Chapter 7

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     The following morning dawned cold and gray, and Janet rose early. Leaving her bedroom, she made her way into the living area, where soft light filtered in through two large windows on the far side of the room. Beyond the single, vertical pane of the right window, the Empire State Building rose out of the mist like a ghostly spire. It reminded her of many early mornings when she would look up and see, through the windshield of her car, Oscorp looming out of the shadows and rising above all of the inferior structures surrounding it. It shone in the darkness like an emerald tower, a place where the limits of science and human capability endured constant questioning and relentless testing.

     But today was different. She would not be going to Oscorp. Instead, as she prepared an omelet and brewed her daily cup of coffee, Janet's mind was racing. The last time she had spoken to Strange was over ten years ago, and that conversation had not ended pleasantly. How did Norman suppose that she would be able to extract any information, especially delicate information, from him now?

     This would be a long game indeed, one that her employer expected her to play with precision. Maintaining a safe distance while establishing an illusion of trust would be essential.

     When the last bites of her breakfast had been consumed, Janet returned to her bedroom, her black silken robe swishing about her legs. As she entered, she became aware of her cellphone vibrating on the nightstand. In two swift strides, she snatched it up to her ear.

     "Yes?"

     "Morning, sis," said a smooth voice. "I couldn't help but notice that you didn't show up to work this morning." The voice paused, and Janet's jaw tightened. "So, you're really going through with this?"

     "I have no choice," she responded through gritted teeth.

     "Oh, dear sister...we always have a choice."

     She shifted restlessly, her free hand clenching into a fist. "Look, Jack, Norman gave me this assignment. This is the only way to get the information we need to bring down S.H.I.E.L.D."

     "There are other ways."

     "Yes," she admitted with an exasperated sigh, "ways that would put our entire operation at risk. You're too reckless, Jack, always have been."

     "No, I'm direct."

     She put her hand on her hip. "Look, don't do anything stupid. I've got this. Let me handle it."

     Silence.

     "Jack?" she pressed.

     "Careful, sis," he said finally, his voice low and wary. "You know what happened last time."

     Her throat suddenly constricted, and Janet ended the call. Tossing her phone onto the nearby mattress, she dressed and prepared to leave.

     **********

     It was just past eight in the morning when she slid into the black Mercedes that waited outside her apartment building on West 17th. She recognized the driver—Max was his name. She was in no mood for conversation, however, and did not make eye contact as he started up the engine.

     "You know where to go," she said quietly, glaring darkly at the windshield.

     Nodding, Max pulled the car away from the curb, and Janet sank deep into her own thoughts. She abandoned all awareness of her surroundings, playing out every conceivable scenario and calculating her responses to each one. So withdrawn was she that when the car rolled to a stop outside a multi-floored townhouse ten minutes later, Max had to say her name twice to get her attention.

     Apologizing briskly, Janet rejected his offer to open her door and climbed out of the car. A fierce wind was blowing, heralding the onset of winter, and she shivered, wrapping her long gray coat more tightly around herself as she approached the uniquely constructed residence. Mounting a small set of stairs, she came to a pair of tall, narrow doors with tinted panes that betrayed the darkness within. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest in an effort to ward off the cold, and Janet eyed the doorbell with nothing short of dread.

     Inhaling a shuddering breath, she cast a desperate glance over her shoulder, but the black Mercedes was nowhere to be seen. There was no turning back now.

     Before her fears could paralyze her completely, Janet's fingers shot out and mashed the old bronze button. Then she waited for what felt like an eternity, her legs turning to jelly, her heart feeling like it was going to pound right out of her chest. Get a grip, Janet, she scolded herself angrily. It's been thirteen years. Thirteen!

     Her thoughts momentarily drifted to how incredibly old that made her feel, but then she became increasingly aware of the fact that she was standing on someone's doorstep, muttering to herself like a fool. With increased urgency, she pressed the button again, shifting her weight anxiously from one foot to the other. Just two days prior, she had been standing on another doorstep, and even though she had been very aware that her life was in danger that night, she had been far less terrified then than she was now.

