It was raining in New York tonight, and the hazy light pervaded from the old houses along the Hudson River. Reflected on the riverbank, it resembled the flickering candlelight on the verge of extinguishing.
From an aged house, a creaking sound emerged, and Rocket Raccoon cautiously climbed the narrow wooden staircase, accompanying Shiller to the second floor of his Hell's Kitchen Clinic.
Compared to his office in the Arkham Sanatorium, this place was cramped and packed, just like a can of sardines, Rocket Raccoon thought.
The first floor of the clinic was bustling with activity. Every morning, Shiller would be creating breakfast in the kitchen while Peter and Pikachu settled on a couch to play games. Natasha would lean against the door; Steve would call to greet whenever he passed by during his morning run. These peaceful days always invoked nostalgia.
Or the gold and red figure at the top of the small clinic at three in the morning; every tile of the clinic rooftop bore Tony Stark's perplexity about life and love.
Following Shiller's shadow that moved at the front, Rocket Raccoon finally had a chance to explore the full layout of this place. The second floor contained two rooms — one was Shiller's bedroom, and the other one was a guest room.
Don't expect to see any decent decoration here. Although Hell's Kitchen has changed, it still holds its slum past high, but once Rocket Raccoon entered Shiller's bedroom, it took him by surprise.
The room was not spacious — after a bed was fit in, the chair and the table by the window felt like an addition of junk in a can. This comparison did not come from nowhere — as Rocket Raccoon shook his head, registering that almost every space in the room from top to bottom was crammed full of peculiar and curious collectibles.
If having four table lamps on a bedside cabinet is not crowded enough — it seemed that the doctor thought so, so he squeezed in two small candlesticks amidst the table lamps.
Rocket Raccoon felt that human evolution turned out this way for a reason. At least he felt superfluous at the time, his tail was too cumbersome. He swung his tail, and something was knocked off.
Upon turning his head, what met his eyes was a gorgeous Fabergé Egg. He desired to touch the glistering golden ornament, but a hand lifted the egg before he could and set it on the top shelf in the remaining corner square. Shiller exclaimed, quite satisfied, "Fabergé Egg, quite nice, isn't it?"
"If the obsessive-compulsive disorder you mentioned before can keep your room tidy, then I would hope you to genuinely have such a disease. This place feels like an enormous labyrinth," Rocket Raccoon looking around, careful with the next steps, worrying about hitting something significant again.
This could be highly likely. The doctor's bizarre collection definitely had some hazardous items. What's more threatening is that these items are expensive, and even if he is sold, the cost of damage can't be compensated.
Just then, a pair of hands reached under his arms and lifted him. Rocket Raccoon gasped but did not struggle. When he looked down at the collection from a higher place, he observed an aesthetic sense of order in the chaos.
True, the room carried a lot of stuff — from Fabergé Eggs to Swiss ink bottles, embroidered berets with bird designs to strings hanging on the floor, and even a set of crystal wine glasses with the same patterns but different shades. All piled up together, it is quite overwhelming.
But, these things were organized properly; none of the items was precariously placed or displaced. None of the items stood in the wrong queue or were somewhere they didn't belong.
How bizarre, thought Rocket Raccoon, who was placed on a table. But soon, a more peculiar thing happened. Shiller fetched a notebook from his bag.
Upon the first sight of this notebook, Rocket Raccoon could not confirm if it was what he thought, just a keeper of letters, as it looked like it could do more than that.
The enormous notebook with a leather cover and metal detailing on all four corners. The metal that clamped the cover bore beautiful flower patterns. The dark black leather cover did not carry any content. The edge of the cover was aptly imprinted with a locking buckle, a belt of the same material, and a lock that bound two belts together.
If Rocket Raccoon was supposed to describe it, he would say this notebook bore a simple horror.
Shiller placed the notebook on the table and sat on the soft leather chair, sighing. He then drew out a bunch of pens from his bag. Rocket Raccoon recognized they were the ones Shiller emptied onto his office desk in Arkham.
The pens appeared to be chosen meticulously, very meticulously because Rocket Raccoon could distinguish that they came from different production lines, made using different techniques, and were manufactured during different years.
However, Shiller did not immediately uncap the pens to write. Instead, he pulled open a drawer, fetched an ink bottle and a quill.
"Oh my God, you aren't planning on using the remains of a poor bird to write, are you?" Rocket Raccoon had never seen such an antiquated pen before, and, in his surprise, thought of it as a part of a bird's body.
