Chapter 21
He held her hand as they navigated the hallway—partially to provide some comfort, and partially because he didn't know what to expect from her. She was a loose cannon. Even as their trying to find the room of archived items, she's completely bottled the sobs from just moments ago into an empty expression. Hollow red rimmed eyes. Clammy half grip.
The sound that interrupted that little moment back there had been a kind of groaning, creaking sound, yet also seemed somewhat animalistic, a hungry and needy grumble—never a promising sign. It effectively cut the anguish short, reminding the pair that they were still in uncharted territory.
The hallways are long and confusing, turning into sharp corners with more continuous, windowless walls. On and on and on. He's ignoring the scorch marks and bullet holes, swallowing the fear of uncertainty. No time to question: What happened here? Eventually they reach a stretch of area with doors and Stephen briefly pokes his head into each one.
Many are just offices. Empty, dark rooms with desk and chairs. America pulls away from his grasp—which he's noticeably reluctant but releases—to search the other doors. She's business as usual, if not for the tear streaks on her puffy cheeks and that she looks like she's about to collapse.
Other than that. Peachy.
Stephen knows part of her always suspected it. That one or both of her parents were dead. And now that hope, however small, was squashed. Crushed. Broken inside her and the pieces are just left to rot.
His own hands tremble.
The hallway opens up to a large space with cubicles and desks, with a massive screen in the center coming down from the ceiling. Only there was clearly a struggle here. Chairs are knocked over. Papers scatter the floor. The screen is shattered. Even some of the cubicle walls are caved in.
More bullet holes and scorch marks along the walls and seered into the carpet.
“Mierda,” America cursed, taking in the room. “Stephen,” she batted the back of her hand against his arm, he was still close enough to touch. “Look.”
He turned, following her outstretched hand to the shadows of the room, where something protruded, just barely visible in the flickering lighting. “Shit,” he mimicked. Partially hidden is the yellowy tube of scaly shed, massive enough to make out individual scales from across the room. Snake skin.
As if sensing the intrusion, the building made the same loud, settling noise as if tipping slightly further. Then silence. Unnerving silence before a low and steady hiss from the darkness of the hall behind them.
Stephen had read about Basilisks. There were many variations of lore surrounding the mythical creature. The most prominent being the serpent king defeated by Alexander Great by utilizing a mirror. Another similar one with Saint George used the reflection of his shield to slay the beast. Many originated from Europe and are historically and naturally considered mere stories.
Stephen Strange knew better to discount the early tales of beasts. Much larger, more deadlier creatures roamed the planet for far longer than humans and remained. Even the Ancient One had stories of her defeats.
The cloak seemed to have more wherewithal than America and Stephen, because as soon as that skin crawling hiss came from the shadows, it began pulling Stephen hastily in the other direction. He latched onto America’s wrist before starting to run through the next hallway, just as the creature in question lunged from the darkness.
“Don’t look!”
It's slender, greenish black body sprung towards them, one curve of it's length slamming into a cubicle. One side of it's face, particularly around the left eye, was scarred with burn marks. The right eye, filled with yellow and gold flakes, fixated on its next meal.
The cloak was not interested in the prospects of being eaten by a giant ass snake and acted accordingly. It yanked Stephen forward with ferocious intent, making it's wearer stumble to keep up. The snake follows them, no longer interested in keeping quiet as it crashes into the walls and knocks down light fixtures.
They take a sharp turn when the cloak yanks him to the right. The basilisk is flings forward, missing the hall. They can hear it struggling to turn.
The cloak pulls until they reach a door, which Stephen quickly opens and shoves America in before closing the door behind the both of them. The darkness consumes them until Strange whispers an incantation and a golden glowing ball forms in his palm, it grows into roughly the size of a softball before slowly floating upwards and settling above their heads.
It’s a supply closet by the looks of it. Shelves are on either side, scantily stocked with paper, pens, and highlighters. A hiss comes from outside the door. They can hear the near silent sound of scales against carpet as it slithers slowly through their hallway.
Stephen hovers by the door, watching the slit of light from the hall momentarily darken as the basilisk passes their door. He lets out a tight sigh before turning to speak. The words catch in his throat.
America had sank to the floor with her knees tucked to her chest, covering her face with her ring adorned hands. He can’t hear her crying, but her shoulders give it away.
