The handover was surprisingly bureaucratic for a place whose primary function was guarding against extra-dimensional tentacle monsters.
Master Thomas moved through the halls of the New York Sanctum with a stack of papers that looked suspiciously like standard real estate forms. His face radiated the frantic, nervous energy of a man who already had his flight to a retirement beach booked and paid for.
"This is the Seal of the Vishanti," Thomas droned, pointing up at the massive, iconic circular window. "Don't touch the glass; it's an absolute pain to Windex. These are the defensive wards. This is the pantry—don't eat the blue jam. It's actually a dormant fungus from the Dark Dimension. It'll give you a great high, but you'll wake up with a second mouth on your elbow."
Ethan barely listened. He was busy looking at the "staff" responsible for the Sanctum's upkeep. Six men. Six very stoic, very un-sculpted, very heavily clothed men who moved through the shadows with the silent efficiency of ghosts.
"Six of them?" Ethan grimaced, leaning against a mahogany pillar. "And let me guess... not a single one of them knows how to give a decent scalp massage? Thomas, buddy, where's the diversity? Where are the female sorcerers with the 'healing touch'? I feel like I just walked back into a monastery, and I've already had my fill of sausage fests."
Thomas ignored him entirely, handing over a thick leather folder. "Here are the bank account details. The Sanctum is funded through various ancient trusts and... well, let's just say some early investments in a certain fruit-themed computer company paid off exceedingly well in the 90s."
Ethan blinked, opening the folder to find a sleek, matte-black credit card. It didn't have a name—just an embossed golden seal of Kamar-Taj.
"A Black Card? These sorcerers are more modernized than I thought. Honestly, I was expecting you to hand me a bag of goat-teeth and a 'good luck' charm."
Just as Thomas raised his hands to open a portal to Kamar-Taj, he paused and pulled a plain white envelope from his robes. "The Ancient One asked me to give you this. She said you'd need it to 'blend in' with the locals."
Vwoom.
With a flick of his wrist, Thomas vanished into a swirl of orange sparks, leaving Ethan completely alone in the cavernous, eerie silence of 177A Bleecker Street. The six staff members bowed briefly—their eyes lingering on Ethan's shiny dome for a second too long—and immediately went back to dusting ancient artifacts, looking like they wanted as little interaction with the narcissistic boss as possible.
Ethan tore open the envelope. His eyes widened as he pulled out a stack of crisp, highly official-looking documents.
"No way," he breathed.
It was a full suite of legal credentials. After months of living as a nameless "glitch" in the mountains, he finally had a footprint in this world. He flipped through the cards, a massive grin spreading across his face.
Name: Ethan Williams
Date of Birth: March 15, 1981
Age: 26
Social Security Number: --*** >
Document Type: US Passport, New York Driver's License.
"Fantastic. I am no longer an alien" he whispered, tracing the holographic seal on the New York license. "I am legal resident of this world now. Boss, you really are a thoughtful lady."
He looked down at the Kamar-Taj Black Card again, his grin turning dangerous. "This is for Sanctum operational expenses... and a 70-inch flat-screen TV is definitely a 'mystical monitoring device.' It's essential for world safety. You can't spot a dimensional rift if the pixels aren't in high definition."
****
Ethan didn't even bother changing out of his rough Kamar-Taj robes before heading out the front door. He stepped right onto the bustling streets of Greenwich Village, and the reaction from the New York crowd was instantaneous.
The combination of the flowing, archaic robes, his heavily muscled physique, and a handsome, serene face made him look like a high-budget movie character who had wandered off-set. Several women literally stopped on the sidewalk to stare.
"First things first," Ethan muttered, catching his reflection in a coffee shop window and winking at himself. "I love the 'mystic monk' look, but I need something that says 'I'm a god, but I also enjoy a good happy hour.'"
He hit the high-end shops of SoHo like a whirlwind with a limitless credit limit.
He picked out silk-blend v-neck t-shirts that clung to his chest like a second skin, designer jeans that actually managed to fit his massive, squat-built thighs, and a tailored leather jacket that made his shoulders look three miles wide.
In the changing room, he didn't bother carrying his old clothes around. He just quietly opened a tiny, sparkling portal beneath his feet and dumped his robes directly onto his bed back at the Sanctum. The staff members downstairs were probably wondering why dirty laundry was falling from the ceiling, but Ethan didn't care. He was the boss now.
He emerged from the boutique wearing charcoal-grey and dark denim, looking like a professional athlete on his way to a GQ photo shoot.
Next was the tech. He walked into a massive Stark-branded electronics store. It was 2007, so the tech was booming. He bought the most expensive, top-of-the-line stereo speakers, a massive LED TV, and a surround sound system that could probably cause a localized earthquake.
"Tell the delivery guys to just leave it at the front door," he told the cashier, sliding the Kamar-Taj Black Card across the counter. "The house guards will handle the heavy lifting."
The 'house guards' being the six terrified, stoic men he'd left behind to dust the relics. It was time they earned their keep.