Symphony no. 9. in D minor op. 125, Fourth movement "Ode to joy" played off a vinyl in the corner of the room, the rhythm by which steam left Stephen's toned back muscles, now in the safe embrace of heat. Droplets of water hung in the ridges defining his naked body, subjected to the magically guided brush of a white, soft towel.

Before him, the closet opened untouched and faraway, to fetch the clothes the Sorcerer Supreme had on his mind. Behind him, the bathroom cleaned itself, from wiping the walls, the floors, to even cleaning the sink after he had shaved his goatee to a precise line, to look as good as on the first day he got it.

Two steps out of the bathroom, the towel was done tapping onto the skin and it took the liberty of wrapping itself around the hips of its master. Narrow eyes of glacial judgment overlooked the silent activity of his burgundy coat being carried out of the closet and hanging gently in the air, where it would start being brushed clean of seams. Out of a black cover zipped before his eyes, Stephen appreciated the quality of the costume shown to him, perfectly preserved from a time when he attended more galas than interdimensional battles.

He gave it a brief nod of approval.

Long past the closet, Stephen finally stopped before the full body mirror, an antiquity he claimed for himself and posted in his Sanctum room as a relic of grandeur that he's been told off for clinging to. What good were all the Earth's finer things if not to please the soul?

Expressionless, he studied himself for less than a second. He had gotten used to seeing the scars, which unlike the ugly ridges on his hands, were brands of pride from battles not only had he survived, but also returned victorious. The latest scar, on his right arm, right above the elbow, was from a group of spectral cannibal trolls, trying to extract the whole arm as a consolation prize after he had settled the conflict between them and Kirashu Tribes a day before the war would commence. He confiscated the axe which got close to cutting his arm off that day.

The pride made him twitch the corners of his lips in half a grin, far too short lived for his reflection to even consider it a movement at all. An acknowledgment touch of the newest scar ended too and the left hand was now responsible for a quick snap of his fingers, putting into motion the objects floating around his room, to match the organized chaos of the orchestra playing from the vinyl.

On the high notes of the choir, he started dressing himself with minimal input of his actual body, but maximum concentration of his mind, guiding the objects with intuition and will, focused into invisible spells. Ever the critic, Stephen watched the progress in the mirror, occasionally making small adjustments like the single moment of effort in which both his palms caught a fiery glow, as if lava ran under his skin. With that accumulated power of a rather easy charm, he raised his hands to his slightly damp hair and dried it to a perfect slick back arrangement.

It was only when the final touches were represented by the buttoning of his shirt that Stephen raised his hand and stopped the help of spells. He didn't catch a rare case of guilt in using his skill set for mundane activities, but rather a glimpse of a familiar face in the mirror.

"How long has it been since I went out like this?" Though somewhere behind him the Cloak of Levitation, a constant companion of his, was hurrying to join him, Stephen asked himself. The man staring him back from the mirror was the epitome of all which he had once been, before the Sorcerer outfit became his permanent etiquette and long before he buried himself in mystical work to forget there was a life of casual elegance he could still indulge himself into.

Slowly, feeling the ghosts of pain by looking down at his hands he considered ugly, Stephen finished buttoning up his shirt. Then, at the last button, he sighed, "Too long."

The cape blocked his view to himself, tilting its collar left and right. Somehow, Stephen understood, "Let's not tell Wong I said that." His right hand reached forward and grabbed a handful of the cloak, right from its middle fabric. He pulled it closer to him, tossed it over his shoulder and, enchanted, the cloak became a scarf, changing texture, changing even its color to match that of his coat. It snuggled closer to Stephen's neck, adjusting on its own.

"I admit," Stephen carried his palms across the sides of his long coat, "I am actually looking forward to her show tonight." The scarf raised and tickled under his nose cheekily, like it was giggling at his sudden smile. Stephen pushed his scarf down, to behave. "Marion Hall," he allowed himself to recall her name while he held down his amused scarf still.

Watching himself say her name, he straightened his back, puffed his chest a little and tamed his smile to a frank expression. "Marion Hall, pleased to solve your enigma," he practiced. "Marion Hall. You could have said that- No. Your name is Marion Hall. Hmm," he frowned sharply, displeased with his current ideas of facing her again about the riddle which still impressed him days after he had solved it.

