Chapter 136: Strange Goes the Wrong Way
"Welcome to BCC's live coverage of the Hell's Kitchen Elimination Operation. I'm your reporter, Alice."
The blonde woman smiled at the camera with the practiced composure of someone who had spent years making catastrophes sound like programming. Her voice had exactly the right amount of tension in it — enough to convey the gravity of the moment, not enough to let on that she found it genuinely exciting.
"Thirty minutes remain before the federal deadline. As you can see, the military has completed its perimeter around Hell's Kitchen and is now systematically sealing off the surrounding streets."
The feed cut to the cordon. Soldiers and police moved with the clipped efficiency of people who had drilled for exactly this. Every face was the same — set, unreadable, pointed inward.
"We can also see a substantial civilian crowd gathering outside the barriers. It seems many New Yorkers want to witness history firsthand — the end of what many have called the city's most persistent problem."
The camera panned to the crowd. Flags. Phones. People talking over each other with the low buzz of shared anticipation.
"We're fortunate to have General Ross here to give us an update on the operation."
Alice held the microphone out to a square-jawed man in uniform whose expression suggested he had never once in his life found anything amusing.
"We've deployed a thousand personnel around the perimeter," Ross said. "Their primary function is containment — nobody gets out. We also have armored vehicles and air support on standby. I can assure you that under federal military lockdown, not even a fly gets through."
He said it like a man accustomed to being believed.
Which was unfortunate timing, because at that exact moment a Lamborghini came flying through the shot.
It blew past the checkpoint at full speed, aimed directly at Hell's Kitchen, and was through the cordon before anyone had fully processed what they were seeing.
The soldiers on the line stood there and watched it go.
Alice turned to look at Ross.
Ross's face had gone very still.
She recovered first, pivoting smoothly back to camera. "That vehicle you just saw appears to be associated with the federal operation, so clearance was not an issue. Civilians, please do not attempt to replicate what you just saw. Our troops are authorized to respond to unauthorized entry."
She glanced at Ross, registered that the interview was over, and found somewhere else to be.
"Who let that car through?!" Ross's voice carried across three city blocks. The soldiers exchanged looks. It was a Lamborghini. Nobody who drove a Lamborghini was somebody you stopped at a checkpoint and asked questions. They'd assumed federal. They'd assumed wrong.
"Say something! Anyone!"
Nobody said anything.
The Lamborghini in question was currently navigating the streets of Hell's Kitchen, and its driver was navigating a different kind of discomfort.
Stephen Strange had never been here before.
He turned down a side street and grimaced at the buildings on either side.
This is where Ethan chose to live, he thought. Voluntarily. He still couldn't fully process it. The man had tested at the top of their program, had more natural talent than anyone Strange had encountered before or since, and he'd come back to this.
"God, this place is depressing," he muttered to himself. "Even the streets are dirty. You'd think if someone was going to make a stand here they'd at least pick somewhere worth standing for."
He followed the navigation to a stop in front of a restaurant.
The Lucky Dragon.
He looked at it.
This is it. This is what Ethan gave everything up for.
He was composing a truly devastating assessment of his former roommate's life choices when he noticed the dog by the door. It was, objectively, one of the ugliest animals he had ever seen.
Poor guy really hit rock bottom, Strange thought, with something approaching sympathy.
He got out of the car.
A few residents had stopped to stare at the Lamborghini — it wasn't that Hell's Kitchen people were unfamiliar with expensive things, exactly, it was just that expensive things didn't usually survive here long. Most of them were too preoccupied with the incoming federal operation to hold their attention on it.
Strange pushed open the restaurant door.
He stopped.
The scene inside was — not what he'd expected.
A man in a red-and-black full-body suit was doing something with equipment in the corner. A silver-haired teenager with the posture of someone who could run through a wall was near the window. Two others — one in a Spider-Man costume, one who looked like he was dressed for a Halloween party — were moving around the space with the focused energy of people preparing for something serious.
They all turned to look at him.
Pietro spoke first. "Sorry, we're closed. You'll want to head out."
"Right," Strange said slowly, looking around. "I think I have the wrong place."
He took a step back toward the door.
"Strange. What are you doing here?"
He turned.
Ethan was sitting just inside, at a small table, completely relaxed, a chess piece in his hand. Across from him, someone was waiting for his next move.
Strange stared at him.
Then the confusion burned off and the irritation flooded in. He crossed the room in four strides and dropped into the chair across from Ethan.
"What am I doing here? What are you doing? Playing chess? Right now? Hell's Kitchen is about to get wiped off the map!"
Ethan looked up. "Long time no see. You want tea? Water?"
"I don't want anything! Do you understand what's happening outside? The military has this entire neighborhood locked down. I drove through their checkpoint — there were tanks, Ethan. I came here to get you out and you're sitting here playing chess like it's a Sunday afternoon!"
Ethan's expression didn't change. "You drove through a federal military perimeter to find me?"
"Obviously! Someone had to, since you clearly have no survival instinct!"
"That's — " Ethan paused. "Actually that's kind of touching."
"Don't. I'm furious with you." Strange leaned forward. "This whole mess, from what I understand, is because of some person calling himself the Lord of Hell's Kitchen. Which means you've been living here, in this place, next to whoever that lunatic is, and you never thought to mention it? Just get up and come with me. I have contacts. We can work something out. But you have to leave."
Pietro and Ethan exchanged a look.
Strange caught it. "What?"
"Nothing," Pietro said, with the expression of someone trying very hard not to smile.
"I'm asking a simple question. You live next to the Lord of Hell's Kitchen, yes? You must know who it is."
"I would think so," Ethan said.
"Do you know his name?"
Strange threw up his hands. "How would I know his name? I'm a neurosurgeon, I'm not following every local crime boss's press coverage. I'm in the top three in my field. I don't have time to keep up with whatever's going on in places like — " he gestured vaguely at the walls — "here. I came because you're one of the only people I've ever respected and you're apparently about to die in a neighborhood I can't find on any map I care about."
"Hm." Ethan set down his chess piece. "So you're saying you don't recognize me."
Strange blinked.
"I'm saying — " He stopped.
Something turned over in his head.
He looked at Ethan.
Then at Pietro, who was no longer attempting to hide his expression at all.
Then back at Ethan.
"...Are you telling me you're the Lord of Hell's Kitchen."
Ethan didn't say anything.
"That is not possible."
☆☆☆
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