1965-05-08 - The Sorcerer Supreme and the Spider-Man verses demon donkeys
Summary: They meet, they get along, they fight a demon.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
peter-parker strange 

The weather man called it absolutely wrong, his smile heard on the radio waves as the forecast was projected to be sunny and warm, about 75. A day for the beach! A day for window shopping! A day to walk to Devizes and back, and…

Strange's bangs are slicked at this point. The rain came down suddenly out of a blanket of grey clouds and while it's not necessarily cold, it is wet. He wore a lighter jacket overtop his every-day slacks, but this jacket has a…crimson-colored hood, at odds with its black overall scheme. "You'd think science would have figured out how to accurately predict the weather," the silver-templed man mutters to himself as he walks along the street. Almost everyone's gone back inside, which makes the second half of his errands a bit less…testing.

There's an alley that serves as a portal point for the rare supernatural species — a place where the veil is perpetually thinned, no matter how much he tries to patch it up. It's become a regular check-point for the man when on-foot and he pauses outside of its entrance. The light is wane, the shadows heavy, and he squints even as he thinks he sees something shifting in the darkness behind a dumpster farther down and within that simply shouldn't be. "…gotcha," he mutters, even as he disappears into the alley. All around, the ambient threat level — that sense of danger that triggers the fine hairs to rise on his neck — is thick.

Up above, a swinging Spider-Man zooms by, only to get hit by a blast of of his Spidey-Sense, which has him flipping in the air and landing down gracefully in the general vacinity of Strange. "Hey, watch out, guy!" He calls out helpfully, knowing roughly the direction of the threat but not precisely what it is.

Strange pulls up short at the sudden arrival of a…young man in a spandex suit that has what appears to be a patterning of webbing all over it. Red and blue, he's a blissfully-bright target in the gloomy alleyway.

"What do you think you're — "

With a burbling roar, something that might have come forth from a prehistoric cavebear, a creature that looks to be composed mostly of sinuous black fur erupts from behind the dumpster in question. Cloven and recurved hooves hit the ground, sparking as they land, and then the thing whirls, kicking backwards at Peter even as it snaps out at the Sorcerer. The man does a fine job of backpedaling even as he puts two and two together:

It's a demonic…donkey?! Another deep bray that resounds about and then the hard clack of teeth slamming shut short of the Sorcerer's hands makes him snarl right back.

Spider-Man is moving moments before the demon donkey begins his kick, doing a backflip that lands him stuck with one hand and one foot several feet up the wall. "Whoa, what's that?!" He asks in horrified wonder. He flings his free hand out and flicks a wrist, and a stream of webbing shoots out towards the monster. "That is seriously not cool! You should run, guy, I got this! Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man is here!"

Even as the donkey begins to curl into a deeply-offended C-shape as webbing nails the creature on its haunch, Strange is rapidly moving his hands about in ritualized formations. Golden light seems almost offensive as it begins to gather in strands not yet realized into finality.

"You should run," he fires back. From beneath the light jacket, it seems that there's been a sudden extension of crimson fabric, checkered on its interior lining — the Cloak!

Red eyes roll as the demonic creature hones in on Peter, even at relative safety on the wall above the cement, and ivory teeth — blunted all but for the canines, those belonging to a predator — flash as it leaps up towards him!

"Whoa, what's that?!" Peter is easily impressed, though this time he's looking at the golden light of the sorcerers. His Spidey-Sense tingles, but he's just slightly slow in the uptake— for him— so while he is in motion quickly, its not quick enough. The creature slams into him, though Spider-Man's attempt at a dodge makes it a glancing blow. Still, its enough to send him slamming into the ground…hard. That'd break some bones if not kill someone.

"Now you've made me mad, donkey-butt." He flips up onto his feet, apparently unharmed, and flicks a wrist up. Webbing shoots out and he tugs on it, leaping up and attaching to a wall again before flicking his other hand and shooting more webbing at the demonic creature, "_Down_, boy."

"Let the professionals handle this, sir!"

That last shout makes the Sorcerer actually splutter, even as the silent spell comes to fruition.

