A Mutant Collector Quest

"Luke, does your Watson Labs have anything that can help with the nerve damage in her hands?" Christine asks, rubbing her eyes as she steps out of my hug.

I feel a twinge of loss, wishing I could hold her soft body a little longer. But her question gets me thinking. Watson Labs doesn't have any advanced surgical technology or specialist surgeons, which is one of the reasons Bobbi rushed Dr. Strange's injured body to this hospital, renowned for having the best surgeons in the country.

Speaking of Bobbi, she had a mission to return to, so she couldn't stay the night.

Even though Watson Labs doesn't have anything specifically designed to repair nerve damage, that doesn't mean I can't help Stephanie myself.

"Let me talk to her first—maybe I can find a way to help," I say with a sigh.

"Alright. I will go find Linda. She has been feeling terrible since last night," Christine replies with a nod. She hesitates for a moment before adding, "And Luke... thank you." She gives me a warm smile, patting my shoulder before walking away.

My eyes involuntarily drift down at her ass, but her loose scrubs do a frustratingly good job of hiding them from my view. Shaking my head, I refocus and step into the room where Stephanie is lying down, staring blankly at her injured hands. She is so lost in thought that she doesn't even notice my presence.

Taking a deep breath, I activate my Phoenix Magic as Blue flames ignite in my palm, ready to heal her hands. 

But just as I take a confident step forward, the world shifts around me. In an instant, I find myself standing in an ancient wooden chamber.

I quickly activate my Forcefield Barrier and ready myself for combat.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Watson?"

Hearing a female voice, I turn to see a bald woman wearing monk robes. She is standing calmly, pouring water from an old jug into a cup.

Damn, meeting a bald person in the Marvel Universe can go either very very wrong... or just maybe become a stroke of good fortune.

The room itself feels ancient. Dark, polished wooden walls are intricately carved with mystical symbols, and the air is rich with the scent of incense mingled with the faint aroma of tea.

First, I assess my own condition. I am still wearing the same clothes, but the connection to D.A.I.S.Y.'s main server appears to be severed. I know this because I recently added a new feature to my Focus gadget while I was on the flight back—it now displays a Wi-Fi connection bar in my HUD to indicate signal strength. Right now, it shows no connection.

"Who are you?" I ask. The woman isn't registering on my Focus's scan, and I have had a similar experience before—with vampires. But in her case, even my Chi Sense fails to detect her presence. Could she be a projection? A hologram? My Focus's scanning range also seems blocked, unable to see past the room. These thoughts race through my mind in mere seconds.

"Oh, but you already know who I am, Mr. Watson," she says, looking at me with a knowing smile.

My brows knit together. Thoughts swirl in my mind, but two of them stand out: Does she know? and How much does she know?

Relaxing my stance, I deactivate my Forcefield Barrier. There is no point in maintaining such feeble defences against someone like her. Still, I am not entirely convinced of her identity, so I choose to observe her more closely for now.

"Please, have some tea and take a seat, Mr. Watson." She hands me a copper cup filled with tea. Taking the cup, I sit across from her, watching as she begins preparing another.

Her movements are fluid, almost mesmerising. I recall hearing somewhere that tea-making is considered an art, and her graceful motions certainly reflect that. I know I should be more on guard, but the serene atmosphere and my confidence in my activated powers to protect me from harm makes me lower my defences, as I take a sip of the tea.

"This is good," I remark after a sip. Its mellow, slightly sweet flavour refreshes my spirit.

"It's made from tea leaves we grow here in Kamar-Taj. Of course, the secret ingredient is what makes it special—honey," she says with a chuckle.

So, this is Kamar-Taj. I have previously tried locating its New York branch, the Sanctum Sanctorum. Despite knowing its exact address—177A Bleecker Street, Greenwich Village—I couldn't find the building, even after using drones and satellites. So I eventually gave up.

"Are you the Ancient One?" I ask, taking another sip, my focus entirely on her.

"I am known by that name, yes," she replies with a smile, stirring her tea.

It doesn't feel like a lie. In fact, I have used my Power, Mana Sight, and can't detect any magic on her. However, the entire room—even most of the old books within it—are brimming with magic. This only strengthens my belief that she truly is the Ancient One.

In the comics, the Ancient One was male. In the movies, she was a woman who looked almost identical to the person before me. As the Sorcerer Supreme and leader of the Masters of the Mystic Arts, she is undoubtedly supremely powerful. Despite her youthful appearance, she has likely been alive for centuries—hence the name 'Ancient One.'

"So, what does the Ancient One want from me? Why was I brought here?" I ask, setting the tea cup on the table.

"Oh, but you already know the answer to that question too," she says with another chuckle, finishing her tea preparation.

She is correct; I had considered the possibility that the Ancient One might try to stop me from healing Dr. Strange's hands. As a result, I wasn't entirely caught off guard when I came face to face with her.

"It seems you are the one who knows all the answers here," I say with a sigh, eager to gauge how much she knows before revealing anything myself.

"Not all the answers," she replies. "For instance, I would like to know: with your knowledge of Dr. Strange's future as one of the most powerful sorceresses, why are you so determined to change her path? Why attempt to cure her, Mr. Watson?" She sips her tea sitting in the chair in front of me, her tone genuinely curious.

Oh? So she doesn't know everything—and she can't read my mind… The last remaining question is whether she knows I have been reincarnated here and possess meta-knowledge, or if she simply believes that I can see the future.

"So, you know about my power too?" I ask, feigning surprise.

"You have a gift of sight—a power granted by another. It is a useful and formidable gift. But you still haven't answered my question. Despite knowing her favourable future, why did you try to cure her?" she asks, leisurely sipping her tea.

So it is settled. Although all of this might just be an elaborate plan to trick me—something I still can't rule out—for now, I should act as though she only knows about my Precognition power and not my meta-knowledge.

Leaning forward, I clasp the teacup in my hands. "Because I can. Because I believe in helping those I care about when they need it. Like what's the point of knowing the future if you can't even change it?" I smirk.

Her gaze doesn't falter. "And yet, by interfering, you risk derailing her growth. Stephanie's pain, her struggles—they are necessary for her to become who she is meant to be. Without hardship, she may never rise to her full potential," she says, her voice calm and soothing.

I internally sigh. This mirrors the internal debate I have had countless times—first with Susan, now with Dr. Strange.

"So, you are saying her destiny is preordained?… Her story is written, and I shouldn't interfere?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

"Time flows like a river Mr. Watson. Those with the gift of foresight can only guide others through it," she explains, gesturing fluidly with her hand. "Strange has a chance to do great things, and that path is filled with thorns. But through adversity, we grow. Let her walk her path, no matter how hard it may seem."

Her words strike a chord. Though I have always been on the fence, her reasoning is starting to resonate with me.

I finish the tea and set the cup down on the table. "I will step back and let Stephanie find her own way to heal, but in exchange, I want something from you," I say, determined not to let this opportunity slip away.

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Darcy Barnes

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