After handling lower realms political issues and being shadowed in galactic disputes and Multiversal problems for too long, the Magician was truly just a breath of fresh air which he inhaled as quickly as a famished man.

Wong was not happy with the lack of communication between him and Stephen for the past week, but fortunately, things were looking promising in the media for the sweet Wendy whom, hosting her in the Sanctum, he had grown fond of. Her legacy of knowledge in the arcane left him wondering what sort of sorceress she would have become, had her choices been different regarding this life she chose to live in their world.

But then again, who would be teaching her if she had chosen not to forsake that legacy?

No matter how much he enjoyed lying to himself, facts spoke that none of their Sanctums have successfully produced any full fledged graduates recently. A project laid at the very bottom of his mind, always getting shadowed by worries: a school for those self-taught mystics in need of guidance.

Considering the constant state of crisis the Sanctum was into, Wong has grown used to dismissing his dream for an impossibly naive wish.

From a reading session with Miss Weber, only the hurried steps down the main staircase would have managed to get him rushing into the fourier. Strange descended the last steps and the unusual sound came from his change in shoes. Wong had only seen the shine of that black, formal footwear three times and each time, it was for the sake of some party. Those outings stopped at some point and that very break from the usual was a subject of worry.

But not this week. This week, Wong was angry with the recklessness of the Sorcerer Supreme to adhere to secrecy when the Magician clearly threatens the security of their world. Telling Wong he had a plan did not count as enough in these times, so the latter felt in right to glare, while being passed by.

"Where are you going?" Wong's nose scrunched. He felt the wave of the cologne Stephen was wearing.

"Out," Stephen answered bluntly.

"Don't let the door kick you on the way out."

Wendy has gotten used to their bickering, happening each chance they got, each time their paths somehow inevitably collided in the vast Sanctum, while Strange was reaching for the kitchen and Wong was returning from short travels through their portals. They've been at it since she temporarily had to move into the Sanctum's accommodation -shockingly better than she expected- and Wendy wanted to make sure that if this was a tension caused by her presence, at least they won't start breaking this place apart in a fight.

However, there was no need to interfere this time. She remained in the doorway, leaning against it and watching Wong sigh behind the loud exit of his friend. "He's attending tonight's show, isn't he?" she asked in the building silence, before it could take over.

"What now?" Wong turned around, mildly confused.

"The show," Wendy's eyes widened. "The Magician's Second Act. It's tonight. A brand new audience has been chosen too. They've been talking about this on the news all day."

Indeed, the street in front of the theater was blocked entirely, not just by journalists, cameramans and their crew, installed with vans and wires, ready to get the freshest news straight out of the people who'd leave the theater after the show, but also by fans of the show who did not get invited to attend this event. The police had to join, to put some order to this mess looking more like a protest than a premiere, but the traffic jam was inevitable and Stephen's timing had to suffer because of it.

His driving days were long gone, so he called a taxi for the premiere, only he had to leave that taxi three streets away and walk -he didn't want any new videos of him flying on the internet- the distance to the theater, where another queue awaited him. Half of the people in the queue didn't even have the tickets. In fact, he didn't have a ticket either and he was considering forging one, as it wouldn't be too hard, when an usher spotted him.

"Dr. Strange?" the usher left his post to run beside Stephen and ask with hopeful eyes. He gave the young boy working there, still dressed in the red outfit of the old ushers of theaters, a kind and generous nod. His whole face lit up and he straightened up to receive him properly. "Please, sir, you're expected in the VIP section."

The usher extended his right hand forward, but not to offer it to the sorcerer, yet rather give what he held in his white glove: Stephen's ticket.

Being escorted past the queue and through the entrance, Stephen had time to squint down at the ticket and see that the title of the act was just a blank space. As Wendy and Peter narrated, the subtitle of the show was supposed to show up before it started, once they took their seats.