"Who in the seven hells do you think you are, kid?! Get away!" He has acknowledged the extreme durability of the young man, especially after watching him get rudely shouldered off the vertical wall by at least 800 pounds of solid supernatural muscle, and he has noted the efficacy of the webbing: the demonic donkey is slowly ripping out small chunks of cement with each frantic and ticked-off kick of its hind legs. Blunt teeth catch at the sticky webbing and tear at it, only to gum up its mouth all the more. It's treating the globule of saliva-softened webbing like the world's largest chunk of bubble-gum at this point. At least the loud honking sounds are muffled?

He flicks out one hand entirely gloved in molten light and not one, but three surujin-whips lash about the creature's neck, not terribly unlike lassos. The donkey does not approve or appreciate. It immediately gets to thrashing about, its front legs kicking holes in the brick walls on either side of the alleyway. "If you want to help, hamper its hindquarters! I've got this end!" Yes, the end with the teeth. Strange puts himself in the line of chomping rage rather than let this young interloper be at further risk! After all, the hind hooves are risky enough; one shoots free of the webbing like a piston in Peter's general direction.

"I'm Spider-Man!"

He leaps down towards the things legs, deftly dodging to the side as the leg shoots out towards him. He then reaches out to actually bodily grab each of its hind legs lift them up. That might put him in a position for the evil donkey to try to kick him, but Spider-Man is strong. Very, very strong. He brings that to bear to try to restrain it, as the webbing is clearly insufficient to the task. He struggles as he tries to hold the legs up and in place, stopping their effectiveness, and if he takes a blow or two, that's okay. "I hate donkeys! I _super_ hate demon donkeys!"

"Join the club, kid," Strange grunts out, bracing his stance further with bent knees and the help of the Cloak. It pulls backwards at his shoulders beneath the light black jacket. Between him and the strength of the spandex-wearing superhero, they have the creature balanced on its front hooves alone. It keeps up a gummy, garbled symphony of vastly-irritated sounds, its blood-red eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. An attempt to kick at Peter might jostle him around, but it's not likely; the hind legs have trouble extending at the angle of their lift.

"Use — use the webbing again, on its front legs," the Sorcerer calls out even as he risks releasing his grip on the Mystical whips by one hand. "I've got to get a banishment spell enacted." A new radiance grows around the palm extended out towards the demon donkey and its citrine-green coloration rapidly brightens the alleyway as it gains in strength.

"Spells are a thing?" Spider-Man asks with wonder. He dodges to one side, letting go of the opposite leg so he can flick his wrist out and do two rapid fire streams of webbing, one on each of the front legs. Then he's shifting quickly under a leg that kicks for his his head before he recovers the original leg and lifts it. "Oh, banishment, that's good. I was just going to punch it a lot. I have a strict no killing policy but it doesn't apply to demon donkeys!"

Now that the front legs are heavily stuck to the concrete, the creature can be counted as 'hogtied' — at least, in some loose New York determination of the word.

"Yes, spells are a thing," Strange spits out as the creature throws back its head and wriggles about. A chomped-off, slobber-covered glob of chewed webbing splats on the brick wall to one side and immediately begins eating away at the reddish material. "And don't hit the creature further, please, you'll only make it more mad." By his tone, he's curbed his own personal annoyance as best he can. "When…I tell you, jump back at least…twelve feet," he adds as he pulls back the palm gathering up the brilliant corona of pale-green light.

"NOW!" The shove of the spell is a bit like a metaphysical slap in the face. The demonic donkey warbles one last time before it appears to disintegrate into flecks of citrine starlight and swirl down into an impossible gravitational weft-point..and then vanish. POOF.

Crouching, Spider-Man waits and listens, and a fraction of a second before Strange even begins to say NOW, he's in motion, _leaping_ in a backflip that easily takes him twenty feet back, spinning in the air and landing at a graceful crouch. He's certainly got the physicality going for him. Rising up then, he approaches Strange, "Whoa, cool. That was pretty amazing. Still it was really dangerous for you there, sir. Are you injured? Do you need medical attention?" He sounds ernestly concerned.

Sometime during the sparring, it apparently stopped raining. Now the air is thick with the smell of petrichor and the faint tinge of burnt fur; maybe there was a little too much 'umph' in the banishment spell? Strange flexes fingers with a faint grimace even as he's stepping forwards, nearly running into Peter on his approach.