Gulping, he moves carefully towards her, dropping beside her with his legs stretched out. The closet is large enough that both of them can sit like this, but Stephen’s shoulders are nearly touching both shelves and his legs (stretched out) have about a foot of distance before the door.
He doesn’t move further, at first. Their sides are pressed into one another so it’s not like she doesn’t know he’s there… he just doesn’t know what to say.
America takes a sharp and pained inhale, beginning to hiccup instead of breathe. His arm hooks around her shoulders, his thumb rubbing circles along her arm.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” he breaks the silence. His grumbled voice fills the space as he wishes he could find better words for her.
America struggles to regain control of her breathing, teetering almost on hyperventilating. “I sh-sh-should’ve kn-known,” she stammers, muffled by her hands.
Stephen finally reaches over with his other hand, gently prying her fingers away from her blotchy face. She looks much younger with her eyelashes beaded with tears and her chin dimpled and quivering. His hand wipes her cheeks. “It's not your fault, America.” The glow of the orb above them makes her tears give off a yellowy hue. “Someone murdered her, how could that be your fault?”
America shuttered, balling her hands into fists. “Rita,” she voiced, her face contorting into a pinched frown. Stephen recognized the name from the mission notes. Rita Sinclair.
“Right. See? Not you're fault.” He reassured, swiping at the new wave of tears. The spillage from her lower lid is much slower now, coming down in drips instead of steady streams.
America’s teeth chattered against each other as her eyes got a far away look. “I killed her.”
Stephen sighed, shaking his head, “no America you—”
“Rita,” America admitted to the darkness of the supply closet. Stephen maintained his hold on her but didn't move. “She was following us for almost a month,” America pushed her palms into her knees. “Trying to convince Nila and I to go with her. She said mom was sick and we had to go. Nila didn't believe her.”
America tapered off, losing focus to the strip of light beneath the door darkening again as the basilisk moved to find them. “Then?” Stephen prompted gently after the light returned.
America sniffled, her fingers fidgeting with her sling ring. “We didn't trust her. Not completely. Not enough to leave with her. Then she tried to take Nila,” America’s breathing hitched again, recalling the struggle as America pounded her little fists into Rita’s back. “She tossed her over the side of the roof. Like she was nothing.”
Stephen’s brow arched. He’s suddenly reminded of days ago, sitting at the table as she's deeply engrossed in her studies, pondering what life she had before him. Now he wishes he could shove that question back down, bury it so deeply he’ll never scratch at it again.
“Nila was dead by the time I got to the bottom,” America added now. “Still I tried...” her words got lost.
A pained reminder digs into Stephen’s chest, he's all too familiar with that feeling. Crouching beside someone who’s already gone as you try everything you can think of to bring them back.
America shook her head. “I ran. I didn't know what to do. Rita was still able to find me, but it took longer. She wasn't waiting for me to go with her willingly this time.... Stephen, I'm so sorry.”
He’s yanked back from his own thoughts. “What? For what?” His tone is firm.
“I pushed her,” she whined, instantly hiding her shame by ducking her head into her knees.
“Good,” Stephen blurted unapologetically. America slightly lifted her eyes from her shelter of arms and knees. “If it was between you and some bitch who killed your friend and your mom—easy choice.”
“Are you serious?”
“No I’m Strange.” He couldn’t help it, offering a grin. (Do you know how long he’s been waiting to use that? Top tier dad joke everybody.) When America relented and offered a scoff, he tugged her closer, bobbling her slightly so she’d untuck completely. “You don’t need to carry all of that by yourself. I’m not going anywhere.”
They held onto one another in a comfortable silence this time. Stephen could feel her fiddling with his robes. “They would’ve loved you, yknow. I mean not love love, obviously. They were super gay.”
He chuckled dryly. “I am pretty lovable.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, old man,” America chastised playfully. Her tone is much lighter, though her voice is still groggy and wet sounding.
“I'm not even that old,” he muttered indignantly with an eye roll to match.
The light along the door darkened again, reminding Stephen why they were there in the first place. Trapped. Guarded by a monsterous being that was toying with them like play things.
“I think I have an idea,” America whispered, apparently also remembering their current predicament. He glanced down at her as she pointed towards the wall where a rectangular grate was screwed.
Vents. What could go wrong?