Acrylics and Alleyways

Morning light slid through the dusty attic window in a pale, golden bar, illuminating the little motes of dust that danced in the air. I blinked awake, half expecting to see some Wonderland leftover perched at the foot of my bed—maybe the Hatter, tipping his cup of cosmic tea. But the only presence I registered was my tattered jacket slung over a rickety chair, its frayed edges shifting slightly as if caught in a breeze that didn't exist.

I stared at it for a moment, blinking sleep from my eyes. No cloak, I told myself, but I knew better. That jacket was more than battered fabric. It was Carcosa's hush in physical form, a faint echo of the King in Yellow's tattered robe. Sometimes, in the corner of my vision, the fabric's edges flickered gold, or its tears moved like serpentine tendrils. I'd caught glimpses in reflections, but never confronted it directly. I guess a part of me liked ignoring the cosmic weirdness built into my everyday belongings.

I pushed myself upright, glancing around the cramped attic. My "home" since I moved in above a small independent bookstore. Planks of wood squeaked beneath my socks as I dragged myself to my feet. Artwork—my art—covered the floor: half-finished sketches, canvases leaning against walls, each sporting angles and colors that defied normal perspective. Many had smears of deep gold across black forms, reminiscent of the impossible city that hovered in my memory: Carcosa. Even now, I could hear it thrumming behind my thoughts, beckoning me deeper.

I picked my jacket off the chair. It felt heavier than normal cloth, as if the tears in its hem were anchored to something else. The morning sun caught the shredded edges just right, making them gleam. I sighed, slipping it on, letting the ragged sleeves fall around my wrists. Then I grabbed a single black glove from the table and tugged it onto my left hand. The swirl beneath—my birthmark, the Yellow Sign—would stay hidden, for courtesy's sake.

"All right," I murmured to no one, or perhaps to Carcosa. "Time to see if the world survived another night."

Stepping onto the narrow stairway, I caught the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from the bookstore below. Once upon a time, that smell would have flipped my brain's 'Wake Up, You Need Caffeine' switch. Nowadays, my body never truly craved food or drink. I hadn't been hungry—not in the biological sense—since the moment I claimed my cosmic crown. Still, I like the taste. So I made a mental note to snag coffee somewhere, if only to indulge that faint ghost of desire.

I navigated the final steps carefully, each wooden plank protesting under my weight. The bookstore was half-lit, a sleepy clerk flipping through a box of used novels. Outside, through the glass door, Manhattan's hustle waited. A swirl of horns, chatter, and the rattling of the subway beneath.

As I stepped into the street, the sun's rays nearly blinded me. Car exhaust, hot asphalt, and the tang of vendor pretzels merged into a familiar city perfume. A few blocks away, I could make out a tall billboard boasting an ad for Tony Stark's latest energy initiative—some fancy "clean power" that the city was half-skeptical about. Typical Marvel stuff. Everyone was too busy with their own drama to notice me.

"Good," I muttered, shrugging my jacket. I felt the faintest ripple along its edges, like it wanted to billow in a non-existent wind. Some cosmic part of me found that comforting: I was never truly alone. Carcosa was always behind the seams of my life, whether I liked it or not.

My goal was the local art gallery, a modest place run by Bryce—a man whose fascination with my work bordered on obsession. I didn't mind the attention, but it sometimes gave me the creeps, especially when I caught him muttering about "the swirl," or asking me loaded questions about my "inspiration." People who peered too deeply into Carcosa's angles tended to lose their grip on the normal world. Bryce wasn't there yet, but he was definitely leaning.

As I walked, I let the city's energy wash over me. Business types in pressed suits raced by, hurling themselves into cabs. A few street performers tuned guitars or practiced breakdance moves, scrounging for spare change. Now and then, the wind carried a snippet of conversation about last night's vigilante tussle or some cosmic threat half the city had collectively shrugged off. In this reality, cosmic horrors were practically Tuesday.

I turned a corner and found myself in front of a small coffee cart. The aroma teased me again—rich, roasted beans. I paused, fishing a couple bills from my jacket pocket. A flicker of tattered fabric caught my eye: the jacket's sleeve seemed to elongate briefly, as if reaching for the cart. My heart skipped. Easy, Carcosa. One cosmic meltdown at a time.

The cart owner, an older man with kind eyes, handed me a paper cup. I paid, took a quick sip. It was bitter but satisfying, a reminder I still had a foot in the human experience, even if I no longer needed it. Warmth spread through me, though not in the usual caffeine buzz way—more like a comforting ritual I refused to give up.