"No, I'm not hurt." He steps to one side, all the better to squint at the bubbling of the demonic donkey spit on the brick wall. A thoughtful "Hmph" and he reaches into the pocket of his jacket. What comes out is far larger than the actual volume of the pocket itself, a clear beaker accompanied by glass spoon. He scrapes at the blob until it falls into the beaker with a soft squelch and peers at it. "Spider-Man, though?" he asks as he straightens, poking at the sample with the spoon. "You sound like you're, what…" The Sorcerer eyes the be-spandex'd youth. "Sixteen."

Stepping closer, Spider-Man looks at the sample, "I wonder what its composition is; what it'd look like under a microscope, what it's PH balance is…" He rattles off a few other tests he'd like to run, sounding thoughtful. Then the rest of what Stephen Strange says sinks in, "Hey!" He protests, "I'm 19, okay. And I've been doing this since I was 14. You don't want a kid swinging around fighting crime to be called Spider-Boy, do you? Like that will strike fear into the hearts of criminals everywhere." He huffs. "Granted, I wasn't quite, you know, that tall then." Not that he is so tall now.

By the time Peter huffs, he's got the Sorcerer's complete attention. The man even manages to look pleasantly surprised rather than simply irritated. He leaves the spoon still within the globule now rather than continuing to poke and stir it. In the half-gloom of the overcast sky, the scarring on his hands is more obvious; the light in his eyes has faded down, now more of a candleflame's worth found in his irises rather than the outright glow of earlier's Mystical channeling.

"I would identify the amino acids present within it, if any, and then the relative acidity, yes — or perhaps if it's rapid exothermic oxidation rather than the acidity itself." He even smiles a little at the young man. "Spider-Man then." The corners of his mouth turn up further. "Those were some impressive tricks you had up your sleeve. And a mind to match. I'm Doctor Strange," and he holds out a hand for Peter to shake.

"Do you have the equipment for that? If not I do, at my internship." Peter pauses a moment, considers; this guy is obviously not a civilian. So he tugs off his mask and tucks it into his utility belt, "Yeah, I rather think an exothermic oxidation is likely, though I'd want to rule out the acidity just in case. Always test thoroughly." He takes Strange's hand, "I'm Peter — oh, wait, we're using our made up names still? Spider-Man, yeah." He grins, shrugging, not minding what the guy wants to go as. He looks rather curiously at the mage, "Thanks, though. My Spidey-Sense went off _hard_ as I was flying by, which means it saw me and was hungry. Do you banish things often?"

Wanda would be impressed at how he refrains from outright rolling his eyes at Peter's comment. Civility remains his veneer even as he reaches into the pocket of his jacket again and rummages around, as if searching for loose change.

"Yes, banishing things is my day job," Strange quips even as he apparently finds what he's searching for: a lid for the beaker. The spoon is left within the beaker, probably as some experimental control point. The man clicks the top into place and then he runs a pointer fingertip around its edges in a complete circle. Where he touches, a faint bright light glows and dies away. The glass seems to meld under the light pressure of his touch alone. "And night job. And full time job," he continues tartly, glancing back to Spider-Man again. "I'm the Sorcerer Supreme of this reality. I defend existence itself." He pulls the pocket of his jacket wide and pushes the beaker into it, defying all concepts of physical space and volume. A pat-pat and he looks to Peter again, wearing a small smirk.

Peter watches Strange seal the container, and whistles, "Wow, that's cool." He can't help but grin; magic? This stuff is wild. "I'm one of the Avengers. We sorta do the whole defending stuff too. Though I freelance a lot and do fighting evil and crime on my own time. Between my classes at Columbia and the Stark internship. Sometimes I don't know where the hours go to." But he seems to like it that way. "You need any help sometime, let me know. I'm all for existance to exist. I'm fast, strong, really, really hard to hurt, plus my webbing— my own invention, not a result of the spider bite— and finally I can sense whenever something is about to threaten me. Before it does, so I can get out of the way." He grins.

"That's quite the laundry list of feats and hobbies," replies Strange even as his grin deepens further. Oh yes, the dimples are on full display now, quietly amused and oddly delighted as he is to be privy to these points of interest. "And a member of the Avengers as well. I'll have to keep you in mind the next I find myself surrounded by salamanders or under attack by ankhegs. You said your name was Peter?" Even as he says the Name, the young man might feel an odd vibration travel through his very essence, in the same manner a ripple might traverse a pond after being touched by cattail fluff.