Once inside the theater itself, he was directed towards the curtain which would shorten his way to the first row, but Stephen went his own way, with the other people, to hopefully look at everyone and get an idea of what kind of people Marion invited. He doubted anything that she did was ever random and he'd be truly shocked if not every single person there was hand-picked by the mastermind of a woman.

The back entrance of the theater room was one he was used with, for he had taken the same path, accompanied only by the presence of Ms. Frost not too long ago. The theater changed drastically: a once empty chamber now hosted hundreds of people, all chatting, all fretting to find their seats in a semi-obscure light falling over them from above. Many faces of many people, all moving quickly. Amongst them. Stephen was an observant snail, standing out not just because of his height, but also by the seriousness of his attire.

He had a vague idea from Peter and Wendy that the last show had been an extravagant premiere, but this time around, the theater seemed to be filled with middle-class and lower people, save for a few faces he happened to recognize were of higher status. These important people were placed on relatively bad seats, in the middle or towards the back and he could see frowns on a few of their faces.

He recognized the likes of Ward Meachum, Rand Enterprises' second in command, long before he froze on the side steps at the sight of someone whose presence was... unexpected. Stephen didn't care how many people cursed him for blocking their way so steeply, he moved to the side eventually and called the name of the subject of his attention, seated somewhere on the fifth row. "Dr. Banner?"

Bruce Banner went missing during the Thanos incident. According to Thor, if the bifrost travel went wrong for Hulk and he never made it to Earth as Heimdall had intended, then it was very unlikely that he survived at all. His disappearance was mourned, a monument has been erected in the yard of a great university, though his close friend, Tony Stark, never quite accepted the death nor the defeat in the search for him.

And the vain man was in the right apparently, because there was Bruce, in flesh and bone, very much alive, slowly turning his head to the side, at the sound of his name being called by an utter stranger. "Yes?" he innocently tilted his head at the man and Stephen looked at him flabbergasted.

"It's...," he hesitated. Stephen never had the pleasure of formally meeting Bruce Banner, even though he happened to read some of his papers in his free time. They didn't know each other and pretending they did was simply wrong, so he plastered on a smile and nodded, "It's good to see you." Hopefully, his reaction would tell him a little about where he had been and what the hell he was doing there that night.

Bruce smiled back, a little confused and nodded. Nothing conclusive came to Stephen out of the man's reaction, just that there was no more that he could possibly add onto the conversation then without worrying and stressing the man out. Frankly, the sorcerer had no wish to bring any green to the party by accident.

Not tonight. Tonight he actually wanted to watch a magic show. Because if her magic tricks were half as good as her riddle, then he knew he was going to enjoy this.

He took his seat in the first row, got comfortable without removing his scarf and looked down curiously at the ticket again. He was... feeling as excited as a child, but at least half the elation deflated once he realized the space for the act title was still blank. Then, Stephen threw a glance over his shoulder: the last guests were taking their seats, the whole theater was filled. Wasn't the show supposed to start?

That observant gaze of his thoughtfully moved ahead, towards the stage. For a brief moment, he felt that the stage itself was staring back at him with more than a pair of eyes. Versed in magic he could tell there was some sort of invisible veil which laid a shadow over the whole of the stage, making it look pitch black up there, even though the theater room was bathing in its penumbra.

He squinted at the shadow ahead. Of course, it wouldn't be an effort for him to undo the illusion trick and see exactly what was trying to stay hidden, but instead of action, Stephen sighed. Marion never struck him as the type to be late, so he assumed his ticket must be flawed. Before he could take another look down at his ticket, the sudden ruckus at the back of the theater caught his attention.

"She called the reporters in?" he mumbled his observation, utterly confused, watching for a while how half the crowd which waited outside the whole building was moving its equipment inside, with godspeed.

Stephen caught a glimpse, from the corner of his eyes, at how some guests, including Dr. Banner, started looking down. When one turned to their friends, ticket in hand, he understood that he should return to his seat properly. Just as he sat normally, the lights dimmed. With a forced squint, he caught sight of the title which just appeared on the ticket: "A Trip Into Mentalism".

author's note:   it's been a while since i posted, but oh boy, i finally caught the whiff of inspiration so here we go, my favorite act beginss

Who's ready to watch the show??