A Mutant Collector Quest

Just Before the Attack on the Ruins

New York City

Stephanie Strange… sorry, Doctor Stephanie Strange, steps out of the marble-tiled bathroom in her high-class apartment, a cloud of steam swirling around her.

Wrapping herself in a plush white towel, she reaches for her phone on the desk and taps the loudspeaker button after dialling a number.

"Hello," Christine Palmer's cheerful voice rings out. From the background noise, it's clear she is at the hospital.

"Hey, Christine," Strange says, grabbing a comb and running it through her damp hair. "Listen, are we still on for tonight?"

A pause follows on the other end of the line, then a sigh. "Sorry, Stephanie, I can't come with you tonight. There is an emergency in the ER."

Strange rolls her eyes, already anticipating the answer. "I have told you a million times to stop working in that butcher shop, Christine. C'mon, just for one night, let the other doctors handle those drunk idiots."

Christine's tone grows firmer. "It's not some drunk idiots this time, Stephanie. These are people transferred from Hell's Kitchen. The hospitals there are packed because of the gang war going on. Even Metro-General is on the verge of being swamped."

"Oh, great. Hell's Kitchen. Why is that place still a thing? Can't the police do something about it? Look, it's making even my date cancel her plans," Strange quips, setting the comb down and fixing her makeup.

"It's not that simple, Stephanie, and you know that," Christine counters, her voice tinged with exasperation.

"Yeah, yeah," Strange says, putting away the makeup kit as she strolls towards her expansive walk-in closet. "Anyway, you are going to miss my amazing speech at the Neurological Society Dinner."

"Oh no," Christine deadpans. "How will I ever recover from missing another romantic date where the talk is all about you?"

Strange smirks at her reflection in the mirror, pulling out a sleek black suit and holding it up against herself. "It's not all about me."

"Stephanie," Christine says dryly. "Everything is about you."

"I am flattered." Strange tosses the suit onto her bed and begins hunting for matching heels. "By the way, are we still on for tomorrow then? You do remember the Daily Bugle is interviewing me for my laminectomy procedure."

"We invented that technique together," Christine corrects her.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Strange replies nonchalantly, now opening her watch collection. "Look, I even named it the Strange-Palmer technique."

"It's Palmer-Strange. And yes, I think I can make time, but it would be best if they did the interview here at the hospital." Christine says with a tired sigh.

"Sure, great. I will talk to them," Strange says as her hand passes over a red-and-blue bracelet before landing on a sleek black watch. She picks it out and closes the case.

"Alright, I have a lot of patients to attend to. Bye, and good luck!" Christine says hurriedly as someone in the background calls for Dr. Palmer.

"Thanks," Strange replies, grinning.

As the call ends, she leans against the mirror, admiring her reflection. "Palmer-Strange, huh?" she muses to herself.

Shaking her head with a smirk, she heads out of her apartment, ready for the conference.

---

The roar of the Lamborghini Huracán Coupé's V10 engine reverberated through the underground parking garage as Stephanie Strange steered the sleek, electric-blue vehicle out of her high-rise apartment building's driveway.

Stephanie's perfectly manicured hands gripped the steering wheel as she weaved through sparse late-night traffic, it was starting to rain, but that didn't bother her in the slightest, as she floored the gas-pedal.

Her phone, secured in a hands-free dock on the dashboard, lit up. A familiar name flashed on the screen: Linda Carter.

With a tap on the steering wheel, she answered the call. "Linda, I hope you have something better for me than the last set of boring cases," Stephanie said, her tone edged with impatience as she accelerated past a yellow light, rain battering against the windshield.

"Hello to you too, Stephanie," Linda Carter's voice replied dryly over the car's speakers. "You sound as impatient as ever. I have got some cases, but are you in the mood to listen?"

Stephanie smirked as she manoeuvred the Huracán onto the expressway, the engine growling as she pushed past 80 mph. "I am ready now. Hit me."

"Alright," Linda said, her tone shifting to business. "First case: a 35-year-old Air Force colonel. Crushed his lower spine piloting some experimental armour. Mid-thoracic vertebral fracture."

Stephanie scoffed, weaving her car deftly through the late-night traffic. "Please. Any competent surgeon with a steady hand could handle that. Next."