"Peter Parker. I can give you my number, but uh, you can't tell my Aunt May what it is I get up to. I'm living with her through college, and she so totally would freak out if she knew about any of this." Peter looks pained by the thought of such an expression, "She's the last of my family." he adds softly, glancing away, expression dark, haunted for a moment. He runs a hand through his hair but then he blinks and tilts his head, considering, "Something just happened. Its _almost_ like my Spidey-Sense, but not. There's no feel of direction or severity, but… something."

"Peter Parker…" muses the Sorcerer, and again, the slight tickling at his sense of self may be felt. Strange, in turn, assesses the faint echo that returns to him; this must be the extrasensory ability that the young man speaks of. "That's one of my tricks. Your true Name is an important thing. Guard it carefully if you choose to deal with those who have knowledge of the Mystic Arts. I mean you no harm, as guardian of this reality, but others may. And I won't inform your Aunt May, have no fear. I have no inclination to get involved in a stranger's family spat." He pauses and considers Peter all the more, his eyes now completely normal once more, no longer holding any glimmer of power within them. "You mentioned the name Stark, however? I presume this is Tony, of Stark Industries?"

"Okay, sorcerers get to stick to made-up names. Got it." He nods ernestly. Peter then nods his head slowly, "Yeah, Tony Stark. He sorta bribed me to become an intern, has me work projects. My major is in chemistry, with a focus on biochemistry, …" He lifts a hand, extends his wrist and with his middle finger touches a certain spot on his hand, and the webbing shoots out. It becomes a strand, which he tugs on— it gives a little. "My own invention, as I said. Its a multi-state carbon composite, material. In its frozen state, its _almost_ indistinguishable between a very small diamond, but it expands rapidly in state two where it becomes a sticky liquid. Once it sticks to something, though, that triggers a state transformation into state 3 which has a little give but stiffens rapidly to a tensile strength greater then steel. Superheroing through science." He laughs softly, "Mr. Stark sees potential in me and I think wants to make sure my job of choice after I get my doctorate is Stark Industries. I appreciate the mentorship." He lets go of the webbing strand, "It degrades into what is almost completely loose carbon dust within eight hours."

Strange nods even as he tilts his head to better eye the thin almost silvery strand of pseudo-webbing. "It's no wonder Tony wants you working in his laboratory. I can think of a few bioschemists who would turn sommersaults to get their hands on that material. Still, not useful for hanging pictures and fixing tables," he wisecracks, giving Peter a sharp and foxy grin that settles once more into a more formal smile.

"I should stop by and speak with him sometime about what I saw today. He dabbles in…Avenging every now and then, if memory serves me correctly. He may have some thoughts on the matter."

Peter laughs softly, "Oh I could make it permanently stable, I made it biodegrade on purpose; the mark 1 formula didn't, and leaving webbing hanging off everyone's buildings was rude." He flushes slightly, but then he nods, "Yeah, Mr. Stark is one of the leaders of the Avengers, along with Captain Rogers." He is unfailingly polite with titles. Polite is a core Peter trait. But he nods to the beaker, "It was his lab that I was offering to put that through the tests in— do you have better equipment? I could run it through the full gamut and you could come by and I could share the lab results with you, if it'd be helpful." Wanting to be helpful? Also core Peter trait.

Strange pats his pocket again, where the beaker disappears entirely to leave the coat flat and streamlined against his leanly-muscled form.

"Thank you, Peter, but I have my own laboratory in my home…if you want to call it one. I know precisely what I wish to examine in regards to its physical and metaphysical make-up. Who knows? I may be able to create something entirely new that the world has never seen as well." He rubs idly at the back of one hand, the motion a familiar one given how he doesn't acknowledge how he's doing it in the first place. Rain always makes the bones ache, what with the steel pins within. "If you're in the laboratory often at Stark Industries, however, you will find that I visit there time and again. I won't arrive by the main doors, however, so I will apologize in advance if I startle you." Still, the Sorcerer doesn't look particularly repentant; more smug, rather.

"I'm there every monday, wednesday and friday; tues/thurs are my school days. Afternoons and weekends I freelance at the Bugle, taking photos." Peter has way too much busy in his life. But he nods then, lifting his mask up to pull it on, "I'm there often, so I'll see you around, Doctor. It was good working with you. Good luck on making things: any day you can leave having made something new in the world is a day you made the world better. With great power comes great responsibility, and intellect is as much a power as strength." He lifts a hand in a wave.

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