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The corded straps tightened over his wrists with every turn of the of the bar; corkscrewing the restraints until the joints in his wrists popped under the pressure. Stephen grunted through his gag and rocked his head back against the wooden headrest. Muscles twitched in his cheek from the grinding movement of his molars. Zings of pain lanced through his fingers in a steady heartbeat; sharp and electric. The turning bar was locked into place; his hands purpling under the crushing pressure. Too much longer and he'd start to experience tissue death. He couldn't even appreciate the spreading numb as circulation was pinched off – the pain of crushed tissues firing a throbbing ache all the way to his elbows.
“There, now. Lovely, yes? You have such beautiful hands, Doctor. A shame about the scars.” The voice was cultured; European but with a hint of something... Argentinian maybe?
A touch traced across the back of his fingers; feather light on darkened scar tissue and Stephen tightened his arms around the impulse to flinch. A backlog of remarks sat, wasted, on the flat of his tongue – locked behind his teeth with a wad of blue silk. The fabric carried the traces of expensive cologne and sweat; a nauseating blend of sour and bitter that caught in his sinuses. His eyes, alone, remained free to observe; though what there was to see was limited in the darkened space. A bedroom; that much was clear; a large bed layered in heavy quilts, several lamps; all dark save for the one with the shade removed. The floor, however, was bare wood; though it wasn't too dark to note the rust dark stains overlapping and soaked into the grain.
A simple grocery run. No other worldly battles, no inter-dimensional carnivorous slugs, no maniacal purple aliens, not so much as a flerken in a tree. In fact, his purchases currently resided in a corner of the room – milk warm, by now, the deli meat likely a total loss. No cloak, no Eye of Agamotto, not even the easy access to his magic with the way he was bound – fingers immobile twigs jutting out like spider legs. His sling ring, currently worn by his unwelcome companion, was a tight fit on his thick fingers. The ring, along with the rest of his possessions, had been pocketed sometime after the heavy blow had stolen his consciousness. His skull still throbbed and he could feel the tickle of blood on the back of his neck. Unclear how long he'd been out but concussion was almost a certainty.
The larger figure circled the modified chair to which he was bound – much like a heavy-duty school desk with restraints bolted at every joint as well as his waist and throat. He could curl his toes and roll his eyes but even his head was held face forward by a clamp surrounding his skull – preventing him from following the movement of his captor as he drifted out of sight. He could hear him, however; a gait marred by the slight drag of his disfigured right foot; an impediment that had certainly not hindered him in abducting the Master of the New York Sanctum. Yes, the thought carried all of the sarcastic weight he'd been prevented from expressing.
“I've watched you. Oh, for years, now.” The drag-step moved to his left side and this time Stephen did flinch as heavy fingers brushed across his cheekbone; mortified at the muffled grunt that pushed against the mouthful of smooth fabric. The hand dropped away and then the man was before him, once again. Black hair, heavily salted with silver, was combed back from his forehead. His eyes were deep set yet the eyes themselves were a clear green – crinkling along the edges on a face that suggested a lifetime of happiness. Only that happiness had been stripped away – allowing for new creases to form in the weight of wrinkles digging into the edges of his downturned lips.
“They never truly, appreciated you, did they; your peers. All of those miracles... all of those lives saved... only to throw you away when they no longer thought they could use you.” The touch returned to his scars and Stephen swallowed – hand jerking against his manacles. “All because of an accident.”
The man moved off, then, into the dark and Stephen pulled a full breath through his nose. He could smell... alcohol? And there was the distinct, pungent scent, of iodine. He curled his fingers, as much as he was able, between their stiffness and restricted movement. There was the sound of heavy glass tapping together followed by the rattle of metal wheels and his friend returned pushing a small cart.
“I don't know if you'd remember... it was many years ago, now.” Pulling the cap from a large bottle on the cart, the man splashed alcohol on his fingers; rubbing them together before patting them dry on a small hand towel. “My nephew had a brain tumor. Complicated surgery. He had been turned down by seven different specialists. They wouldn't touch him. We were trying to face the fact that this beautiful child would never reach his fourth birthday.”
Flipping back the lid of a cardboard box the man, next, pulled on gloves; clapping his hands together and scattering powder.
“My sister had given up hope. Nobody, it seemed, cared about this one little life.” The next item lifted from the cart was a syringe; half filled with something clear. Stephen tried twisting his shoulders but there was almost no give against the straps pinning him in place.
“A few weeks later, we received a call from your office. You had heard of our plight – no doubt from the news media which had picked up our story for one of their insidious 'human' reports.” His jaw tightened, for a moment, and Stephen could see the wild gaze take in something beyond the visual range. A few blinks, though, brought him back once more. “You offered to do his surgery.”
Stephen remembered, now. June and David Rios; parents of Adam Rios; an underweight child with a large mass twisted around his brain stem and compromising both the C1 and C2 vertebra. Tricky didn't begin to describe that procedure. He also remembered the man in front of him; though the combination of a 50 pound weight loss and shaved beard had complicated identity. Paul Rios, uncle, whose family had been connected in some way to the hospital Director. It hadn't been Stephen to make the offer. Stephen would have never taken the case otherwise but the Director had been eager for the media attention such a high risk surgery would bring and Stephen's arguments had fallen on deaf ears.
