Prologue

I don't really know why we ended up on *this* billboard of all places—like, the metal's half-rusted, and the ad is for some perfume nobody's bought since 2009. Also, it's midnight, and the wind keeps banging everything around so loudly, I'm kind of convinced we'll fall. But hey, Deadpool insisted. He's perched there, legs dangling off the edge, *completely* ignoring my "Could we not die?" face. 

He's humming a show tune—no idea which one. Maybe from *Cats*, ironically, because that's exactly the kind of random nonsense he'd pick. Meanwhile, I'm sitting a little ways back, hugging my knees. Trying not to freeze. Or panic. Because, yeah, we're super high up. Also because he's giving me that look he does when he wants me to spill some big cosmic secret. 

I sigh, letting my chin fall onto my hoodie sleeve. "All right," I say softly, "you want my messed-up Wonderland story, you got it." 

Deadpool practically squeals. "Yes, yes, yes! Hit me with that cosmic-laced fairytale, Cupcake." 

"Dude, do *not* call me Cupcake," I grumble, but I can't help a tiny grin. He's such a dork sometimes, but in a weirdly lovable, unhinged way. Anyway, I shift against the billboard, feeling the metal scrape my back, and try to gather my thoughts. 

"Okay, so—once upon a time, there was this girl named Alice. She lived in a cramped apartment in a city kinda like this one, right? Crazy mix of heroes, villains, people in spandex—y'know, typical Earth-616." I flick a bit of peeling paint off the billboard, watching it flutter away. "Alice seemed normal, except for this swirl on the back of her hand, which she always hid under a glove. Her parents were, like, freaked out by it. I guess it looked more like some cosmic rune than a cutesy birthmark." 

Deadpool does a theatrical gasp. "Shocking! A swirl that's not just a swirl." 

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, so not exactly from a carnival tattoo booth. Anyway, we'll get there. First, I gotta tell you about the Rabbit." 

I let my feet dangle, trying not to look down at the city lights. "So Alice was four—like, basically a baby—when she first saw this Rabbit. Except it wasn't a fluffy white bunny with a waistcoat, oh no. It was more like… gold in the worst possible way, like rotted sunlight. Patchy fur, empty eyes. It'd appear in the corner of her room, and the walls would start, like, *breathing.* But she was four, so she just chased it, giggling, not realizing how insane that was." 

He tilts his head. "So a toddler basically playing tag with a cosmic freak bunny." 

"Yep," I say, popping the "p." "And every time she ran after it, the hallway got longer, or the wallpaper twisted into shapes that looked… alive. Then, a second later, reality snapped back. She'd be on the floor, going 'Huh?' Everyone else was like, 'Kid's imagination, right?' But oh man. If only they knew." 

Deadpool fidgets like an excited puppy. "So it kept showing up?" 

"Every birthday," I say. "Five, six, seven, same routine. That swirl on her hand would kinda prickle, and *poof!* the Rabbit's back. She ended up naming all that weirdness 'Wonderland'—I guess that's what you do when you're a kid with half a memory of the actual story. But trust me, it wasn't cutesy. It was all angles that made no sense and these sickly gold tones that'd hurt your eyes if you looked too long." 

He leans forward, nearly tipping off the billboard. "But where's my Cat cameo? You can't do Wonderland without a Cheshire Cat." 

A wry laugh escapes me. "Oh, there was a Cat all right, but not the grin you see on T-shirts. This thing had, like, seventy teeth, all pointy. And it'd kinda float behind reality, showing up on windowsills that shouldn't even exist. Whispering riddles that—out loud—made zero sense, but in her head, turned into pictures she *had* to draw. So her parents found a bunch of crayon drawings of weird spires and swirling shapes, and they were like, 'Time for therapy!' Spoiler: that didn't help." 

He shakes his head, eyes wide behind the mask. "Creepy. I love it." 

