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It wasn't the first time Stephen felt empty.
He was empty when his heart caved in at Donna's funeral, the black umbrellas twirling around in the cold rain, drowning Stephen just as it had Donna.
He felt empty as he stared at his organic chemistry test when his eidetic memory refused to function (he pulled an all-nighter; his father died a few hours before).
He remembered staring down at his fragmented fingers, hollowly accepting that his career was taken from him by his own stupidity.
He acknowledged the hole left in his soul after years of battling foes: magnificent foes such as Dormammu, ex-friends like Mordo, and merciless foes like Thanos.
He was familiar with emptiness, just as he was with pain. Pain never got less painful, just as emptiness never got any less empty.
He couldn't help but feel the unrelenting vacancy of The Void, an uninhabited landscape that cleverly fit its name.
It was the place things went when they didn't belong, it was a place for the unloved and the misunderstood, and above all, it was a place that Stephen couldn't help but feel that he belonged in.
Sure, he'd never make it back to his own universe, but maybe that wasn't so bad. It wasn't like it needed him anyway.
Stephen once thought he belonged, that he was a hero, but now as he sat in the empty desert, he realized he was neither.
He tried to be a hero, but his world didn't want him. He tried to sacrifice himself for the greater good, but it was in vain. He wasn't worthy to save the universe.
As the TWA- or whatever it was they called themselves- said countless times, Stephen was a defect, a mistake. He was never supposed to find two realities out of the 15,000,000 he searched that worked. He was never supposed to find that reality, never supposed to bite into the forbidden fruit.
As soon as he carried out the plan of sacrificing himself when Thanos got too close to the time stone, he woke up- not in the afterlife, but in a courtroom.
He failed.
The TVA told him his mistake, told him the unspoken rule that cost his world’s life, but by then, it was too late.
He got charged guilty in trial having no lawyer and no say in the matter. They mentioned something about “The Void” and “Pruning”, poked him with a stick, and BAM, he woke up in a desert.
Ignoring the fact that he could never go home (there was no home to return to anyway), Stephen wandered around the wasteland, spotting various relics and abandoned ships and buildings- all of which likely met the same fate Stephen did.
A few hours into his endeavor, Stephen's foot collided with something that caused enough damage for him to mutter a few choice words.
Bending down to look at the culprit, Stephen noticed something peculiar: a green glow.
He reached down, and without thinking, he grabbed it.
Stephen came to with a pounding headache that only intensified as his eyes opened to reveal the bright surroundings of a desert.
He was still in The Void. Great.
The only difference was that there was a half-built wall of scrap metal keeping him in… or keeping others out.
Around him, people shuffled by, all wearing makeshift armor made of scraps. They definitely weren't typical villains- these were just mercenaries trying to survive.
While they were distracted, Stephen took it upon himself to get out of his bondage, which quickly proved impossible. Sand dug into his knees and the metallic ropes binding him dug into his skin. Even worse, the familiar weight of the Sands of Nisanti held his magic hostage, making defiance futile.
After a few moments of watching everyone go about their day, Stephen grew impatient. Why did they want him if they were just going to ignore him?
“Hey, you,” Stephen called to the nearest person, a man wearing a faded tan tunic and bearing a handcrafted gun (it looked the equivalent of an ancient car being held together with duct tape and mismatched screws). “What do you want with me?”
The man just grumbled, carrying on with his day. Except, he didn't go back to work, he went to another man that bore a cane and was dressed in black from head to toe. It wasn't the most ideal garb for the desert, but Stephen figured they all took what they could find.
The man wearing black swiftly hobbled towards Stephen, who straightened his posture and set his jaw. “Why am I here?”
Wack.
It wasn't the first time Stephen got pistol (cane?) whipped, and I certainly wasn't the first time he got reprimanded for a snide comment. Still, his ears rang and it burned where the metal cane made contact with his zygomatic bone.
“You are only to speak when told,” the man commanded, his tone matching that of his gruff outfit.
“Nobody has been here to tell me anything-”
Wack.
Okay, he deserved that one.
“You are a guest of Her, be thankful you weren't just sacrificed to Alioth.”
“Who-”
Wack.
Shit. Stephen forgot about the Thou-Shalt-Not-Speak rule, but he couldn't help his curiosity. Who the hell was “Her” and who was this “Alioth”?
A screech of metal made Stephen get out of his thoughts and focus on a ramp lowering from the highest point of the misshapen wall. Wait, was “the wall” just a shipwrecked vessel?
Everyone that was at work quickly froze, setting their gaze to the ramp, where someone was descending. They had a brisk walk as they descended the ramp, so definitely the leader.
