C212 This Room Is Mine

Cello Everett left the Stark building, his gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar streets and the ceaseless flow of traffic. He made a decision. He needed a taxi. In any world, any city, taxi drivers were the unsung heroes—living, breathing maps.

Without much effort, he flagged down a cab. The driver, a balding middle-aged man, watched as Cello opened the door and, without looking back, inquired