I shift again, hooking my arm around a support bar. "It gets better—by which I mean *weirder.* At nine, the Hatter showed up. She woke up one night, and her bedroom was gone. Instead, it was this giant table with mismatched teapots dripping black tar or something. The Hatter was at the head, wearing a big hat with a blank card. His face was half… not there, flickering. He poured her tea that tasted like starlight and pennies. Next minute, she's back in bed, sweaty and freaked. Parents said it was a fever. She knew better." 

Deadpool rubs his gloved hands. "That is so messed up. Next cameo, please." 

I snort. "Sure. The Caterpillar rolled in around ten, spouting existential questions in a million-layered voice. The March Hare was basically the Rabbit on crack. With every cameo, Wonderland felt more real. Meanwhile, that swirl under her glove was sometimes glowing, or itching, or *something.* Parents tried to keep her normal—school, piano, birthday parties—but come on. She was in two worlds at once." 

He nods, tapping the billboard. "So the parents eventually realize how deep this goes…?" 

"Eh, sort of. Doctors told them it's imagination. They tried not to make it weird, so Alice just learned to keep quiet. Meanwhile, each year, she waited for a big confrontation with a Queen, because, I mean, that's how Wonderland works, right? But it didn't come… not until she turned twelve." 

A hush settles between us, even though the wind is literally trying to blow us off the billboard. Deadpool leans in, all serious. "That's when her parents died, right?" 

I swallow. "Yeah. Car crash, I think, or maybe a mugging. Doesn't matter. It was random. Everyone told her 'Oh, life's cruel, so sorry'—but *she* decided that was the Queen. This unstoppable, brutal force that took away her parents for no reason." 

Deadpool's posture slumps. "Yikes." 

"Yep," I say, hugging my knees tighter. "She went to live with some distant relatives who barely cared. Stopped therapy, wore that glove out of habit. And basically, she fell deeper into Wonderland. No one to stop her." 

He exhales. "So that tragedy gave her free rein, in a messed-up way." 

"Pretty much. Then, on her thirteenth birthday, the Rabbit led her into this giant gold-lit banquet hall. Like, rotted gold, if that's a thing. The Cat was overhead, the Hatter poured more nightmare tea, the Caterpillar dripped riddles from a chandelier. In the middle of the table was a crown. Tattered cloth behind it, super ominous. She realized *this* was the final piece. They'd been dragging her here for years." 

He leans so far forward I almost want to grab his shoulder. "She took it, right?" 

I shrug. "After a second. She hesitated, but the swirl on her hand basically *burned* through the glove. The Cat purred, 'Welcome, guest of honor,' and the Hatter said something about how madness reveals who we are. She felt something *snap*—like a mental click. She put on the crown, and everything exploded in swirling gold. Turns out the Rabbit, Cat, Hatter, Caterpillar—they were basically facets of one cosmic voice calling her from across reality. Wonderland wasn't some random dream. It was *her reflection.* She was never just Alice—she was the King in Yellow, or maybe always had been." 

Deadpool whistles low. "Dang. That's… big cosmic stuff." 

I rub the edge of my hoodie, remembering how it felt. "Yeah. When she woke up, the swirl was still on her hand, brighter than ever. And she realized she could do things. Warp illusions into real life, show people pieces of that messed-up dimension. Not enough to blow up the city—yet—but enough to scare her if she really leaned into it." 

He lets out a shaky chuckle. "So the Queen was just random fate that killed her parents, and *that* was the final puzzle piece." 

"Yup. Like the darkest punchline ever. She decided normal was overrated and basically accepted Wonderland. She changed her name to Sasha—didn't want to be 'Alice' anymore—kept wearing the glove so she didn't accidentally drive people insane. She's not out here to be a supervillain, though. She actually *likes* the city. Plenty to see, illusions to spin. That's her jam." 

Deadpool fixes me with a pointed stare. "And that's you, right? You're Alice-slash-Sasha-slash-King in Yellow." 

