Pope Bishop the Prince woke up with the fate of the world on his mind. 

He felt the nagging of the universe as it became misaligned, and he felt the haunting stench of the predators responsible. He was surprised he had fallen asleep at all, last year, for the voices never stopped. They were angry. Angry at the Pope Bishop because he couldn't do anything, angry at the wrongness of the World, angry at the inevitability of the task they would have to give. But mostly, angry they had to trust so many mortals.

Pope Bishop sat up, inhaling the whiteness and nothingness around him in a thick clot of smoke. He did not wait, or think, or explain. He just did what he was supposed to.

He exhaled, letting out glittering white dust that floated out past him and into the Earth.

---

New York saw a strange sort of meteor shower once the clock struck nine-- yet none could tell what was so strange about it. 

Lovers embraced underneath its heavenly glow and children made hopeful wishes upon its many arcing lights, but New York felt it in its gut; like the Earth had just regurgitated an unwanted meat onto its favorite plate. The shower was shortly lived, however, and the sudden rush of euphoria and strangeness even shorter. It was soon forgotten among things more pressing to people.

Except to Strange. Strange knew this was a sign, though he didn't know a sign of what. He did, at the very least, know that this meant he had to make his move.

Strange tried to push out with his magic and set things in motion, but it was difficult. New York City was a bustling metropolis with constant noise and infinite scents and millions of residents that called it home (not to mention those here who did not call it such). There was still a touch of day in the sky, leaving the city crawling with crowds of people. (Though, Strange knew it would be this way for him regardless of the time.) 

Men and women dined. Children ran on the sidewalks. Wall Street was littered with hungry and greedy men. Times Square never stopped shining.

The world within the city was just filled with an ever-moving crowd and mixed demographic. To contact such select people as he had been researching for days, before he was ready to and before he had decided that they were the most fit for the job (Strange had the world to choose from, literally) was difficult in and of itself. Adding onto it that he had to do it [i]right now[/i], and in [i]this city[/i]?

Strange sighed. It would be difficult. Difficult but possible.

His workings were incomprehensible, but they came with results. The air stuttered a little bit and the floor melted a lot of a bit, but he managed to make the Contact without much damage to his surroundings. It would get to them soon: within a day or two. Or as he hoped, within an hour. 

Unfortunately, Strange was drained, and he could not give to them each a specific message at a specific time in a specific situation. He [i]could[/i], however, be much more vague. "Appear to them in a means that is realistic to them," he said. "As a letter or thought or message. As a man or woman, or as a loved one. Reach them with whatever means necessary. Just get them together under whatever pretense-- tomorrow in Central Park." It seemed as though Strange was giving orders to someone, and he chuckled at the ignorance of the thought. He finished his message.

"We'll meet at the stroke of nine."