Hell's Kitchen, United Construction Company Building, Chairman's Office
Morning sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the spacious yet austere office. The room was almost clinically minimalist—devoid of personal touches or decorative elements, containing only the essentials: a massive desk, filing cabinets, and a few chairs. The stark environment reflected its occupant's uncompromising nature.
Wilson Fisk—known in whispered conversations throughout New York's underworld as the Kingpin—sat behind his desk, his imposing figure perfectly still as he fixed his gaze on the tall, slender middle-aged man standing before him. Despite the warm sunlight, the atmosphere in the room was decidedly cold.
"What are the results, Wesley?" Fisk's voice was deceptively soft, almost gentle, but James Wesley knew better. The slight pallor of his normally composed face betrayed his unease.
As the undisputed master of New York's criminal enterprises, Wilson Fisk's reputation preceded him—calculating, ruthless, relentless in pursuit of his objectives. In the early hours of the morning, he had discovered unusual activity at one of his arsenal warehouses. Immediately, he had dispatched Wesley to investigate. Another incursion by that red-masked vigilante, perhaps? Daredevil had been an increasing thorn in his side lately.
However...
"Sorry, Boss," Wesley replied, his voice carefully modulated. "Our people did not enter the factory."
Fisk paused, the silence expanding between them like a physical presence. When he finally spoke, each syllable fell like a stone: "The reason!"
Wesley straightened his tie, a nervous gesture he couldn't quite suppress. "What happened appears to be... an extraordinary incident, sir. One involving powers beyond our usual sphere."
"Upon discovering the anomaly, I immediately dispatched multiple teams to identify who had infiltrated the facility," Wesley continued, gaining confidence as he delivered his report. "However, when our operatives approached the perimeter, something peculiar occurred. They simply... turned around and walked away."
Wesley adjusted his glasses. "When questioned, they claimed they suddenly remembered urgent matters elsewhere. They hadn't forgotten your instructions—they simply experienced what I can only describe as a momentary redirection of priorities. Their minds determined, quite inexplicably, that the task was unimportant."
"We attempted multiple approaches, with multiple teams. The result was identical each time—anyone who came within a certain radius voluntarily went away, as if compelled by some internal logic."
"I believe we're dealing with extraordinary forces, sir." Wesley chose his words carefully. "Given the aerial battle over New York not long ago, it seemed prudent to withdraw rather than escalate to armed confrontation."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Kingpin's thick fingers drummed against the polished surface of his desk. Each measured tap resonated through the office like a heartbeat, and with each sound, Wesley felt his own pulse quicken, his breathing growing shallow.
Fisk contemplated his options. For a crime lord of his stature, having an arsenal compromised was tantamount to a direct challenge to his authority. Failing to retaliate would be perceived as weakness by his rivals and subordinates alike.
However...
This situation clearly involved powers far beyond the street-level vigilantes he typically contended with. While many New Yorkers had mysteriously lost their memories of last month's alien invasion, Fisk was not among them. Through certain precautions and connections, he had retained full awareness of those extraordinary events.
The wormhole tearing open the sky above Stark Tower. The burning helicarrier plummeting toward the bay. Waves of aliens pouring through the breach. A mysterious figure on a broomstick wielding energies against the invaders. The strange rainfall afterward that seemed to wash away the populace's memories of the catastrophe...
Each scene, each fragment of evidence pointed to the existence of a powerful supernatural world operating alongside their own—a world they had barely glimpsed and certainly couldn't oppose with conventional means.
"Suppress this information," Fisk finally ordered, his decision made. "Retrieve the forgetting potion from the laboratory and administer it to everyone involved in today's operation."
"Ensure complete containment."
The forgetting potion—aptly named—was a compound developed by Fisk's research team from samples collected during the memory-erasing rainfall. Its effects were remarkably potent, cleanly excising targeted memories without apparent side effects. The dosage determined the extent of memory loss, and thus far, his scientists had discovered no method of reversing its effects.
Wesley nodded, understanding the gravity of the instruction.
"Review all surveillance footage in the vicinity," Fisk continued, his voice deepening. "Identify any unusual individuals who may have approached the factory recently, particularly last night."
His massive hands folded together on the desk. "For anyone identified, I want comprehensive dossiers—identity, residence, family connections, known associates. Everything."
Kingpin's tone grew more intense. While he respected the danger posed by extraordinary powers, he was not one to ignore potential opportunities. Among the many research facilities he secretly funded, several were dedicated exclusively to studying these anomalous phenomena. A chance to acquire more data was too valuable to dismiss.
"Understood, Boss," Wesley replied with renewed confidence. "I'll mobilize all available resources immediately."
This was his opportunity to make amends for the initial failure. He would not squander it.
Kamar-Taj, Training Courtyard
Sunlight bathed the expansive marble courtyard as apprentice sorcerers practiced their craft, the air occasionally crackling with arcane energy. Many moved with practiced precision, Sling Rings glinting on their fingers as they conjured rudimentary magical constructs. Red-gold sparks trailed through the air as they manifested staves, whips, and shields of pure energy.
Near the center of the courtyard stood a tall, lean figure whose intense concentration set him apart from the others. Dr. Stephen Strange's hands bore the evidence of terrible trauma—a network of surgical scars crisscrossing his skin—yet they moved with remarkable dexterity as he manipulated the Sling Ring.
Energy responded to his will, coalescing into increasingly complex forms with each gesture. Weapons materialized and dissipated in rapid succession—daggers, staves, shields—each construct more intricate than the last. With a particularly ambitious flourish, he manifested what appeared to be a flaming assault rifle, drawing envious glances from the surrounding apprentices.
These other students had spent one or two years in rigorous meditation practices, gradually building their magical reserves and refining their control. Strange had accomplished in weeks what had taken them months or years. His magical potency already matched or exceeded theirs, and his precision was improving at an almost alarming rate.
The word "prodigy" seemed insufficient; "phenomenon" might be more accurate.
Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!
Strange focused his energy into a blazing whip, snapping it through the air with precise movements. The weapon cut through the space around him with audible cracks, generating small vortices of displaced air. Apparently satisfied with this demonstration, he flicked his wrist, causing the construct to dissolve into a shower of embers.
His expression grew more serious as he shifted his stance. Raising his hands slightly, Strange's gaze became unfocused, as though looking beyond the physical realm. His movements slowed, becoming more deliberate as magical energy flowed through the Sling Ring, causing subtle distortions in the surrounding air.
Crack! Crack!
Circular patterns of red-gold energy began to materialize, growing more defined with each passing second. The sparks multiplied and connected, gradually forming the outline of a circular portal—a spell that even the observing apprentices recognized as far beyond their current abilities. This was magic typically reserved for full-fledged Masters.
For a breathtaking moment, it seemed he might succeed—then, with a discordant hum, the nascent portal shattered, energy dispersing harmlessly into the air.
Collective sighs of relief rippled through the onlookers. In less than a month, Strange had already matched or surpassed their magical capabilities. If he had managed to cast a spatial manipulation spell typically reserved for Masters, it would have been beyond disheartening.
This isn't mere talent, they thought. This is something else entirely.
Stephen Strange.
They committed the name to memory, certain that it would one day rank among the greatest in Kamar-Taj's long history.
In that moment of collective contemplation, a new voice cut through the courtyard:
"Hello, Strange. I'm Lockhart."
The speaker approached with casual confidence, his robes marking him as a Master of the Mystic Arts, yet something about his bearing suggested an origin beyond Kamar-Taj.
"The Ancient One has requested your presence in the tea room."
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Marvel x Star Wars: Avengers in the Clone Wars
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