By the time I arrived at Bryce's gallery—a long white storefront jammed between a yoga studio and a bodega—my coffee was half gone and no longer piping hot. I caught my reflection in the glass door: short hair, parted lips, an unassuming hoodie topped by a battered jacket whose frays glimmered in the sunlight. For an instant, the reflection behind me looked like black spires, like Carcosa was standing in the street. I blinked, and it was gone. Good. I wasn't in the mood to deal with illusions seeping out in broad daylight.

I pushed the door open. Cool air greeted me, accompanied by the faint smell of paint thinner and fresh plaster. On the walls, a handful of paintings by local artists depicted cityscapes or abstract color washes. Not bad. But my eyes flicked to the far corner: my section, the swirl-laden canvases. Right where Bryce displayed them, presumably to enthrall new visitors.

"You made it!" Bryce's voice rang from behind a partition. A second later, he emerged, wiping paint-smudged hands on his jeans. He had that frantic energy I half-admired, half-feared. "I was hoping you'd come by today."

"Morning, Bryce." I offered a polite nod, draining the last of my coffee. "How's the crowd?"

He gave a tight grin, eyes shining. "Ever since I put up your new pieces, traffic's doubled. I've had visitors stand there for an hour, just staring. One woman cried—said it felt like the painting was… calling to her." He let out a tense laugh. "She left trembling, but insisted she'd be back for more."

I felt a pang in my chest, a complicated mix of pride and guilt. "Sounds intense."

Bryce stepped closer, lowering his voice. "It is. Your lines, the angles… people say they hear whispers if they focus too long." His gaze slid to my left hand, as if suspecting the swirl might be showing. Of course, the glove was in place. "You have more pieces, right? I want to do a special exhibit, possibly next month."

"I brought one," I admitted, shrugging the jacket's collar. A small tear in the fabric hissed across my ear, like a quiet exhale. "I was painting last night. Oil on canvas. Not sure if it's any good."

His face lit up. "Let's see it!"

I pulled a rolled canvas from my tote. Bryce unfurled it carefully on a nearby table. The overhead lights made the oils gleam: twisting pillars of black, patches of decayed gold, and an unsettling central shape that hinted at a city horizon. Beneath the surface, I'd tried to capture the intangible geometry I recalled from Carcosa. It wasn't perfect—nothing ever matched the city's real angles—but it gave me that old, familiar chill when I looked at it.

Bryce stared, breath almost hitching. "It's… mesmerizing." He hovered a hand over the painting, not touching, as though afraid it might burn him. "You're sure you're only sixteen?"

A wry smile tugged at my lips. "Pretty sure."

He let out a ragged breath and placed the painting aside, eyes shining with reverence. That's when I noticed a stack of sticky notes on the table, each covered in random scribbles: partial sketches of my swirl, weirdly spelled phrases like Carcossa?, and frantic lines that might be attempts to replicate my brushstrokes. Goosebumps prickled on my arms. He was more than a mere fan—he was sliding toward mania, collecting pieces of my illusions in a messy puzzle. If I squinted, I could see the seeds of a cult forming. God help him if he ever actually glimpsed Carcosa in person.

"I know you're busy," he said, quickly sweeping the notes out of sight. "But I'd love to pick your brain—maybe do a Q&A for potential buyers. They're so curious about your… process."

"Process," I echoed dryly. My process was basically, Doodle what the tattered spires look like until my hand aches. But to him, it was a gateway to cosmic secrets.

"We'll talk later," I offered, somewhat gently. "Got errands. Just let me know if it sells, or if you want more."

Bryce nodded, still looking half-dazed. "I will. And, Sasha…" He hesitated. "I—thank you. For letting me share your art. It's changing people's lives."

Something in his tone made my stomach twist. Changing lives could be code for pushing them over an existential cliff. I tried not to dwell on it. Instead, I muttered a farewell and slipped out the door, ignoring the weird flicker at the bottom edge of my jacket as I left. One day, I told myself, one day you'll have to do something about these zealots. But not today.

Outside, the midday sun pressed down, and the city roared louder. A chalkboard sign near the yoga studio read FIND YOUR ZEN, with a stick figure in a lotus pose. For a moment, I pictured Bryce's sticky notes, his trembling hands. If that was "zen," we were in trouble.

I turned onto a broader avenue. Taxis honked, a fruit vendor shouted deals, and a flurry of tourists with cameras nearly collided with me. One carried a pamphlet about Avengers Tower, pointing excitedly to the real tower glinting in the distance. Earth-616 was basically an endless carnival of superhero references. I was a cosmic anomaly, sure, but next to cosmic-level threats like Thanos or Dormammu, I was small potatoes—unless Carcosa decided to truly unfold. That thought used to scare me. Now it just felt inevitable.