"You nailed it. I like this explanation, too", Shiller turned a page in the notebook, adding, "I hope those who read this book come up with similar scenarios."
With a tilted head, in confusion, Rocket Raccoon reached the windowsill of the table from the edge first, across from Shiller. As he saw Shiller dipping the pen in ink, he asked, "A reader? Are you writing a letter to someone? Are you planning on filling it out all the way?"
"Isn't it possible?" Shiller gently flicked the tip of his pen, shaking off the excess ink, and began to jot down on the first page of the black notebook.
"It was written with a quill pen."
In the meditation room of Kamar-Taj, Strange and Stark sat opposite each other at a round zen window. The light filtering through the window turned them into two silhouettes with somewhat hazy outlines.
"But the materia sicencia analytical data show that its history did not reach the era where only quill pens could be used," Stark denied. He then fell into deep thought, murmuring to himself, "Or maybe he has a unique pursuit, thinking that the characters drawn out with part of a bird's carcass would have more vitality."
"Perhaps that's the case," Strange affirmed his idea. He shifted his posture and rested his other arm on the armrest, saying, "In that dark age, the exploration of life and death by black magic was even more profound than it is now."
"Do you think this is a diary left by a black magician?" This sounded less like a question and more like a blunt denial. Stark looked at Strange and said, "We've both read the contents. There's no record of any arrays or curses, it's more like a weird but horrifying travel journal."
"But we can't deny that the content is so dark, it's like the rambling of a man full of bizarre fantasies that awakens from a nightmare in the middle of the night - ancient and terrifying."
"We should not focus on the darkness, but probe into the truth behind it. It is clear that this crazy tale will not be limited to Colorado State, and perhaps the darkness you care about is also spreading."
Strange's eyes fell on a notebook in the middle of the table. Its pure black cover had no words, but when he remembered the story described in the first chapter, he still felt his mind tremble.
"One ordinary summer evening in the southwest, I returned to my home in Englewood. I hadn't been back there for many years, but going to see my mother's grave was more pressing than nostalgia.
I was inconspicuous here, which was a good thing. The shocking accident from those days was long forgotten by the townsfolk, and I've changed a lot.
This was excellent news for me, for I knew that what I was going to do shouldn't attract too much attention. The horror should not get too close to the ordinary people, but I had a reason to pursue it."
As darkness set in and the sun's afterglow was pushed to the bottom of the spruce tree line, I set off for the cemetery. Cars on the road were heading in the opposite direction. I knew they thought I was odd; it wasn't a good time to reminisce about loved ones at dusk."
"..."
"I arrived at the cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood where my mother was buried. The manner of her death wasn't something to talk about to others. Hence when we buried her, she was placed at the edge of the cemetery. Perhaps it was better this way, better than the two farmhands and the cow who died."
As I went further into the cemetery, I saw two skylarks on my mother's gravestone. These small birds are found everywhere in Englewood and throughout the state of Colorado. They are the elves of the Rocky Mountains, but I am not."
Standing in front of my mother's grave, I uncontrollably started reminiscing about the past. The most confusing and fearful part was that this hardworking woman had repeatedly stressed to me that the stars in the sky lined up in a straight line when I was born. They seemed to be calling me back to them. Perhaps I should have done it."
I don't know how long I stood there but rain eventually began to fall. I saw a dark figure hurriedly cross from the dense brush. I put my hand on my gun at my waist, but I realized that it was just a small animal."
Forgive me, this fluffy animal with sharp teeth claimed he has his image rights. Thus, he didn't allow me to write about his appearance in my book."
Yes, I indeed needed his approval. When he finally ran out from the brush and came in front of me, he opened his mouth and said in very standard English, with a bit of a southern accent, greeting me."
"This sounds like the beginning of a fairy tale. But anyone who thinks so would definitely be astonished by the chaotic darkness that I am about to be engulfed in. This is an intriguing story, isn't it? Or perhaps it is not..."
In a cemetery on the outskirts of Englewood, Colorado, a young man stood beside a grave. Two skylarks had just taken off into the sky and an unassuming shadow darted from behind the grave through the bushes. It was fast, but still caught the young man's attention.
He put his hand on the gun at his waist, but soon realized it was just a passing critter. He let out a soft sigh, ran his hand through his blond hair, and complained about being overly sensitive due to nervousness."
His grumbling continued until the raccoon hopped onto the top of the tombstone, extended a claw, and said to him in a southern-accented English:
"Hello, Peter Quill."