It's not uncommon for Stephen's reality to change on a dime, but he can safely say that this is the first time he started off the afternoon meditating and ended in a train crash.
Everything goes black for a long moment, long enough that Stephen's first worry when he wakes up is about brain damage. How long was he unconscious? He doesn't know. What he does know is that there's the smell of smoke in the air, other passengers groaning, metal screaming as it tries to warp and bend -- and jammed through his shoulder is the remains of what must have been a slim metal window pane, sheared off to form an inconvenient stake. Because he's not an idiot, he doesn't pull it out, and picks himself up instead.
The Cloak of Levitation is disturbingly lifeless, falling limp around him. And when he tries to conjure a self-assessment spell, the runes flicker and die. Stephen scowls.
No matter. The more important thing is seeing to the other passengers. He casts his gaze over the others he can see -- mental triage: sprained wrist, bump on the head, bruise, he doesn't need to attend any of them yet -- and finds someone on the floor, bleeding from a head wound. Stephen kneels down next to them. "Lay still," he says, not so much gentle bed-side manner as it is firm instruction that brooks no bullshit, and finds a nearby scarf to press against the wood. He cringes internally at the bacteria that might be on it, but an infected head wound is better than one that doesn't stop bleeding.
"You." He grabs the attention of someone nearby, pale gaze narrowed. "Are you injured?"
β βΈ» assimilation
When he'd heard that one of the cars contained cargo with test tubes, Stephen had made his way there as quickly as possible after helping what passengers he could. Without the use of his magic, which is still sputtering out and dying as soon as he calls it, he's forced back to far more rudimentary measures; make-shift bandages and splints, assigning the less injured to watch over the more injured.
It's been a long time since he was involved in triage for a mass injury event, and back then he'd had the full resources of a hospital. Now, he has nothing. It's enough to drive any former surgeon mad.
While rustling through one of the cargo boxes in the hopes of finding medicine, he'd noticed a black substance. Though he'd done his best to stay far away from it, he nonetheless finds it clinging to his fingers when he draws back. He still hasn't found the time to see to his own injury, metal sticking out of his shoulder, but he wrapped it with a torn strip of a spare shirt he'd found in someone's luggage. The black goo seems... a more immediate issue, but no matter how much he tries to wipe it off, it doesn't move. It's not burning, or sizzling, there's no immediate pain, and yet, when he stands, his head swims, and he winds up automatically reaching out to grab someone's arm to steady himself.
When his vision clears, he realizes he's just spread the goo to someone else. It's still on his hand, and spreading over their shirt sleeve.
"Shit." Stephen wishes he had a scalpel. A torch. Fire. Anything. "Quick, before it touches your skin, get rid of your shirt." He really hopes they have something on underneath!
β βΈ» two truths & a lie
un: notawizard
1. In an alternate universe there's a very flatteringly heroic statue of me. 2. My cape is the most jealous entity I've ever come across. 3. I can't stand bagels and as a New Yorker that's a sin.
β βΈ» wildcard
[ ooc: also happy to do other plots if wanted! :D ]
doctor stephen strange β³ mcu
It's not uncommon for Stephen's reality to change on a dime, but he can safely say that this is the first time he started off the afternoon meditating and ended in a train crash.
Everything goes black for a long moment, long enough that Stephen's first worry when he wakes up is about brain damage. How long was he unconscious? He doesn't know. What he does know is that there's the smell of smoke in the air, other passengers groaning, metal screaming as it tries to warp and bend -- and jammed through his shoulder is the remains of what must have been a slim metal window pane, sheared off to form an inconvenient stake. Because he's not an idiot, he doesn't pull it out, and picks himself up instead.
The Cloak of Levitation is disturbingly lifeless, falling limp around him. And when he tries to conjure a self-assessment spell, the runes flicker and die. Stephen scowls.
No matter. The more important thing is seeing to the other passengers. He casts his gaze over the others he can see -- mental triage: sprained wrist, bump on the head, bruise, he doesn't need to attend any of them yet -- and finds someone on the floor, bleeding from a head wound. Stephen kneels down next to them. "Lay still," he says, not so much gentle bed-side manner as it is firm instruction that brooks no bullshit, and finds a nearby scarf to press against the wood. He cringes internally at the bacteria that might be on it, but an infected head wound is better than one that doesn't stop bleeding.
"You." He grabs the attention of someone nearby, pale gaze narrowed. "Are you injured?"
When he'd heard that one of the cars contained cargo with test tubes, Stephen had made his way there as quickly as possible after helping what passengers he could. Without the use of his magic, which is still sputtering out and dying as soon as he calls it, he's forced back to far more rudimentary measures; make-shift bandages and splints, assigning the less injured to watch over the more injured.
It's been a long time since he was involved in triage for a mass injury event, and back then he'd had the full resources of a hospital. Now, he has nothing. It's enough to drive any former surgeon mad.
While rustling through one of the cargo boxes in the hopes of finding medicine, he'd noticed a black substance. Though he'd done his best to stay far away from it, he nonetheless finds it clinging to his fingers when he draws back. He still hasn't found the time to see to his own injury, metal sticking out of his shoulder, but he wrapped it with a torn strip of a spare shirt he'd found in someone's luggage. The black goo seems... a more immediate issue, but no matter how much he tries to wipe it off, it doesn't move. It's not burning, or sizzling, there's no immediate pain, and yet, when he stands, his head swims, and he winds up automatically reaching out to grab someone's arm to steady himself.
When his vision clears, he realizes he's just spread the goo to someone else. It's still on his hand, and spreading over their shirt sleeve.
"Shit." Stephen wishes he had a scalpel. A torch. Fire. Anything. "Quick, before it touches your skin, get rid of your shirt." He really hopes they have something on underneath!
un: notawizard
[ ooc: also happy to do other plots if wanted! :D ]