The Sanctum Sanctorum

Doctor Stephen Strange slowly inhaled the odd scent of the unique herbal tea Wong had prepared for him. He already began to feel the effects of it and then he brought the cup to his lips, carefully sipping the hot drink. He hovered in the air, his legs held in a lotus position and the red and gold cape swaying methodically to the rhythms of silent music that blared inside the Sorcerer Supreme’s study.

The cup he drank from had been small. It had the diameter of a quarter and only about two inches in height. But the tea itself seemed to be limitless. Whenever Strange appeared to have drained the cup, it looked like the tea had barely been touched.

Strange closed his eyes and could feel the liquid moving through his body. Instead of simply following the simple digestive track, it moved all throughout. His eyes and mouth opened wide as the liquid gushed from every orifice on his head. Like a tidal wave, it filled the entire room and Strange soon found himself drowning in it.

He maintained his calm, just relaxing and allowing his journey to take its natural course. It became a whirlpool, sucking him down into a black hole that appeared out of nowhere, sinking as if he were in a giant bathtub going down the drain.

Next, Doctor Strange found himself in an infinite void with no discernible ground. He hung in a state of limbo, completely void of any oxygen. Yet he felt no need for it at this point. He had traveled beyond that. Colors swirled around him in the endless void, covering every visible spectrum of light and even those invisible to the human eye.

Why has the Sorcerer Supreme sought audience with me?

The voice came from everywhere. Doctor Strange clasped his palms together and closed his eyes, tilting his head down. “I have received…omens. Things are not as they appear, I can see that.”

The real and the unreal have merged. And a proper defense must be maintained.

“How am I to defend my realm if I am given no indication of the true threat?”

The threats are from everywhere and nowhere. You know whom you must turn to in this hour of need.

“I have received the messages, yes,” said Doctor Strange. “But some of these, they are not…stable. I have no clear indication that they can be trusted in this task.”

Stability is not important. Defense is all that matters.

“Then what do you suggest I do?”

Find them. Find the seven soldiers. You must serve as their guiding light in a realm of insanity and imagination.

“Seven? But I have only been shown four. Two of whom I have no knowledge of. Who are they? And who are the remaining three?”

Some are old. Some are new. Some are both. But they exist. And it is you who must locate them and bring them together as one. For in a place where nothing is real and sanity is irrelevant, only those associated with both these concepts may truly serve as the Defenders.

Doctor Strange opened his eyes, still floating in his study. It had been completely unchanged from its state prior to his drink. He looked down at the tiny cup and found it completely empty.

He now knew what he had to do. Although he had no desire to do it.

THE BEST DEFENSE

Part III: Down The Rabbit Hole

By Dino Pollard

The Raft

An unmarked helicopter lowered on the man-made island. Before it touched down, the side hatch opened and a dark-skinned man dressed in a suit and trench coat with sunglasses concealing his eyes hopped out, his feet hitting the ground.

“Now, that’s not something you see every day,” he said as he gripped a fresh cigar between leather-clad fingers. Wrapping his lips around it, he lit it with a Zippo lighter as a man in a military uniform approached him.

“I assume you’re the expert the Pentagon informed me about?” The military officer held out his hand. “Colonel Kraig.”

“Agent Pratt.” He ignored the hand. “Tell me, Colonel—what have we got here?”

“Security was breached by an as-of-yet unknown infiltrator. Cameras were scrambled by chaff, so we’re not sure who they were or how they got inside,” said Kraig.

“And the prisoners unaccounted for?” asked Pratt.

“Three significant escapees. One of them is Frank Simpson, also known as Nuke. The other is a Jane Doe, although she calls herself Half-Life. She’s the one who caused most of the damage and drew our attention,” said Kraig.

“And the third?”

The two men approached a giant hole going all the way to the bottom of the facility. “I don’t think I need to tell a man of your clearance who the third is.”

Pratt knelt down by the hole and ran his gloved fingers over the edge. “So now we’ve got two Hulks running loose.”

“There’s more,” said Kraig. “Leonard Samson was with him at the time of the escape. His body has yet to be recovered.”

“Interesting,” said Pratt, rising to his feet. “Could mean that Big Red has developed a soft side for the good doctor or it could just mean that he hit him so hard, Samson’s body is now somewhere in international waters.”

“And our next course of action?” asked Kraig.

“That’s simple, Colonel—you lock down the facility and get a full list of all prisoners accounted and unaccounted for. Then you don’t ask any more questions.”

“What about the Hulk and Samson?”

“I do believe I’ve already made myself clear on the subject of questions, Colonel.” Pratt lowered his sunglasses and Kraig was shocked to see the sockets where Pratt’s eyes should be located were completely vacant. “I don’t like to repeat myself.”

Kraig swallowed hard. “Y-yes sir, we’re on the same page now, I see that.”

Pratt slid his sunglasses back into place. “Good. Then I trust we won’t be seeing each other again?”

“No sir, not at all.”

Pratt smiled and went back to the helicopter. The blades hadn’t even stopped spinning and he climbed back inside. Once there, he dialed a number on his cell phone.