My jacket flapped as a random breeze gusted down the street, the tattered edges brushing my thigh. I glanced down, noticing a faint golden sheen on one tear. For a heartbeat, it looked like the robe wanted to unravel further, threads drifting outward. My pulse quickened. I tugged the fabric closer to me, as if hugging a cloak I wanted to keep secret.

"Not here," I murmured, same words as earlier. "We're not warping the city at lunch hour."

I half-expected someone to overhear me scolding my jacket. But nobody cared. New York, baby—everyone's got something else to worry about.

I decided to cut through a known side alley, hoping to avoid the pushy crowds. My phone buzzed once—a message from the gallery's number: "You're a genius. People are reacting already." I sighed, shoving it away. Let them react. If Bryce wanted to start a "Church of the Yellow King," that was on him.

The alley was narrow, lined with dumpsters and battered storefront doors leading to who-knows-where. A stray cat prowled by a flickering streetlamp, hissing at something in the shadows. Possibly at me. The air smelled of stale grease and wet cardboard. The perfect hideaway from Manhattan's main drag.

I let my mind wander, replaying the conversation with Bryce. His eyes had that glint—like a vow to dig deeper. This was how cults start. One fervent believer convinces others, who then gather in secret, spiraling into fanaticism. Would that be so bad? a part of me wondered. Maybe it'd be interesting to see mortals interpret Carcosa on their own. Or maybe it'd just cause more chaos than I could handle.

My jacket rustled, and the walls flickered at the edges of my vision—like they were tilting. I inhaled a sharp breath, forcing myself to re-center. Sometimes, if I got lost in cosmic thoughts, illusions seeped out. The cat hissed again, then darted away, tail bristled.

"Sorry," I muttered, to the cat, to the alley, to Carcosa.

That's when a figure dropped from above, landing in a graceful crouch a few feet away. Red and blue suit, eyes wide behind the mask: Spider-Man. I froze, heart thumping. If the illusions were still visible, he'd definitely notice.

"Hey," he called, arms raised in a calming gesture. "Not to freak you out, but I saw something weird from the rooftop—like the walls were… bending?" He scratched the back of his neck. "Everything okay here?"

I forced a smile. "Fine. Just… an optical illusion. This alley does that sometimes."

He tilted his head as though assessing my jacket, the battered edges, the black glove on my left hand. "You sure you're safe? Reality warping is kind of a big deal." He paused, lowering his voice. "I mean, I know someone who tracks weird dimensional anomalies—Doc Strange. He's always telling me to keep an eye out."

My stomach dipped. The swirl under my glove tingled. I pressed it against my side, wishing the jacket's frays would stop shimmering. "I appreciate the concern," I said carefully. "But really, I'm just cutting through. Might be a trick of the light."

He hesitated, lenses narrowing. For a second, I thought he'd push further, maybe whip out some gadget to test the air. But then he let out a small sigh. "All right. If you say so. Still, if you run into actual warpy, dimensiony stuff—call an Avenger, or, I don't know, S.H.I.E.L.D. We've got enough problems without random rifts."

"Sure." I exhaled, relieved.

He nodded once, then shot a web at a fire escape. "Take care, random civilian. Stay safe out here." With that, he vanished upward, leaving me blinking in the aftershock of hero cameo #742 in Earth-616.

The alley felt heavier after he left. I rubbed my temples, cursing my own slip. Usually I keep illusions in check. I needed to calm down, or I'd have Strange knocking on my door next. I'm not ready for a Sorcerer Supreme cameo, I thought bitterly.

As the echo of web-slinging faded, I felt a wave of drowsy recollection: the day I realized I didn't need breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. I'd been rummaging in the fridge at dawn, gulping orange juice because I thought I was starving. Then that swirl under my skin pulsed, and the hunger vanished. My father asked if I felt sick. I just stared at the glass, unable to explain how a single thought had banished my appetite. It was the same swirl that had glowed in the hospital room when I was born, or so my parents claimed. The same swirl that pulsed now, fueling me without real food, tethering me to Carcosa's unending hum.

"And here I am," I whispered to the alley, blinking away the memory. "A cosmic teen who never runs out of energy but can't keep her illusions from warping brick walls."

My jacket fluttered around my knees, a silent consolation. Maybe it was agreeing with me. The hush of Carcosa felt closer than usual, like a hush under my heartbeat. I inhaled, steeling myself. This was no time to daydream about the past.