Something about the leader’s silhouette was familiar, though Stephen couldn't place why, no matter how hard he squinted.
As soon as the figure stepped onto the ground, Stephen's heart stopped mid-beat.
He was face to face with the Ancient One?
She wasn't quite the same though, her eyes were different and there was something off about her aura, but there was no mistaking the resemblance.
She sported a confident bald head and wore faded gold. Her face was round but angular, and she carried herself with effortless poise. She looked quiet but loud, innocent but powerful.
The woman approached Stephen, still baffled, and stood right in front of him.
Stephen lifted his eyes to match hers, but made no effort to strain his neck to look up to her. He was too familiar with the dynamic of captor-captee to fall for a mere scare-tactic.
“Stephen Strange.” Her voice was even similar to that of the Ancient One, with monotone diction and commanding but playful inflection. “I've heard a lot about you from a buddy of yours. Tony Stark, was it?” She paused, tilting her head. “I need your help.”
Stephen sighed. “With what?”
“Saving the multiverse. Making it safe.”
“For who?”
“For me, silly. The TVA thought me a threat, as they did you, and dumped us into this garbage hole.” She crouched down to be face-to-face with Stephen. “The multiverse couldn't handle us, but it needs us. It needs us to make decisions and reign.”
“I know enough about time and the multiverse to know that it's not as simple as it sounds.”
“Of course it is, silly. We only need to condense the multiverse to a singular, safe location outside of the confines of time.”
“By killing everyone in the multiverse?” Stephen raised his eyebrows.
She scoffed back. “Just those who defy me.”
“You just want to rule. You already rule here by the looks of it, is that not enough?”
“Why should people like us be punished in a prison while others get to use their powers freely? The only people that determine good and bad are those hooligans with the sticks in the TVA. They are in no position to determine who lives and who dies. With an even ground however-”
“Who even are you?”
“I'm Cassandra Nova. Twin of Charles Xavier. Your universe had one of him, right?”
Stephen nodded. Though they had never met, Stephen knew of Charles Xavier, the mutant that kept saving the world along his team of X-Men. They were heroes, always defeating threats before the Avengers or sorcerers of Kamar-Taj. Stephen always thought the world needed more people like them.
“He got to live, but I didn't. I was deemed ‘too powerful’, but I never even got a chance. I've been here all my life, ever since I was a baby.”
“Smart move for the multiverse.”
“Stephen, you're the only one that can stop the delusions of my twin and bring justice. People in the multiverse are confused and held captive by time. They need us to free them.”
“You're not freeing them, you're enslaving them.”
“Really depends on what side you're on, doesn't it? Now tell me, what side of history do you want to be on?”
Stephen's shackles fell to the ground and no longer were the Sands of Nisanti binding him.
“Not yours.” Stephen lifted his hands and produced an Eldritch whip in one hand and a shield in the other.
Cassandra simply stood back and with a flick of her hands, produced a magic unlike anything Stephen had ever seen.
This power she wielded was visceral, unpredictable. It manipulated time and space without the use of the Mirror Dimension with its crystalline fractals bringing the power of world manipulation to its user.
It wasn’t from a relic- those were useless in The Void anyway- nor was it from a higher being (heaven forbid Vishanti was on her side). Instead, it was seemingly gathered from within her in a raw, untrainable instinct similar to the act of breathing.
It caught Stephen off guard to see such a blasé display of power, especially from the woman he thought was similar to The Ancient One. The previous sorcerer supreme would never use power in such a destructive manner. Sure, she did a few morally gray things, but never would she have any other purpose but serving humanity for the greater good.
In Stephen's moment of surprise, Cassandra managed to get the upper hand in a frightening display that left Stephen immobile, swallowed (once again) in the unrelenting ground that bowed to the sorceress.
Stephen struggled, thrashing against the unconventional bonds and drawing upon power within himself to break free. It was as if her magic blocked his, paralyzing his very spirit and entrapping it in his own body. This wasn't the Sands of Nisanti, it was a natural power.
If he had the Cloak, it would have significantly aided in his escape, but since his beloved relic was not with him, he flailed in vain.
“Such a defensive reaction. I do have to admit- I expected more of a fight from the great Stephen Strange,” she drawled, tilting her head in an eerie manner that made Stephen's stomach drop.
“Doctor-” he corrected under his breath, unable to help himself.
“Oh yes, silly me! Doctor Stephen Strange,” she corrected, “were you actually a doctor?”
Stephen refused to give her a response, setting his jaw instead.
“Does it have to do with your hands? They are quite lovely- reminds me of a lightning storm.”
