He heard a mystical sound emerge from his study, prompting his attention down the long, empty hallway. He slowed to a stop, spinning his head towards the door where the sound originated. Adjusting his large glasses, the old man gently strode down the hall towards the door.
Once he had arrived, the old man waited by the face of the door, staring into its brown color, all of the edges and swirls of the wood. Then he heard another sound, something similar to that of rustling paper. Or, in his case, rustling comic books.
So with that in mind, the old man turned the knob and entered his private study.
And within the dark room, the light and warmth of the fireplace giving the only indication that someone had been present before him, there hovered a mystical creature near the old man’s shelf. Its body curled like a serpent, its mismatched limbs floating alongside it. Two different horns lied atop its head, a pair of similar wings on its backside. As its dragon’s tail swished back and forth, the old man recognized something in the creature’s grip.
Something that belonged to him.
So, he cleared his throat, making it painfully obvious that the creature wasn’t alone anymore.
Its head shot up like a disturbed dog, its neck twisting around like that of an owl. The old man still wondered if the creature actually was part dog and owl. He wouldn’t doubt it. Instead, once its misshapen eyes landed on him, the creature’s grin grew twice as large, showing its fangs.
“Oh, hey Stan,” it said.
Stan Lee just shook his head, closing the door behind him.
“Seriously, Discord?” Stan asked, watching as the draconequus twirled in mid-air. “There’s a thing called knocking.”
The creature, known as Discord, blew a quick raspberry. He waved his lion’s paw in front of him, saying, “Oh, but where’s the fun in that? I know no other being who knows the definition of fun more than you!”
It took a moment, but after staring at the innocent and playful grin on Discord’s face, Stan couldn’t help but share one with him. “You bet your bottom, I do!” Stan said, pointing at Discord.
Pleased to see the cheerfulness of the situation spread, Discord yawned, floating back over to the book shelf…or…comic book shelf. He stared at the comic in his grip, placing it back where it belonged. He said, “Well, I’m just dropping in to return a little comic of yours. Lord knows I’ve made better use of it than you did. You wouldn’t believe the adventure I was just in!”
Discord spun around, and all he saw was that gleaming smile on Stan’s lips, followed by a strong and knowing: “Try me.”
“Well, perhaps another time, maybe next Tuesday for our annual game of chess in Central Park?” Discord asked, floating over and nearly hovering a foot or two in front of the old but wise, old man. Stan nodded, slapping his hands together.
“You know it, buddy!”
With that confirmation, Discord’s smile vanished alongside the rest of his form, an audible pop being the only sound resonating within the study. Once he knew he was alone, allowing the fireplace’s crackles to be the only remaining sound, Stan approached his personal collection of comic books. His finger trailed across the rows upon rows of nearly endless works, finally resting on the one that was misaligned. He pulled it out carefully, reading the title displayed in the fireplace’s light.
It was titled “Age of Ultron”, and Stan Lee only smiled at that.
“Another story ends…” he muttered, placing the comic back in its place. With that same finger, he held it above each comic he skimmed over, finally finding the one he desired, slowly pulling it out into the fire’s glow. Stan read the title in his mind, exhaling through his nose.
“…and another begins.”
He gripped the edges of the comic book, retreating over to his big leather chair in front of the fireplace. Sighing with content, Stan adjusted his glasses and flipped to the first page. He scratched his chin, flipping to the next. His frown slowly grew as each page turned, as each picture emerged and each expression was seen.
It became intolerable, unexcused. So much that Stan stopped and closed the book, reaching over to the desk on his right and plucking his phone off the solid oak. Flipping it open, Stan dialed the number and listened for the rings. It rung three times, only three, until someone finally answered.
Stan didn’t let him say “hello”. He didn’t give him any time to react. “JD, its Stan Lee.”
Flustered, JD replied, “M-Mr. Lee?! Oh, wow, um, i-it’s an honor, sir. I’m surprised you kept my number at all after I violently handed it to you back at Comic-Con.”
“Save the fanboying for later, kid. I want you to get over here and bring your pencils, your paper, and that fancy laptop of yours. You know where I live, right?”
“Got it memori—I-I mean, I’ll figure it out.”
“Good…” He looked down to the Civil War comic in his palms, that same gleaming, knowing smile reflecting the burning fireplace. “We got a new story to tell…”