripples through the ether and word being passed along through the Bar With No Doors. And Strange is equally familiar with these everyday spirits and hauntings; his own ghost dog’s currently snoozing under the desk. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
portalling) wrote2022-04-03 01:00 pm
hello from the other siiiide~
Tim shows up a good hour after his last text, because his cabbie decided to take some crazy detours thinking he knew the best way to get there. It's just like in his universe really, except Tim would have preferred a Lyft. But he couldn't get the Internet to work on his phone - just texting. Apparently his cell number was good in this universe too.
When he does show up, it's--well. He doesn't have a change of clothes, didn't plan on getting zapped into another universe today, so he's in full cape and cowl which definitely got him a lot of looks in Jersey but which doesn't seem all that weird in Greenwich Village. Just like in his world.
The building is easy to find, and he texts Strange as he knocks to let him know he's there.
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When the massive door finally creaks open by itself, a distinguished red-cloaked gentleman stands on the threshold. Doctor Strange isn't showing off for once, isn't levitating in midair, although the cloak itself is floating gently as if there's no gravity. He pauses, arches an eyebrow at the boy.
"Welcome to the Sanctum Sanctorum, Tim Drake-Wayne. You do look like you'd fit right into this world."
Red suit, black cowl, mask. He might as well be fighting crime alongside Spider-man, from the looks of it.
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Which is fine. Good, even.
"Someone just called me the Devil of Hell's Kitchen," he says, quirking a brow in return. "Is that a compliment, or should I be offended?"
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Strange steps to the side and gestures for Tim to come in through that grand entrance. The foyer is massive: wooden parquet floors in a shattered-mosaic pattern, a soaring staircase leading up to the second floor, paintings and tapestries on the walls, antique armchairs around the edges of the room. Fitting for its name, the townhouse looks bigger on the inside than it was on the outside; in here, it looks more like a lavish sprawling manor, weighted with history. The leylines hum faintly with a magical energy, like a distant and barely-perceptible vibration beneath their feet.
"The kitchen's down this way. So— what's your deal, kid? Are you a... Night...bird? Nighthawk? Do you fly?" Strange sounds curious, inquiring, like a professional asking a colleague what they do for a living.
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"Uh, I'm not a kid," he says, grinning a little. Dr Strange sounds a lot like Clark in that regard. Kiddo, champ, buddy. But Tim has grown out of being a kid, and even if he's young, he's not fond of people thinking otherwise. "And I'm not a metahuman -- or, is that what they call people with powers in this universe? I don't have those. I'm completely human. No magic either." He tugged the cowl down, letting it hang off his neck like a hoodie. It revealed a young face, sure, but with its share of scars. Healed and fresh. Bright blue eyes and hair a bit long. "I fly, but it's because I use tools to help me. And technology."
He followed Dr Strange through the absolutely insane looking--house? What even was this place?
"This place is... I mean, wow. What is it, exactly?"
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But more interestingly—
"Oddly, we don't really have a standardised term for it yet. I've heard enhanced, gifted, superhuman... there's Inhumans, too, but they're something else. You don't have any powers whatsoever? And your suit isn't powered by a nuclear reactor or anything?" It might be a batshit question, but he just sounded academic and intrigued while asking it, like someone asking what model car you drive. So. This newcomer was like Barton and Romanoff, then — although it always surprised him a little, when non-powered heroes pulled on the suit and jumped in to help regardless. People were so fragile and breakable. He should know.
While they spoke, he started leading them down the hall towards the kitchen. "The Sanctum is one of the homes of the Masters of the Mystic Arts. We defend this plane of existence from extradimensional threats. Which makes you incredibly relevant, but not a threat, I assume."
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And you, Doctor Rook? It's been a while.
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[ is he purposefully trolling stephen with an old college argument? maybe. ]
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Thanks to those hacks, one day your spine is going to seize up in the middle of abseiling down a ravine, and one day far in the future they'll find your skeleton at the very bottom and there'll be mystic inscriptions on your bones saying 'DOCTOR STRANGE TOLD YOU SO'.
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Pleasantries aside, I have some courtesy information for you regarding Verbier.
[ ah. that. ]
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[ ah. business. he finally drags his attention away from the tome he's been half-scrutinising; hones in on these messages. ]
And do tell.
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[ even now, a while after he and olivia got out, there's still chatter. gossip in their circle spreads far and wide, and everyone's trying to downplay their involvement. not to mention what a catastrophically terrible idea it was. ]
Bernie Delacroix was running a smuggling ring for creatures.
Faeries, unicorn, kelpie, wolf cubs, chupacabra, you name it.
Auctioned off.
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[ recordscratch ]
Wait, what. Auctioned off? Living creatures? Not just the usual black market 'eye of newt' etc ingredient-swapping?
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All so the idle, sociopathic rich could have a conversation starter somewhere.
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You know, I’d like to state for the record that I was once obscenely rich, and I never did weird shit like buying a chupacabra for a pet or hunting men for sport.
What, as they say, the fuck.
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I'm too sober to give you the full story, but short version:
It's taken care of. The creatures got released. Auction canceled, and folks are going to have second thoughts in the future.
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The youth today, no manners at all.
[ zatanna, you're younger than him by at least a decade. besides, it's been a long time since a surgeon at a conference in vegas volunteered (by his colleagues) for some audience participation. she got him a few free drinks after, as thanks. ]
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and she looked younger than him, but hell, he’s got to ask. ]
Are you secretly a centuries-old entity keeping yourself youthful drinking the blood of the innocent?
I have to ask these things in this line of work, you understand. Occupational hazard.
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Besides, black don't crack, Doc.
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Gotham.
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Can’t say it made me particularly jazzed about going back, mind. I know New York’s got its own share of costumed nutcases but, like, per capita Gotham is objectively worse.
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Just a normal magician. Who also does magic.
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Did you ever run into Donny Blaze across your residencies?
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Lame as fuck pick-up lines, mansplaining slight of hand, and trying to poach my turf. Until he learned I was better than he was (not hard!) and begged for an apprenticeship.
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He makes a great dove.
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Not to diminish your experience or office, but I was making my teddy bear dance around the room when I was five.
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[ Subjective eternities experienced dying over and over, a snake eating its own tail, timeloops nested in on itself. He’s very tired. ]
That said, yeah, I’m relatively new to the post, my predecessor considered. I can truthfully say I’ve never made a teddy bear dance.
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[ zatara. giovanni zatara, a fellow bright enough that the masters of the mystic arts occasionally sought him for consulting. why he was never brought into the order fully is anyone's guess. ]
Followed in his footsteps in more way than one.
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[ The magician’s passing had, of course, made the bulletin for magical New York, ripples through the ether and word being passed along through the Bar With No Doors. And Strange is equally familiar with these everyday spirits and hauntings; his own ghost dog’s currently snoozing under the desk. ]
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[ so, not great. ]
We play Canasta on Wednesdays.
[ so, the same. ]
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The dream imp, for the record. Not the food.
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(Still the dream imp, not the food. There’s an Italian restaurant up by Lincoln Center, though, does an amazing squid ink fusilli.)
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