“Big Red is loose, notify the Hive.”

Leonard Samson’s eyes slowly opened and he immediately detected the sweet taste of…dirt. He spat and cleaned the soil off his tongue before sitting up. Brushing the green hair from his eyes, Samson examined his surroundings.

Nothing here seemed familiar to him. Wherever he was, it was definitely not the Raft. And definitely away from the city. He stood, bracing himself against the tree. He could smell the scent of meat cooking.

Moving through the wooded area, he found a large deer being roasted over an open fire on a crudely-constructed spit, unattended. Samson moved closer, but could find no one else besides himself.

The ground shook and Samson almost fell to the ground again. He maintained his footing and could hear the lumbering footsteps. The large, crimson form of the being who called himself the Hulk appeared between the trees, gripping a large crate between the fingers of one hand.

He set the crate down in front of Samson and pulled the top off. Inside were bottles of Jack Daniels. The Hulk took one out and broke the bottle’s neck off, pouring the whiskey down his throat. He wiped his lips and looked at Samson with his yellow eyes.

“Can’t have deer without whiskey.” He took another bottle and handed it to Samson, who kept staring at the Hulk for a few more moments. “Take the fucking bottle, Samson. If I wanted you dead, I would’ve killed you already.”

“So what do you want, then?” asked Doc Samson, accepting the offering.

“You’re gonna help me.”

“With what?”

“You’re gonna find out who I am,” said the Hulk. “Or who I was, anyway. Before I got turned into a walking copyright infringement.”

“Why me?” asked Samson.

The Hulk removed the spit from the fire and bit into the deer meat. “Because you know Banner better than anyone.”

“Seems you know him quite well yourself,” said Samson.

“Yeah, I know him. Not sure how but I know him. And I hate him.”

“But you can’t remember why.”

The Hulk shook his head. He held the spit out to Samson, who tore a piece of meat off and popped it into his mouth. “Could use a little salt, but otherwise not bad.” He brushed the char from the meat off his hands. “Why don’t we start with what happened at the Raft and work our way backwards? How did we get out?”

“Some sort of power failure and then an explosion,” said the Hulk. “Radiation, I think.”

“And how do you know that?”

“’Cause I could feel it. It made me stronger. Knocked you out, though. So once I broke free, I took you with me. Figured you were my best chance at figuring stuff out.”

“So I see that,” said Samson. “Now, let’s go back to before the Raft. What do you remember?”

The Hulk shut his eyes as he concentrated. “I remember…being in pain. Waking up and feeling like my skin was on fire. Burning me all over. I scratched so hard, I started peeling it off. And underneath was…red.”

“Blood.”

“No…not wet…dry. Red like this skin. Then I felt my entire body begin tightening. And expanding. And the room I was in kept getting smaller and smaller. At least that’s what I thought at the time. But now I know, it wasn’t the room getting smaller—I was getting bigger.”

“What happened after that, Hulk?” asked Samson. “Why did you start calling yourself the Hulk?”

“There was a guy there,” said the Hulk. “Black dude, bald. Big guy. Wore sunglasses and a suit. Smiled at me. He was the one who said it.”

“Said what?”

“’We’ve got our Hulk.’”

“And what happened after that?” asked Samson.

“I got mad. And I got hot. My skin was on fire again and I started pounding on the walls. Finally, I broke through. Found myself…hell, I don’t even know where. But some military base.”

“And then?”

“I ran. I jumped. Tried to get away. But they followed. Cornered me up in New England I think it was.”

“And that’s when you surrendered,” said Samson.

The Hulk nodded.

“Why did you surrender? Even if you’re not Bruce Banner, you’re still immensely powerful. You could have killed everyone there and kept moving.”

“Felt like…an order. To stand down,” said the Hulk.

“An order to stand down…” Samson unscrewed the bottle and took a sip. “Now that’s interesting.”

The Sleepwalker stood over the comatose body of Rick Sheridan, looking at the young man’s face with his alien eyes. He placed a bony, green hand atop Rick’s and sighed.

“I know you’re in there somewhere, Sleepy,” he said. “C’mon buddy, I need to know how this happened. How did I end up in your body and why are you still in there? I need you to come out and play, Sleepy.”

The door to the room opened and Sleepwalker looked up in surprise to see a young woman with long, brown hair entering the room, holding flowers. “Alyssa…?”

Alyssa Conover stormed up to him and slapped him hard across the face. “You bastard!” she spat. “This is because of you, isn’t it?”

“Alyssa no, you don’t underst—”

“Fuck your understanding! You’ve thrown our lives into chaos since you ended up in Rick’s head! And now he’s a vegetable because of you! You could bring him back, I knowyou could!”

Sleepwalker sighed. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how.”

“Then get out of here before I call the cops or the Avengers or someone to take care of you,” she said.

Sleepwalker nodded, turning to the window. He focused on it and the wall warped into an opening. Once he departed, it returned to normal. He wanted to tell Alyssa the truth, that he really was Rick Sheridan, but he found himself at a loss to explain the situation.

“Forget her, Rick,” he said to himself. “Remember, you’ve still got 8-Ball on the loose.”