“You saved his life. We were blessed with an additional year before he succumbed. We... had hoped you would have been able to perform another miracle. But, by that time, you were gone. We only learned of your accident after my nephew had already passed.”
Stephen hadn't known about that. However, he had warned the parents that the surgery would not cure the underlying health problems. Whether he'd been available or not, the child would have died.
“Had you been treated as well as you had treated my nephew, you could have been there to save him. They were jealous of you. They would rather see you broken just to satisfy their egos.”
Stephen tried, again, to shout through his gag as the fine needle pressed into the back of his right hand and pierced the abductor pollicis brevis in a jolt of electric heat.
“Sh-sh-sh... it's alright... easy now. Bupivacaine. I have a friend who was able to procure some medical supplies. And, don't fret, I have learned much about the practice of medicine. You are,” he chuckled, “in good hands. So to speak.”
Great. A wannabe surgeon. That could only end well.
“I apologize that I cannot offer full sedation for the procedure. I need you to tell me if you lose sensation in any of your fingers.”
Lose sensation!? Was he for real? Between the numbing agent and constriction to his wrists Stephen could feel little beyond a cold throb.
Stephen jerked back as the hand reached for his face; only for Rios to tug at the belt holding the fabric in his mouth. A moment later the buckle released and the saturated silk was pulled from between his teeth. He breathed in several hard gasps and worked his stiff jaw. His voice was a hushed rasp from the prolonged gagging.
“You need to stop, right now! The best surgeons in the world couldn't repair the damage to my hands. You need to stop!”
Rios smiled; patting Stephen's cheek with gloved fingers. “No... they simply didn't want to heal you. It is no different than all of those doctors who turned away my nephew. But you knew he could be helped.”
Shutting his eyes and just breathing, Stephen slowed his pounding heart beats and steadied himself. He knew better than to allow panic to slip beneath his skin. Moments later he tipped up his chin towards the man still busy arranging his tools.
The hero worship needed to end. Blaming the Director would only solidify the perceived injustices that he, himself, had caused with his own arrogance. “I operated on your nephew because it was a challenge. I was brash and self-centered,” he lowered his eyes; voice going soft, “I thought the universe revolved around me.” Another beat and he lifted his head, once more. “Were you to ask me to perform that same surgery, now, I would tell you no. Yeah, I got you one more year but at what cost? It was a year filled with pain and medication and was no life for a child.” He swallowed.
“It was cruel.”
“No!” Rios slamming the flat of his hand against the tray of instruments; bouncing them high and sending several skittering across the stained floor. “You healed him! It's their fault he died! You could have saved him!”
Stephen held his gaze. “No. There is no power that could have saved him.” He remembered flakes of snow held suspended in a storming sky – the cool static of an astral form at his side. “Some of us live decades. Some only moments. In the end, though, death comes for us all. Not even I can stop that.”
The hand clamping on his jaw yanked him from his introspection and he only managed an indrawn breath before the gag was crammed behind his teeth, once more; belt tightened so hard he could feel it cutting into the corners of his mouth.
“You're lying! Why are you lying? Is it to protect them? Why? Why would you protect those... those monsters!?” The eyes had gone wild, once more, and Stephen saw the blurred reality of the man's existence rise to the foreground as he turned from his “patient” and began dithering over the array of scalpels before him. None were appropriate for surgery – more suited to arts and crafts, really. By now the bupivacaine had fully taken effect – some of the sharper pain ebbing away. It wouldn't be nearly enough, however. With his captor distracted, Stephen closed his eyes, steadied his breathing, and pushed...
His astral form burst free from his body – dampening the pain and mild hypoxia he'd been experiencing. While he maintained awareness of his pain, in this form, it was diluted and distant, allowing him to remove it from his immediate consciousness.
Sparing no time, he sent his form into the adjoining room; through the wall and down to the street. He didn't know this part of the city. The building he'd escaped was crumbling and missing several windows – dilapidated in a way that fit with its surroundings of likewise destitute structures. Rising above the rooftops, he rotated until he could finally take in the sight of Manhattan, many miles distant.
Oriented, now, he sped his form through the city – no need to keep to the grid below, he passed through buildings in a straight line to the Sanctum. Time was malleable in this form; the world beneath him slowed to incremental movements that were barely perceptible. In likewise fashion his travel was a matter of moments – unencumbered by the physical. In seconds he arrived; passing through the wall; a shiver of magic running through his form from the incantations surrounding the building. Wong was in the library – one hand seemingly frozen in place reaching for a thick tome. And Stephen could no longer hold time at bay.
The seconds restored themselves and Wong finished his motion – grasping the thick volume about the spine only to lurch as Stephen appeared alongside him. Recriminations were born and died on his tongue as he took in his friend.
“Stephen...”
“I need... there's no time...”
