In retrospect, giving the kid his address might have been a bad call.
Stephen Strange had long since stopped being surprised by… Most things, really. His tolerance for insane shit had increased considerably since he'd trained at Kamar-taj, and he'd really just learned to go with the flow. But even then, ‘the flow' had some degree of consistency to it: Rogue wizard? Simple enough. Oh, a multi-dimensional threat was causing trouble? Another day that ended in Y.
It fell within the spectrum of what Strange had come to expect.
And Peter Parker- alternatively known as Spiderman- catapulting through a second-story window, taking out two display cases and a suit of enchanted medieval French armor, did not fall within that spectrum.
There had been a span of- oh, it couldn't have been more than thirty seconds- between Parker's crash-landing into 177A Bleecker Street and his mad explanation as to why he'd done so. Strange's first thought had, reflexively, been I should probably call 911, as most people who crashed through a window and several glass displays would need medical attention. His second thought, upon fully grasping who it was that had just flung himself into the Sanctum Sanctorum, was It was a mistake to give him my address. A phone-number would have sufficed.
In Strange's defense, Parker had looked really small and sad and vulnerable at the funeral.
Parker sprung up and ripped his mask off, eyes comically wide as he looked around at the destruction he'd wrought.
And then the ramble started.
'Ohhhhh my God, oh my God, I am so sorry, I thought the window was open and I was going so fast and I was panicking, it's been a really bad day- okay more like a bad week- and now everybody knows everybody knows everyone knows my face and they think I killed someone and that's totally not how it went down I swear Mr.-sorry-DOCTOR Strange I didn't kill ANYONE-'
Strange held up a hand.
'Stop.'
Peter's mouth clamped shut. Had to give him that: The kid was a childish motor-mouth at times, but he clammed up the second you asked him to.
Strange first rolled his eyes to the ceiling and thought, Fuck you, Tony Stark, for dying and leaving me as the closest and most accessible superhero to Spiderman.
Then he took a deep breath and said, 'I want you to explain- slowly, from the beginning- what has happened.'
Parker did.
It was a long and complicated story, made more complicated by the fact that Parker had a tendency to weave unnecessary details into his retelling (Strange did not need to know about Ned getting tranquilized by Nick Fury, nor did he need to know that two other people almost got it as well). But eventually the salient parts came together: A man named Quentin Beck, dubbed ‘Mysterio' by the media, had engineered an elaborate scheme with drones and advanced technology to make himself look like a superhero. He'd nearly killed Parker and his friends in the process, and now Beck was dead- but not before leaving behind a video claiming that Parker had attacked him, and revealing Parker's true identity to the world.
Strange had to admit, the kid had really gotten himself into a pickle on this one.
Of course this would happen when I was off-world.
'Well… My first question is, why is Nick Fury harassing a teenager to do his dirty-work for him?' He mused, earning a lightning-fast pout from Parker. 'My second question would be… Do you have a picture of this Beck guy?'
'It's all over the internet,' Parker mumbled. 'Just Google it.'
Strange did, scrolling through the multitude of results. Knowing what he knew about Parker- between the sweet-nature and the sheer lack of logic in the idea that it was him that had engineered these drone-attacks- it was obvious that ‘Quentin Beck' (or whatever the hell his name was) had artfully cut together some individually innocuous shots to create a new, damning picture. In particular, even if Parker hadn't crashed through his window to get advice for this, if Strange had been shown the video he would have noticed that Parker's voice when he said 'Yes! Execute them all!' Did not have the gravity or the intention of someone issuing a kill-order: Instead, it spoke more of a panicked plea, consistent with Parker's assertion that EDITH had been asking him to execute a program, not a person.
Still… Beck was obviously not just intelligent, but connected: He had access to technology similar to EDITH, if not on par with it in many ways. This would imply that he was fairly wealthy, or was in some way connected to someone who was. And since he (presumably) wasn't actually from a parallel universe or dimension, this narrowed down the options for how to find out who he was and how he'd done all this.
And, more importantly, how to exonerate Parker.
Strange had, over the course of Parker's initial explanation, steered young Peter into a chair- he probably hadn't even noticed, as deep in his story as he'd been. But now he was shrinking in on himself and twitching nervously, and damn it, it was happening again: Parker wasn't in ‘I'm-A-Superhero-Look-At-How-Adult-I-Am!' mode, and now he was looking more like the scared, lost kid that he was. And frankly, Strange couldn't blame him: He wasn't even out of high school and he had just been outed as an incredibly recognizable superhero, an Avenger, a celebrity. His life was about to become a mess of complication and pain- especially considering the particularly damaging nature of Beck's accusations against him.
No, Parker was going to have a rough time of it now: There would be no separation of private life and superhero life now, and Strange would argue that he, of all the Avengers, needed it the most. Parker deserved a chance to live before he got caught up in superhero drama, didn't he? But the bell had been rung, and it could not be un-rung, so what he did or didn't deserve was beside the point now.
(Strange made a private note to have a few words with Nick Fury, since it was technically, actually, his fucking fault that Parker now found himself in this situation. He owed Stark that much.)
'Alright,' Strange sighed, rubbing his eyes as he set down his phone. 'So, let's first look at the bright side.' A beat. 'Okay, there isn't one, so: Moving on to the bad side. Well, first, you've been exposed, which presents its own unique set of problems. Spiderman is a very public figure in New York, and all over the world by virtue of being an anointed Avenger. You need to watch you back now, kid, because every criminal you've ever pulled off the street knows your name. And, by that token, your aunt's name, your school's name, your best friend's name. You get my point.'