     The handle turned, and Janet looked up, glimpsing a dark silhouette behind the glass just before the door on the right swung inward. Her hands were clasped in front of her, gripping each other so tightly that she was nearly cutting off the circulation in her fingers. She caught her breath, all thought of releasing it vanishing when she saw him standing there.

     He had aged, but not poorly. He was just as tall and striking as he had always been, but he was wearing those peculiar blue robes she had seen in the photo.

     "Janet?" he said, stunned.

     "Stephen," she replied, holding his gaze.

     His brow was furrowed in confusion, lips parted in shock. He appeared to be at a loss for words, and she swiftly retreated to her place of comfort. Her walls of defense were raised, and she unclasped her hands, sliding them into the pockets of her coat.

     "I'm surprised that you remember me," she added coolly.

     "It's...been a long time," he stammered, still gripping the door with one hand. "W-what are you doing here?"

     "Don't worry," Janet smirked, "I haven't come to exact my revenge. This is a business call."

     His hand slid down the doorframe, and he frowned. "What sort of business?"

     She glanced around at the traffic and the passersby, indicating her reluctance. "I'd rather not discuss it here."

     "Right," he said quickly, realizing his mistake, "of course. Come in."

     Stepping back and opening the door wider, Strange permitted her entry. As she stepped into the dark hall that lay beyond, she blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. A moment later, however, her night vision was triggered, and she could suddenly see just as well as she could in the morning sunlight.

     "I don't have guests often," he explained, closing the door behind her. "Not since the accident, anyway."

     At the mention of his near-fatal car wreck, which had occurred almost a year ago, Janet's gaze instinctively shifted to his hands, where multiple scars ran down the backs of both of them and extended to the tips of his fingers. She wondered how many surgeries he had endured in hopes of repairing them. His work was his life, and his hands were what gave him the ability to do that work. How he functioned without it now, she did not know. Perhaps his newfound magical abilities had cured him somehow.

     Strange brought her into the large, open space that was adjoined to the entry hall, and Janet raised her eyes to the arched ceiling that towered high above her head. Centered on the far side of the room was a wide, sweeping staircase that led to the second floor, and all of it was carved from deep brown mahogany.

     "Wow," she breathed, "it's—"

     "Bigger than it looks from the outside?" he finished, quirking an eyebrow.

     "Yeah," she agreed with a slight smile.

     Many doors lined the perimeter of the room, and it was through one of these doors that he guided her. Janet then found herself standing in a cozy little space with two chairs and several bookshelves that were filled to the brim, as well as additional odds and ends that were piled on desks or squeezed onto the shelves.

     "Have a seat," said Strange, motioning with his hand.

     He sank into the Victorian chair that sat in front of the twin windows, and she lowered herself into the brown leather seat across from it.

     "So," he began, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees, "how can I be of assistance?"

     "Not so fast." Her gaze was cold and hard. "What we are about to discuss is an event that is highly classified and is a politically volatile situation. I need to know that I can trust you."

     "Me?" Strange responded incredulously, pointing to himself. "You show up out of the blue after thirteen years with delusions of grandeur—"

     "Delusions of—?" Anger swelled inside her chest. "Look at you! Did you step out of some corny fairytale? You're shooting magic out of your hands and flying around with the most overly dramatic cape I've ever seen—"

     "Hey," he interrupted sharply, "the Cloak is off limits."

     Janet shut her eyes, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. When she opened them again, she spoke calmly but firmly. "My point is that I have a right to ask questions."

     "You're right," he admitted, nodding. "You do, but so do I."

     She settled back in her chair, observing him expectantly. "All right, what are you proposing?"

     "I will tell you all about what happened to me," he paused emphatically, "if you agree to tell me who you're working for and why you're here."

     "Deal."

     She folded her arms over her chest as Strange leaned back and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, deep in thought. He seemed to be pondering where to begin, and she realized that this was going to be a very long, very elaborate tale indeed. 

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