I spread my hands in a "you got me" gesture. "Busted. The swirl is right under this glove, still humming with Carcosa weirdness." 

His reaction is… surprisingly gentle. "That's heavy. But also… kinda poetic. And, uh, I'm hungry." 

I laugh, *finally* letting out some tension. "Same. Pancakes? I'm freezing up here." 

We scramble down the shaky ladder, which is terrifying at like ten stories above the ground. The second our feet hit the alley, I want to kiss the pavement. Deadpool's already jabbering about how many pancakes he can eat. 

We slip into Manhattan's neon chaos like it's no big deal. Everyone's busy with their own nighttime hustle—no one cares about two weirdos emerging from a billboard. That's this city for you, always too hectic to question anything. 

Not long after, we find this 24-hour diner that smells like burnt coffee and bacon grease, and obviously, we get a booth. The lighting's fluorescent and harsh, the waitress looks half-dead, but it's warm, and they have syrup, so I'm good. 

We order coffee and pancakes—enough for a small army—and, for a few glorious moments, neither of us says a word. I think we're just enjoying the quiet chaos of the diner after that cosmic bedtime story. 

At some point, Deadpool sets his mug down, eyes flicking up. "So… do you ever worry some *real* Queen in Yellow might show up? Or are *you* the Queen? Or King, whatever." 

I stab my fork into the pancake stack. "If something bigger than me shows up, I guess I'll offer them tea. That's how Wonderland works. The Hatter's table. Could be fun, could be horrifying. I've seen too much to pretend I can control it all." 

He gives me a look that says he respects the weirdness. "Dang. That's a lot for a teen to handle." 

I blow on my coffee. "I was never exactly a normal teen, though, was I? That swirl replaced normal with illusions. Might as well roll with it." 

He nods sagely, then wiggles his eyebrows. "Think I could meet that Cat sometime? Bet we'd vibe." 

I snort into my coffee. "Sure, if the Cat feels like it. Illusions have minds of their own. I can't just dial them up. But who knows—maybe you'll get lucky." 

We finish pancakes in a flurry of sticky forks and sugar crashes. Finally, we toss some wrinkled cash on the table and step out into the city's neon glow. The sign overhead buzzes and flickers, casting weird pink shadows on the pavement. I shiver slightly, hugging my arms. 

Deadpool glances around for trouble, then grins at me. "So, do I call you Sasha or Alice?" 

I give a half-smile. "Sasha. Alice was the naive kid who followed a golden Rabbit without blinking." I think about that for a second—how fearless she was, how everything changed the moment her parents died. A pang hits my chest, but I swallow it. 

He nods, stepping back into the swirling crowd. "All right, Sasha. Thanks for the bedtime story. Hit me up if you want to serve cosmic tea." 

Then he's gone, weaving into the late-night mania that is Midtown Manhattan. For a moment, I just stand there, tapping my gloved hand against my side. The swirl beneath it pulses, reminding me I'm never fully normal. 

The streetlamp overhead flickers, and out of the corner of my eye, I *almost* see those rotted gold spires again—like a glimpse of Carcosa leaking through. I blink, and it's just the reflection of some junked-up building. Classic illusions. 

I stuff my hands in my pockets and wander toward a side alley that leads back to my place. The city lights strobe across puddles on the sidewalk, creating weird fractal patterns that remind me a little too much of the swirl. I wonder if I'll dream of a banquet hall tonight, or if I'll just pass out. 

That's the thing about illusions—you never quite know when they'll show up or if they'll stay politely in your head. *Sometimes they slip out into the real world and make the walls breathe.* Sometimes it's quiet for days. And I guess… that's just my life. 

As I climb the stairs to my attic, I breathe in the stale smell of leftover incense from the bookstore below. The swirl tingles under my glove, like it's saying "goodnight." I ignore it. Probably time for me to crash. Or maybe doodle Carcosa spires again until I pass out. If meltdown is in my future, I guess it can wait until morning.