Exiting the alley, I decided to swing by a used-book stall I liked—just to calm my nerves. Along the sidewalk, vendors sold everything from secondhand clothes to mismatched electronics. Among them was a stall stacked high with weathered volumes. The shopkeeper, a plump woman in a floral scarf, nodded at me as I skimmed the titles: "Forgotten Deities of Eastern Europe," "Extraterrestrial Myths," and so forth. My eyes lingered on a battered text that mentioned "The Twisting King."

I picked it up, flipping through. A few lines described an ancient rumor of a city beyond time, a cloaked figure who oversaw illusions. It was half nonsense, half dangerously close to Carcosa's truth. My glove twitched reflexively, as if the swirl recognized the words. No thanks, I decided, setting it down gently. Too on the nose.

"Find what you need?" the shopkeeper asked, eyeing my jacket warily. Maybe she noticed it shift. Hard to say.

"Not today," I said with a polite shrug. "But thanks."

She gave me a curious half-smile, and I left it at that. No sense in spooking her with an actual cosmic meltdown, right?

When I returned to the bookstore building, the sun was already edging west, painting the sky in streaks of red and orange. I trudged up the narrow steps to the attic, feeling a subtle prickle of being watched. I glanced behind me, saw nothing but shadows and dusty corners. Still, my jacket's hem fluttered, as though a breeze had followed me in.

"You're paranoid," I muttered, closing my door. But I knew it wasn't just paranoia. The swirl under my glove had been thrumming all afternoon, a telltale sign that someone or something might be sniffing around Carcosa's energy. Perhaps it was a hero, or maybe just a mystic force scanning the city. Either way, I couldn't do much about it—unless I wanted to retreat fully into illusions. That'd only make me more suspicious.

I set my jacket on a chair. Instantly, the edges settled, looking just like normal tattered fabric. No flicker of cosmic gold, no creeping threads. As if it's resting, I thought with a wry grin. I busied myself with my sketches, flipping through ideas for the next painting. Dark silhouettes, fractal geometry… a reflection of the swirl in my soul.

A quiet ache filled my chest. I remembered my father's laugh, my mother's cautious optimism. The swirl had been with me even then, hidden behind a simple glove they bought at a corner store. They never lived to see how far their daughter's illusions had gone. The memory stung, but I let it pass. Too late for tears now.

Meanwhile, in the Sanctum

In a serene chamber of the Sanctum Sanctorum, Doctor Stephen Strange stood before a floating orb of swirling mystic energy. Candles flickered around him, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The Cloak of Levitation hovered near his shoulder, as though peering at the orb too.

Wong stepped in quietly, arms folded. "Something troubling you?"

Strange's gaze narrowed on the shifting shapes inside the orb—tiny bursts of gold light that rippled across a spectral map of Manhattan. "Dimensional signatures," he murmured. "They appeared sporadically all day. Spider-Man reported a minor anomaly in an alley near Midtown. The boy thought it was a glitch or trick of the light."

"But you suspect more?" Wong asked.

Strange turned, his expression grave. "I do. These readings don't match standard illusions or Asgardian trickery. It resonates with something…greater and older."

Wong's eyes flickered in recognition. "Great Old Ones? This description shows up in the darkest corners of the library. I recall mentions of infinity—something akin to cosmic beings. Realms out of reach for human comprehension."

"Precisely." Strange touched the orb, making it shimmer with new intensity. "We can't let those realms spill into our own. Even a small breach can spiral. If someone is channeling it—someone untrained—this city is in danger."

Wong nodded. "Should I prepare a search?"

Strange hesitated. "First, I want to confirm the location. The orb suggests a single presence who's bridging the dimension. Perhaps unknowingly." He paused, considering. "I'll handle it personally. The last thing we need is an interdimensional meltdown in the middle of Manhattan."

His cloak billowed, apparently sharing his urgency. Wong stepped back, watching the Sorcerer Supreme close his eyes, as if mentally mapping the next incantation.

"Be careful," Wong said quietly.

Strange's lips pressed into a thin line. "Always. But if something truly old stirs…" He let the thought trail off, the orb's swirling gold light reflecting in his sharp gaze. "We may be facing a new brand of chaos."

In the dying candlelight, the orb's flickers formed vague shapes—like fractured towers or twisted silhouettes—before fading into the gloom. Outside, the Sanctum's windows rattled as if responding to an invisible wind, and Strange tightened his posture, resolve strengthening.

Somewhere in Manhattan, an unassuming teenage girl was adjusting her tattered jacket, unaware that the Sorcerer Supreme had taken note. For now, at least.