Chapter 71: There Are Two People in This World Who Can Heal Your Hands
"Mr. Strange, can I get your autograph?"
"Mr. Strange, the local medical board has decided to award you a special commendation for your outstanding surgical achievements."
A gaunt-faced man sat motionless on a hospital bed, his eyes hollow.
All the honors that once clung to him like stars to a constellation, now slipping away forever.
Stephen Strange, Philadelphia's premier neurosurgeon, famed for his near-miraculous success rate in the OR. His legend came with a price; sky-high surgical fees, and a reputation for an ego that dwarfed even his skill.
Now he sat helpless, staring at his trembling, metal-pinned hands.
"My hands… Is there really no way to fix them?"
Stephen struggled to still the tremors, but they wouldn't stop. His fingers twitched uncontrollably, metal bolts catching the sterile light. The verdict was clear, he would never perform a "Type-803" procedure again.
His future, destroyed.
"Answer me! There has to be a way to fix my hands!!"
Stephen's voice cracked with desperation, his bloodshot eyes boring into the assistant beside him with a look that could kill.
"You need to stay calm, Stephen. A healthy mindset is crucial to recovery," the assistant murmured gently.
"No! Tell me the truth, LOUDER! Can my hands be healed or not!?"
Stephen looked less like a man and more like a cornered beast, wild-eyed, snarling, and dangerous.
The assistant hesitated. He had been the one to operate on Strange after the crash. And he knew, better than anyone else, that this pair of hands, once capable of miracles, was beyond saving.
They were ruined. Utterly.
Stephen howled in agony, a sound born of frustration and utter despair.
"You son of a bitch! Who gave you permission to operate!? I told you, if you weren't sure, don't touch me!!"
He lurched from the bed, only for a lightning bolt of pain to rip through his arms. He screamed and collapsed to the cold, unfeeling floor.
His cheek pressed against sterile tile, he knew.
He knew.
He was the best. He didn't need a diagnosis.
His career, his very purpose, was over.
He shoved past the staff, stumbled into the street in a hospital gown, his eyes wide, hollow.
"Stephen! Your hands… there's no medical way to restore them!"
His assistant had followed, panting.
Stephen whirled on him like a man possessed. "Then what are you saying?!"
"I mean, medicine can't help you, but that doesn't mean nothing can!"
He pointed at a screen overhead.
Stephen looked up.
The broadcast was mid-battle. New York in flames. Screaming civilians. A war of survival. Chitauri forces rained from the sky, tearing through the city like locusts. But amidst the chaos, there was hope.
The tide had turned.
Superheroes had arrived.
And with them, Transformers.
Massive cybernetic warriors thundered through the battlefield, unleashing precise, overwhelming firepower. Their coordinated tactics were a masterclass in mechanized warfare, their weapons otherworldly, their presence awe-inspiring.
It looked like something out of a sci-fi epic.
But this wasn't fiction.
"This," the assistant said, "this is the age we live in now. Those beings, they're beyond science, beyond medicine. But they exist. And somewhere among them… someone can heal you."
Stephen watched, wide-eyed, as a towering Autobot transformed mid-air and crashed down with an explosive ground slam that shattered a Chitauri skiff.
Hope sparked. Faint. Fragile. But real.
He packed his things that very night.
And went to New York.
His destination: Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Strange. I understand your desperation, but I can't help you."
Professor Charles Xavier didn't even glance at the briefcase full of cash. He met Stephen's gaze with quiet sorrow.
"You're one of the most powerful mutants alive," Stephen said, his voice cracking. "If you can't heal me… then who can?"
Xavier was silent for a long moment, fingers interlaced. Then he nodded solemnly.
"There are two people who might help you. But I can't promise they'll agree to see you."
"Who?! I have money, anything they want. If they can heal me, I'll give them everything."
Xavier inhaled slowly. "One is named Martin. By most measures, he's the second most powerful human on this planet. Capable of destruction on a global scale, and of building civilizations from the ashes."
"He and his intelligent machines... might be able to help."
He meant the Cybertronians. That much was clear.
Martin's name carried weight. Infamy, even. After Odin descended to Earth, after the Battle of New York, there wasn't a soul alive who didn't know of him.
The world's most unyielding, unbreakable shield.
Stephen clenched his fists, or tried to. He believed Martin could heal him. But getting an audience with him? That was impossible. Money would mean nothing to someone like that.
More likely, Stephen thought grimly, he'd be killed just for asking.
"…And the second?"
Xavier hesitated. "The second person is, possibly, the most powerful human alive. She's protected Earth for over 500 years. A living legend. Her powers… defy explanation."
"A woman? Where is she?"
"Go west," Xavier said cryptically. "Cross the Pacific. Climb to the roof of the world. If she wants to see you, you will find her. If she doesn't…"
He trailed off, shaking his head.
Stephen left with a slip of paper in hand. One word etched upon it:
Kamar-Taj.
Back at the mansion, Jean Grey tilted her head in confusion. "Professor… why did you waste time meeting with that man? He's just a normal human. The strongest human is Martin, right? He even beat Odin."
Xavier looked thoughtful.
"I'm… not so sure who's stronger. And just now, I received a message. A voice, clear and vast, in my mind. It urged me to point Stephen toward Kamar-Taj."
His gaze turned distant, haunted.
"In that moment… I knew. The legends, the myths, they're real. The things hidden beneath the absurd, the ancient, the divine, they're real."
He frowned slightly.
"And Martin… might be at the roof of the world too."
Two legends. One place.
May fate be kind.
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