He couldn't help it, he couldn't stop himself from rising to the bait to steal a glance to his scarred hands, shame filling in his stomach.
“Fascinating!” Cassandra had the same playful smile as the Ancient One, albeit sadistic and twisted.
Feeling helpless, Stephen gave another tug at his magical confines to no avail.
“Something tells me your hands aren't the only things scarred.” She approached him, tilting her head in the same manner that was sure to leave Stephen with nightmares. “What else are you hiding?”
‘So, so much,’ Stephen thought as she stopped centimeters before his face. She crouched down with no regard for personal space, and looked deep into his eyes.
Stephen wanted to fight, he wanted to break free and run, scream, fight, but he couldn't. Instead, he stood his ground, giving minuscule tugs at his bonds while looking her dead in her heartless eyes.
They kneeled there a while in silence, neither daring to speak first nor be the first to look away. It was a childish means of defense, but it was the only one Stephen had at the moment.
Finally, she cracked a perverse smile. “You're definitely hiding something more. You know, you're actually the first Stephen to come through here. You lot are surprisingly clever… well, aside from you.” Her hand reached out towards his face. “You are different, you are broken. Hell, all of your variants are broken, and you-” her fingers made contact with his forehead.
It was like a hurricane came over him; waves crashed into his frontal lobe and winds blew his thoughts around into a jumble that made it hard to resist. It was as if all his memories, especially those he buried, had resurfaced, being brought up out of the tidal wave and onto the shore of his conscious thoughts.
It hit him like a landslide, making his memories collapse in on themselves. He couldn't keep himself from falling down with them, going down, down, down, until he landed in water. The water reached his eyes and trickled into his mouth. No matter how hard he tried to swim, he was drowning… drowning…
Drowning.
Flailing, sobbing, desperate pleas for help. Donna was swallowed by the frozen earth.
Stephen didn't listen to his parent’s advice.
“Stay away from the lake. It's starting to thaw.”
“I will!” Stephen said, racing Donna to the exact place he swore not to go.
It played endlessly in his mind as Donna gasped for breath and flailed her arms in a desperate attempt to break free of the lake’s jaws.
It took about a minute that felt like eternity for Stephen to realize she wasn't coming back up.
“- you are the one that'll tell me why.”
Stephen didn't even remember the beginning of her dialogue, but it didn't matter.
For the split second he was in reality, he had more than enough time to acknowledge the sweat dripping down his face and the tears spilling from his eyes. He noticed his tight jaw, likely a result of clenching it to combat the invasion of privacy.
Greater was the pain of his hands, his sensitive nerves set aflame after minutes of thrashing against the spell to no avail. He had no way out.
He wouldn't give away the time stone, he wouldn't give away the time stone, he wouldn't-
“No, no, further back,” a feminine voice floated above the tornado of memories in Stephen's mind.
He tried to resist, but the woman's magic only grew stronger. “When did you get this closed-off?”
His sister was dead. His mother was dead. His father was dead.
Now, his brother was dead.
Everyone he had was gone- what reason was there to live?
Stephen took out a scalpel from his suture practice set with abnormally shaky fingers. He was known among his med-school peers as “steady hands”. That man was gone, replaced by a fragmented med student, a broken son and brother.
He unlocked the bathroom door and moved to the sink where he draped his wrist.
With one last troubled breath, he lowered the blade…
Strange resurfaced, gasping for breath. It took but a moment for another wave to overtake him, sending him back into the waters despite how hard he fought against it.
“Dormammu, I've come to bargain,” Stephen repeated for the thousandth time.
Unlike his multiple failed suicide attempts, he felt the mercy of death.
Over and over and over and over again.
He died in every way possible: asphyxiation, starvation, stabbing, and dissection- tearing, ripping, choking, falling…
Falling.
Stephen hit the ground, wheezing at the impact.
His broken ribs screamed out as Ironman’s steel boot made contact with his side.
“Tony, please…” he managed to wheeze.
“You don't get to give orders around here, the last time you did-” both men's eyes filled with tears. “-You. Killed. The. Kid!” Each word was punctuated with another kick from Tony, before he too, vanished.
The universe was destroyed.
It was all his fault.
Alone, Stephen had no choice but to accept the pull of death as he choked on his own blood, the blood that was shed by someone he thought was a friend.
Stephen’s mind flipped to the next reality like a catalog, as if he still bore the Time Stone. The memories were always there, always mocking.
Thanos strangled Thor, the resulting shockwave electrocuting the once-powerful Avengers. In a cloud of ash and smoke, every last one of Earth’s mightiest heroes collapsed, their seared flesh pungent.