Wong left the book on the desk and grasped his sling ring from his belt as Stephen rambled his location. And then he gasped; feeling a faded heat cut across his consciousness. Seconds later Wong spun his hand and a burning ring nudged open the place between reality. He raced through – Stephen pushing along after. They emerged on the street outside – a necessary precaution as Wong couldn't risk opening a portal into a room without knowing if it was occupied. Another distant burn opened between two knuckles and Stephen couldn't wait for his friend – rushing back to his body in spite of what would be awaiting him.
A moment of black. And he awoke to fire.
A scalpel was embedded deep in the lumbrical between the index and middle fingers. Blood shed down his hand and dripped steadily on the stained floor and Stephen bit into the gag as he arched his back – fingers curling in a helpless spasm of pain. Magic hummed at his fingertips but without freedom of movement he couldn't form even the most basic shield.
Rios lifted the scalpel from the jagged incision – lips pulling down in a grimace. “So much blood! How do you see what you're doing?”
With a full surgical team equipped with suction, swabs, and retractors you asshole!
Almost, as the thought was snarling from his brain, Stephen slammed his head back against the rest and screamed though his gag as Rios dug two fingers on either side of the wound and yanked – hard. In an instant the terminal edge of the incision tore – fresh blood welling up and spilling over to patter steadily down the side of the restraint.
Nausea flooded his gut and Stephen gagged – desperately holding on to control.
Rios pressed the scalpel against an exposed tendon...
And a sudden concussion of wind blasted through the room; bowling Rios off his feet. The door, leading to the room, burst from the top hinge and was left canted against the inside wall.
Wong swiftly stepped though; taking in the scene before working his hands in a simple spell; the restraints and gag falling free. Stephen shuddered as renewed blood flow increased the bleeding from his wound. He pressed his right hand against his chest; fingers hanging slack while his skull pounded a discordant beat.
“Stephen...” His friend caught his shoulders as he tipped – only for a red flutter to light around his body and grip his collar bones – righting him and taking his weight. Wong nodded towards the red collar brushing against the side of his face. “It followed me through the portal.”
Stephen smiled – then allowed his chin to settle against his chest as Wong left him for a moment – a soft scuffle following as he did... something. With the immediate threat gone Stephen could feel his body shifting into shock; shivers trembling down his limbs and an icy cold welling from his core. His teeth chattered.
Wong returned, then, to clasp his hand on the back of Stephen's neck. “Can you stand?”
“I...” Stephen tried something with his legs but couldn't manage the coordination to push against the floor. Yup – definitely shock.
“Carry him.” Brows folding down in confusion, Stephen had the question flit across his tongue when suddenly his body was lifted as the Cloak rose – carrying his weight from the chair.
As Wong was creating a portal Stephen had a second to glance to the rumpled bed on the other side of the room. Rios lie on the mattress; his limbs bound towards the middle of his back by cord that carried a faint orange glow.
Wong turned to guide his friend through the open portal – stopping just long enough to jerk his chin towards Rios. “Someone will come for him. He will trouble you no longer.”
And then they left the dark building behind.
He didn't require surgery – despite the ugliness of his injuries. Once more prevailing upon an exhausted Christine, a promise of a spa weekend in trade for 12 stitches and a cold compress for his skull, Stephen was released back to the Sanctum a little under two hours after his rescue.
Able to walk on his own, the cloak hovering like a nervous parent, Stephen stepped into the familiar warmth of his bedroom and allowed his knees to buckle him to the bed; hissing as his head throbbed at being jostled.
Wong watched him from the doorway.
“You truly are an atrocious patient.”
Pushing up on his elbows, Stephen squinted his eyes. “Excuse me?”
The pill bottle sailed across the room and smacked him in the chest hard enough to sting.
“Ow!” Rubbing at this new, and unwarranted, injury Stephen attempted to stand, once more, only to wobble back onto his butt.
“You were prescribed pain medication. I suggest you take it.” Wong started from the room only to turn; pointing a finger. “And no astral projecting until you heal. It only delays recovery when you don't allow your body to properly sleep.”
Groaning, Stephen let himself roll back onto his pillows. “You know I had a great reply to that but frankly I'm too dead to muster the strength for verbal sparring.”
The chuckle moved with his friend as Wong reentered the room – walking to the bed to ease Stephen's shoes from his feet. “I'm certain there will be plenty of fresh opportunities for you and I to cross swords. And for me to beat you into submission with a minimal use of confutation.”
Stephen's belly shook with laughter even as he grunted; adjusting himself on the bed to relieve the pressure on aching muscles. Once Wong had set aside Stephen's shoes, he proceeded to pull the heavy brocade comforter over his friend's lap.
“Sleep. I will have food ready for when you awaken.”
He started to leave when Stephen held out his hand; catching hold of Wong by the wrist. “Hey, um... thank you. For...”
Wong blinked, for just a moment, before smiling. Gently he squeezed Stephen on the unbruised portion of his lower arm. “Always.”
With Stephen tucked in, pills swallowed with a glass of water, Wong finally headed out of the room. Then he stopped, looking over his shoulder. His mouth opened; words hanging just at the verge of speaking. And then he smiled. “Sleep well, my friend.”
On the bed, curled on his left side, Stephen's eyes slowly closed.
“G'night, Wong...”