Parker nodded glumly.
Flappo mac os. 'Second, you've had a murder charge levied against you, which… Admittedly, to the casual observer, seems fairly legitimate. And since the American public will believe any visual evidence that's been cut just enough to suit the agenda of the creator, there are going to be a lot of people that will take this video at face-value and assume that you are guilty.'
Parker nodded again, sinking in the chair.
'But- I lied, I suppose there is a bright side here- to the careful observer, there are hints in the video that certain clips have been taken out of context and melded together. Step one would be finding someone who can forensically examine the video itself and catch anything out of place. Step two would be to find out who Quentin Beck really is: All of this technology means he has to have a paper-trail somewhere. Find out who he is, and you impact his reliability as a witness. Hell, I would wager all you have to do is prove that he's not from another world- the bit with the elementals being falsified with illusions and drones will fall into place neatly, as will your innocence.' Strange shrugged. 'That's the best-case scenario, anyway.'
'You make it sound so easy.'
'You're still in contact with Happy Hogan, right? He and Pepper might be able to help you out.'
Parker straightened a little, and Strange could see the gears whirring away in his head. 'They might,' He muttered, sounding a little hopeful. The hope faded quickly. 'But what do I do now? Everyone's seen the Daily Bugle's video. Everyone knows I'm Spiderman now. I could have people knocking on my door tonight…' Parker covered his face with both hands. '…Shiiiit.'
This was a valid point. Strange kept an eye on the news enough to know that Parker's aunt had been one of the masterminds behind the New York organization financially assisting victims of the Snap (he was not calling it ‘The Blip', it was a stupid name that lacked the levity that the actual event had carried) and so it would likely not be difficult for people to figure out where she and Parker lived. It was entirely possible that people- in particular, the police- could come knocking on his door very soon.
Strange drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. 'Alright: Call your aunt, let her know where you are. You're going to stay here in the meanwhile, while we figure out a plan of action.'
Parker straightened up, blinking. 'Really?'
'Yeah, really. I don't need Stark's ghost haunting me because I left you spinning in the wind in your time of need.'
Parker smiled, but it was weak- probably because of the reference to Tony. 'Thanks,' He said. 'Really, I mean, that's- thanks.'
Strange smiled back. 'Want to know how you can thank me?'
'Yeah!'
Strange snapped his fingers, and a broom and dustpan appeared in his hand. He extended it to Parker, expression flattening. 'Clean up the glass from the window and cases you broke on your way in.'
Parker's eyes widened- oops- and he nodded frantically, snatching the broom and pan from him and jumping to his feet. 'Will do!' He ran for the door and took a left down the hallway.
'Other way,' Strange called dryly.
Parker reappeared, moving right down the hallway.
Immunity (itch) mac os. Strange sighed. Outcasts reputation mac os. Nice kid: Overeager in a charming way, but… He really needed to tone that down a bit. People like Quentin Beck (and Fury, from the sound of it) could smell a willing spirit from a mile away and would take advantage in a heartbeat if they thought it would benefit them. Parker had to learn to- God forbid- be more like Tony, willing to do the right thing but not allow himself to be drawn into anyone else's schemes or agendas against his will or better judgment.
Especially now that everyone knew how to reach him.
Strange straightened up, wincing as his back cracked slightly. It would pain him to do it, but he was pretty sure Christine was dating a tech-guy now. Maybe he could grit his teeth and ask her if he might be able to take a look at the video and make an assessment, or even just a referral to someone who could. There had to be a way to pick apart the video and find something damning that Beck had missed when he was framing Parker for murder.
And Fury- even apart from the very long conversation Strange wanted to have with him about leaving the teenage superhero the hell alone, maybe he'd have enough intel to clear Parker's name. He'd better, since- once again!- it was his damn fault that hell had come down on the kid's head in the first place.
This was not an unsolvable problem. It was troublesome, certainly, but considerably more solvable than the question of ‘how do we beat Thanos'. Strange would turn over the problem to the people best-suited to solve it, and he would keep an eye on the late Tony Stark's young protégée as best he could. Besides, regardless of how this all shook out legally, Parker was obviously a good kid, he'd be-
CRASH.
A beat.
'Sorry!'
Strange's eyes rolled shut.
…He'd be fine.
He'd be fine, and he'd be out of the Sanctum Sanctorum as soon as Strange could manage it.
Just had to give him my address, didn't I?
-End
Hell In A Handbasket Chicago
The phrase go to hell in a handbasket is an American phrase which came into general use during the American Civil War, though its popularity has spread into other countries. The origin of the term go to hell in a handbasket is unknown, the assumption is that the word handbasket is a good source of alliteration. Hell in a Handbasket. A blog of grocery clerks sharing their stories during the COVID-19 crisis. Submissions are encouraged and can be anonymous upon request. Screensaver for Mac OS X; Catalyst Prime: Seven Days #5 (Sejic Virgin Cover) Oni Press; February 19, 2020; Comic Book; DEC191803; DAY FOUR: With the world going to hell in a hand basket a new hero emerges to help with the growing chaos. But heroes can't stop people from leaving their jobs, posts at the border and choosing to spend time with. Hell in a Handbasket is the eleventh studio album by Meat Loaf, released September 30, 2011 in Australia and New Zealand, through Legacy Recordings (Sony Music Entertainment). A wider global release followed in early 2012. The album was produced by Neverland. Interesting fact about Hell in a Handbasket. The origin of the phrase ‘hell in a handbasket' can be found in the practice of capturing the heads of guillotine victims in a basket, with the presumption being that these criminals would be going straight to hell for their crimes.