Samantha Parrington lay strapped down to her bed. She offered no struggle against the bonds, just stared blankly at the ceiling, not even blinking once. From another room via a closed circuit camera, her psychiatrist, Dr. Kilgore, watched her on one of the monitors.

“You’ve taken quite an interest in our little Valkyrie.” Kilgore turned and saw the well-dressed figure of Mr. White step into the room.

“I have to ask sir, why is it you keep calling her that?”

“That’s what she referred to herself, isn’t it?” asked Mr. White.

Kilgore nodded. “She did. A reference to Norse mythology. Although I’m not quite sure why you’re so intent to transfer her to this other facility.”

“I believe she will receive better care, Doctor. That is all. And is that not our stated objective? To make people well again? To treat our patients?”

Kilgore nodded. “I assume so. But I’ve never heard of this Caro Institute you’re taking her to.”

“Of course you haven’t, Doctor. One such as yourself need not be concerned with these matters.”

“Sir?”

A knock came at the door.

“Ah, here we are,” said Mr. White, turning away as the door opened. Two men dressed in black suits entered. One had a bald head with piercings in his ears. The other had long, silver hair combined with a beard. Both of them wore round sunglasses.

“Dr. Kilgore, I’d like to introduce you to two of my associates who will arrange for Miss Parrington’s transfer to the Caro Institute,” said Mr. White. He motioned to the bald man first. “This is Mr. Grant…” then to the older gentleman, “…and this is Mr. Moore.”

Both Grant and Moore nodded to Kilgore, who simply eyed them strangely. Grant turned to Mr. White. “Is she ready, Mr. White?”

“Yes, yes, she’s quite ready,” said Mr. White. “Please, follow me.”

“That sounds quite splendid, doesn’t it, Mr. Moore?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Grant. Quite splendid indeed.”

Kilgore watched them leave and then turned back to the monitor. After a few moments, the door opened and Grant and Moore each took one end of Samantha’s bed, wheeling her out of her room.

“…In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

The cardinal rose from his position of prayer after performing the cross. Once he opened his eyes, he found himself staring into eyes that were like bright, burning coals.

“BY THE CHOIRS!”

“Watch the profanity.” Daimon Hellstrom wrapped his hand around the cardinal’s throat, raising him off the ground. The cardinal noticed the inverted pentagram on the man’s bare chest, burning with a ferocious intensity that matched the eyes of the Son of Satan.

“You know who I’m looking for, holy man,” said Hellstorm. “Where is he?”

“H-how could you tread on such holy ground?”

“Most of those limitations on the denizens of Hell are fantasies to help good little cardinals sleep at night,” said Hellstorm. “But then again, I have also been called the Prince of Lies, so what do I know?”

He hurled the cardinal across the church, sending him crashing into the pews at the rear. When the cardinal had begun to pull himself back up, Hellstorm stood above him. Hellstorm outstretched his left hand and the flaming trident that was his birthright slowly eased out from his palm.

The Lord of Hell pointed the trident at the cardinal, who continued muttering a prayer under his breath. “An exorcism rite? Honestly Cardinal, do I look like Linda Blair?”

The flaming trident eased towards the cardinal’s chest, the flames beginning to lick at his body, scorching his robes. Hellstorm kept his burning gaze focused on the religious man.

“One chance, Cardinal—where is Gabriel Rosetti?”

Colored smoke swirled around Hellstorm’s body and he found himself floating in a black void with no possible description and no ground. The cardinal had vanished and Hellstorm’s anger now intensified, his eyes burning ever brighter.

“Who’s the damned soul that would dare to come between me and my prey?”

“That would be me.”

A figure shimmered into existence before the Lord of Hell, a man Hellstorm had not expected to ever see again. He crossed his arms over the blue tunic that composed part of his uniform. “Hello Daimon. It’s been a long time.”

“Stephen Strange, I should have known,” said Hellstorm. “No trace of Heaven or Hell in this place and you are perhaps the only mortal who could get the drop on me.”

Doctor Strange cocked an eyebrow. “Mortal, hmm? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended.”

“As much as I would love to sit here in an empty void and reminisce, I’m afraid I have more pressing matters to attend to,” said Hellstorm.

“Yes, torturing an innocent man. Maybe our time apart indeed has changed you for the worse,” said Doctor Strange.

“You know nothing, Strange,” said Hellstorm. “I’m looking for someone. And I’ve a special place in my kingdom reserved for his soul.”

“You’ll find nothing from him, Gabriel Rosetti is kept hidden by a power far too great for even a Hell Lord to pierce.”

“And how do you know that’s who I’m looking for?”

Doctor Strange responded with a coy smile.

“Fine. So a Hell Lord can’t locate him. But a Sorcerer Supreme?” asked Hellstorm. “That’s a different story, isn’t it?”

“I require your assistance, Daimon. A vision told me you are a key player in this game. And in return for your services, I will help you find Rosetti,” said Doctor Strange.

The trident retreated into Hellstorm’s arm and his eyes returned to normal with a blink as the light of the pentagram dulled. “Very well, old friend. For now, I’ll play your game.”