“Thank you, my pet, for this opportunity,” Thanos drawled. He grabbed Stephen by the collar, dragging him to the ship Stephen had gotten to know as home. “You are going to be with me for a long time.”
Nope, nope. Stephen didn't stay in that reality for long. He didn't want to know what happened next.
It wasn't Tony that saved the universe, it was Steve Rogers. The timeline didn't take too kindly to the change. Wong bore the punishment.
With all the timelines and realities going on simultaneously, it was easy for Stephen to get overwhelmed.
The problem with some memories was that they were real. Once upon a time, they happened.
Oftentimes, overstimulated, Stephen would sit with a book, pretending to read, and zone out, hastily trying to control his breathing as his memories tried to escape the vault he trapped them in.
It was the worst when he tried to sleep.
Dormammu crafted a monster out of the rock that tore at his skin in slow chunks.
Eventually, it was thirst that finally got Stephen.
----
His family's cow, Ol’ Betty collapsed to the side, desperately trying to birth her calf.
By the time everyone got there to relieve her, she had collapsed along with her calf.
His family did all they could, but nothing could wrench Ol’ Betty and her baby from the jaws of death.
It was Stephen's first experience with death.
He was 4.
----
Stephen was back in the hospital, his tears smearing the blood on his hands as he sat on the operating room floor.
“I- I'm s-s-sorry. I did- I did all I c-could.”
“Fascinating!” Cassandra cupped Stephen's cheek in a moment of mock comfort.
Still, Stephen felt himself melt into her touch, closing his eyes as she brushed the tears off his cheeks.
“You don't have to be like that anymore, I can end all of it.”
“Y-you mean kill me?” Stephen's voice was raspy- he must have been screaming.
“No, silly. Silence your thoughts, erase your past. I can give you peace.”
It was silent.
It was silent like the wind, a fresh breeze that cooled Stephen's skin and comforted him with its whispering breath.
For the first time ever, his millions of lives weren't replaying in his head, nor were his mistakes and words of discouragement crippling his conscious thoughts.
It was silent.
Stephen couldn't help the sob that escaped his throat.
He was free.
“You can stay like this forever.”
It sounded wonderful- to live without constant chatter interrupting his life. Gone were the days of nightmares, of flashbacks, of loneliness.
Stephen let himself fall deeper into her magical embrace, soaking in the moment with a peaceful smile.
“Stay like this, with me, forever.”
He could. He could definitely stay in the peaceful and warm dimension outside of space and time with no worries or fears.
“So I could go back, have my old life back again?” Stephen asked, standing beside the Ancient One in her last moments. Whatever choice he made next would determine his fate and the fate of the multiverse.
“You could, but the world would be lesser for it.” Was her response.
Was he really that important?
Did he actually have that much power when it came to the future? The time stone did choose him as its wielder after all.
Maybe there was still more, maybe the point in him becoming a doctor, getting into a car crash, and becoming a sorcerer was for this moment.
Maybe, just as it did on that snowy balcony with the Ancient One, the multiverse depended on him.
He shook his head, knowing very well he'd never know such peace again. Everything had a consequence, a bill that came due. “And if I don't?”
“Then I'll kill you,” she sang.
Stephen contemplated that for a moment. He supposed that either way, he'd have peace. It was just a matter of if he died at peace or died as a troubled hero.
The problem was, he was no hero. He was far from it. He was arrogant, apathetic, a failure.
Sure, he had sacrificed everything -everything- for the greater good, but was it enough? He didn't do it for recognition, heck, he had no reason to be known for his bravery, nor his selflessness or power.
He was no hero, but he knew some: The Ancient One, Wong, Peter Parker, Tony Stark. All of them had one thing in common- they died a lonely death, left behind by those they thought they could trust.
Would Stephen's death be any different? Would he die alone with no sense of self-preservation in the grand scheme of the multiverse? Would his death be useless, nothing but a minor blip in the timeline, or would it serve a greater purpose?
If he gave in, Cassandra would win. She would use him for his power and take over the Void, the TVA, and eventually, the multiverse. He would become a pawn, an instrument of evil to be used against those he loved.
He couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that.
He would rather die, so die he did.
It was relatively quick, not that Dormammu’s methods of killing were a good reference point.
He registered the sadistic look on Cassandra's face and instantly got sent into the ground, ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
One moment, he was staring into the creepy eyes of possibly the most powerful female mage of all time, the next, he was staring into the loving eyes of The Ancient One, surrounded by all those he had lost: from Donna to Tony.
He was with them, the heroes.
Maybe, just maybe, he was one after all.