Linda sighed audibly. "Fine. How about this? Sixty-eight-year-old woman, advanced brain stem glioma. Tumor is deep, high risk."

"High risk? Sure. But the probability of success is almost nil. I am not jeopardising my perfect record on that one. Keep going." Stephanie said, her eyes briefly flicking to the windshield as the rain intensified.

The rain was coming down harder now, streaking across the windshield despite the rapid swipes of the wipers. A mountain pass loomed ahead, with its twists and turns, but she hardly slowed down at all.

"I figured you would say that," Linda muttered. "Alright, I have got one more. A 22-year-old female. She has got an experimental electronic implant in her brain to manage schizophrenia. She was caught in a fire in Hell's Kitchen, and the implant was severely damaged. She is in a critical state—burn injuries, neural damage, and the implant's malfunctioning is causing severe neural misfires. She is deteriorating quickly."

Stephanie's lips curled into a faint smile. "Now that's interesting. Severe physical trauma, mental health complications, and experimental tech all rolled into one? What's her name?"

"Mary Walker," Linda replied. "She is a Hell's Kitchen native. And from what I have gathered, her survival is slim without immediate intervention. Want me to send you the files?"

"Do it," Stephanie said, glancing briefly at her phone screen as the files began to upload. "This could actually be…"

Her words trailed off as headlights suddenly blazed in her peripheral vision. A car swerved into her lane, its horn blaring over the pounding rain. Stephanie jerked the wheel instinctively, sending her Huracán skidding across the slick road. The tires screeched in protest as she fought to regain control, her heart hammering in her chest.

The Huracán's tires screamed against the slick asphalt as Stephanie wrestled with the wheel, but the car spun violently, fishtailing out of control. She barely had time to register the metal guardrail looming ahead before the car slammed into it with a deafening crash.

BAM!

The airbags deployed instantly, ballooning outward and cushioning the initial impact as her body was flung forward. Her head struck the airbag with a jarring force, and the world blurred for a split second.

But the nightmare wasn't over. The force of the crash shattered the front windshield into a spiderweb of cracks before it exploded outward, sending jagged shards of glass flying back into the car.

As the momentum carried the Huracán forward, the guardrail gave way entirely. The car lurched over the edge, plummeting into the darkness below. The trees and underbrush barely slowed the descent as the vehicle tumbled violently down the mountainside.

Stephanie felt a sickening jolt as the front of the car struck a jagged outcrop of rock, crumpling like paper under the force. The impact was final and brutal. Her head, unprotected after the airbag deflated, was slammed against the steering wheel. The sharp pain flared for only an instant before everything went black!

-----

Stephanie's world slowly came into focus, the harsh overhead lights of the hospital room stabbing into her groggy mind. Her head throbbed, her body felt heavy, and a dull, persistent ache radiated from her hands. She blinked, her vision sharpening enough to make out the sterile white walls and the hum of medical equipment around her.

"Stephanie?"

The familiar voice pulled her gaze to the side, where Christine Palmer sat close by, her face a mix of relief and worry.

"You are awake," Christine said softly, her voice a balm against the chaos. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

Stephanie tried to move her hands, but a jolt of pain shot through her, drawing a sharp hiss from her lips. Her eyes darted down to see both of her hands immobilized by a grotesque array of fixators and bandages.

"What did they do?" she rasped, her voice hoarse from disuse.

Christine hesitated, her eyes searching Stephanie's face as though bracing for the reaction. "Lucas Watson's people found you," she began gently. "They airlifted you out in a chopper, rushed you here within the golden hour. They did everything they could, but—"

"What did they do?" Stephanie's voice grew sharper, almost desperate, cutting off Christine's careful explanation.

Christine exhaled deeply, steeling herself. "Eleven stainless steel pins in the bones. Multiple torn ligaments. Severe nerve damage in both hands. You were on the table for eleven hours."

Stephanie's eyes roamed over the fixators, the grotesque metal bars stretching across her hands. Her fingers twitched, or at least she thought they did; she couldn't feel them move.

"Look at these fixators," she said, her voice laced with frustration and disbelief.

"No one could have done better," Christine said, leaning forward, her expression earnest.

"I could have done better," Stephanie shot back, bitterness creeping into her tone.

As her words hung in the air, the soft creak of the door opening drew both their attention.

The figure stepping into the room was a familiar one. It was Lucas!