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019. electro
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐖𝐍. Dusty shelves lined every wall, sagging under the weight of ancient artifacts, forgotten relics, and clutter that seemed more like a test of patience than an organizational system. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and unmoving, giving the space an eerie stillness, like time itself hesitated to exist there. Despite the peculiar, almost haunted ambiance, it had a certain charm — or at least as much charm as a wizard’s basement could muster.
Still, the group of friends had learned to make do. It wasn’t the first strange place they’d found themselves in, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
Each had claimed their own corner of the undercroft, busying themselves with the task at hand: identifying multiversal trespassers. Well, busy might’ve been a stretch. Distractions had become part of the process, and this group thrived on them.
Ned was engrossed in setting up equipment, pausing occasionally to give running commentary about the multiverse. Ingrid found herself studying Strange's odd assortment of tools — including what appeared to be a goatee template. She smirked to herself, mentally bookmarking that detail for the next time she saw him. Evelyn, ever the curious one, had managed to coax Dylan into testing an old pilates machine. The experiment quickly devolved into chaos, with Lucas valiantly (and unsuccessfully) trying to extricate himself from it.
But eventually, as all things do, the distractions fizzled out, and work began.
Ingrid sat on an old wooden stool, her face lit by the harsh glow of her phone. The blue light painted her features in sharp relief, a stark contrast to the dim and dusty undercroft. She blinked, her eyes straining against the brightness. When her phone vibrated with an incoming call, her exhaustion lifted, replaced by a small, almost involuntary grin. Seeing her dad’s name on the screen was a reminder of home, warmth, and the constant tug of responsibility she always tried to push aside.
Her thumb hovered over the screen before she accepted the call. "Hey, Dad," she said, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief and guilt.
"Ingrid," Bruce began, his tone laced with concern. "You’re sure you’re not coming back tonight? I mean, maybe I could—"
"Dad," she cut him off gently, though her voice had a firmness that belied her internal conflict. "I’m sure. I’m fine, I promise."
He sighed, long and weary. It wasn’t the first time he’d expressed his concern, and it wouldn’t be the last. His worry wasn’t overbearing—it was the kind born from years of loss and fear, the kind that gnawed at her in quiet moments. A pang of guilt twisted in her chest, sharp and unrelenting. Was she a bad daughter for putting him through this? For not coming home? She blinked rapidly, willing the feeling away.
