Chapter 7
America felt somewhat sluggish during training the next morning. They went all the way back to the basics with shields and weapon conjuring, all which America felt she could do in her sleep now. The masters explained that perfection was unobtainable and blah-blah-blah—at least that’s what America heard.
Instead of listening, she was peering off whenever Wong would cross the courtyard. He had duties to attend to, which left his room unoccupied for the majority of the day.
She overhead that Wong had a meeting with several of the masters later and decided that would be her plan of attack. Wait him out. Play the part of dutiful student until—
“America, focus,” her master chastised. She straightened and conjured a shield at her fingertips. They trained rigorously until high noon, which was convenient for the storyline because that’s when Wong had his ominous meeting.
She shuffled inside her room, throwing off her sweaty robes and changing into jeans and her jacket.
She sat with her legs crossed on the bed and let herself breathe deeply in and out.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The only think America had to do was stop fidgeting every thirty seconds. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the dull hum of energy within herself.
She heard it get louder. She felt the vibration against her ears and buzzing in her fingertips.
With one last inhale, America pushed her spirit outside of her body. It was a feeling similar to being on a roller coaster. Constant butterflies in your stomach and a general sensation of nausea.
She floated through the walls and down the hall, cautious about others who may be in this realm with her. Her path was so far so clear, with only another student wondering past her who didn’t take notice to the slight gust of cold air that followed behind her.
As America approached the Sorcerer Supreme’s chambers, she felt a stir of hesitation. She hovered outside his door.
America Chavez has been to seventy three universes. She’s been thrown into seventy three versions of unknown.
She was tired of the unknown.
America astral projecting into the Wong’s chambers and was momentarily taken aback by the cult classic movie posters on the wall.
Not only did he have the cliche Pulp Fiction poster, but Terminator, and Alien. America shook her head and moved around the room. Unlike Stephen, he didn't keep his room in tip top shape.
There were stacks of books against the wall and papers covering everything he has on his desk. There were tiny pieces of Wong here too, like a strip of pictures from a photo booth with people America didn't recognize stuck to the wall closest to the bed.
She scanned the room, not noticing the book among the others. This one had red binding and a glowing cover with chains criss crossing like it was a prepubescent girl’s diary. Needless to say, it was noticeable.
America chewed her lip and started opening drawers. He had a filing system that frankly, America could not understand.
The last drawer she tried didn’t want to open. She pulled again. It rattled but didn’t want to give.
She felt momentarily defeated by Wong’s lock before remembering the pin on the collar of her jacket. Carefully removing it, she slipped the pin inside the small key hole and listened for the small clicks.
Her months in universe fifty seven where paying off.
America was only partially surprised when the drawer inched open. She anticipated there’d be more of a precaution taken. Wong could perform thousands of ancient spells but locked his valuables in a pickable desk.
At least it worked out for her, though frustratingly, the book wasn’t there.
“Rat bastard,” America muttered. He must’ve hidden it somewhere else. She frowned at the papers inside, pulling out the stack and setting them on the floor.
There were images of her star portal along with writings America recognized as Ancient text. Although, America examined closer, the ink was fresh. Wong purposely coded it.
America moved through the papers, attempting to identifying some of the symbols, but she had difficulty reading English sometimes, let alone ancient hieroglyphics. The reoccurring image of her star shaped portal scattered almost every other page.
He was studying her. Analyzing. America felt sick. She quickly shoved the papers back into the desk and closed the drawer.
She drifted down the hallway with a heavy feeling, returning to her bedroom and settling back into her body.
America scowled and tried to recall some of the symbols she remembered seeing. She dug into her back pack and fished out her notebook and the pen that was nestled inside the coils.
Hastily, she flipped through the random notes of science, algebra, blips of world history and ancient world history until she found a blank page. As fast as she could, America scribbled each symbol she remembered seeing.
Unfortunately, she could only clearly recall twenty ish (there were a couple she only half remembered), and even then, it might've been too out of sequence to make sense.
In any case, America knew exactly where she could get a fairly comprehendable decipher. As she was imagining where the book was in Stephen’s collection, the gong rang.
It would be suspicious if she missed lunch. She shoved the notebook back inside her bag and adjusted herself before starting towards the door.
America opened one side of the double doors and yelped, holding herself back from cursing. Stephen had his arm raised and a fist balled up in front of him. He lowered it and assessed for anything out of place.
He noticed she was a little flush and her skin had a dewy hue to it, like she was sweating.
“Hi.”
The corner of America’s lips twitched upwards. “Hi.”
There was a silence in the space between them. Strange frowned and adjusted how he was standing. “Are you okay?”
America held her arm across her body and shifted on her feet. “I'm--I’m okay.”
Stephen pressed his lips together. “Can we talk for a second?”
She had a sarcastic comment in the barrel, but decided to nod instead. She didn't entirely trust herself not to word vomit everything she had done in the last ten minutes.
Strange seemed to be holding onto some kind of discomfort. “I just wanted to say sorry. I was...” he trailed off. Why was he so bad at this? He swallowed. “Worried yesterday, but I overreacted.”
She hadn't expected that. America searched his face and found unfamiliar features of remorse. “It's okay.”
“It's not okay,” he sternly stated. “We don't treat each other like that. Understand?”
She smiled at him, locking her gaze with his own. “I kapish. And, I was worried too.” His entire body seemed to deflate with released tension.
“Well I'll join you for lunch if that's where you're--oh--” Stephen frowned, reaching over and holding the collar of her jacket. “Your pin fell off.” His thumb ran across the hole as America’s body temperature skyrocketed with panic.
“Oh no,” she managed to gasp out, glancing down and staring at the lighter patch of jacket where her pin used to live.
“It’ll turn up,” he reassured.
“Oh I don't doubt it,” America groaned, following behind Stephen with a newfound angst.
In the Sorcerer Supreme’s movie poster riddled chambers, a pride pin stick half out of a locked desk drawer.