The discharge turned out to be surprisingly fast and businesslike. They carefully disconnected me from the medical cocoon, they removed the sensors, and they took out the IVs. The doctors worked with silent efficiency. They showed me where the shower was, and they provided me with new, clean, faceless clothing. I felt fresh and renewed. To some degree, this was true. I was new.
I left S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hospital wing, and I followed the agent who had been assigned to me, Agent Coulson. He was surprisingly serious. There were no routine jokes or small talk. He was just a statue in a perfect suit, leading me to the parking lot. We got into a nondescript sedan, a Chevrolet, and we smoothly started moving. A short burst of my spiritual sonar confirmed what I already knew. A tight S.H.I.E.L.D. convoy was following us.
Speaking of the sonar, for all of its usefulness, it was fundamentally flawed. The key problem was that it was an active system, versus a passive one. You had to turn it on. In the cafe, I had relaxed, and I hadn't expected an attack. I should have, from the very beginning, focused on developing a passive perception. That would have prevented the Purple Man from catching me off guard. A passive ability is a constant background load on the brain. I could have dropped out for days, adapting to the continuous information flow. If only the System would give me a manual for awakening an Observation Haki. That would be a true, passive, cheat-level awareness.
In parallel with my reflections about early warning systems, I took my smartphone from my inventory and I opened the news feed. It was October seventh. In two days, it would be exactly one month since my isekai arrival. Too much had happened, and it had all been too dense and too fast. And that was only what had concerned me directly. How much more had remained off-screen? This was not a coincidence. This was a calibration. They had shoved me into this world, not randomly, but into its hottest, most pivotal phase.
What worried me was that, in many of the Marvel variations, the key characters had handled things well on their own. But this world was different, and it was stronger. Here, Clint Barton was a full combat meta. Spider-Woman was supposed to become so strong that she could single-handedly defeat the local Kraven. Fury's first thought was about strengthening, not about endless intrigues. If this world, with its enhanced heroes, still needed a cheater like me, then the level of danger that lay ahead was hard to imagine. Previously, this would have scared me. Now, I felt an excited anticipation. It was a complex, unsolvable problem. It was an ideal task for the renewed me and for my future company.
Stark was still kidnapped in Afghanistan. Three days ago, after the Jericho presentation, the responsibility for the kidnapping had been claimed by the Ten Rings. The rails of Fate for the key characters seemed to be unstoppable. The comments beneath the news surprised me with their gloating.
PeaceAboveAll: Serves this death merchant right. Maybe now, sitting in captivity, he will, at least for a second, understand how people live in the countries that he has buried with his weapons. #NoMoreWar
JustAnIdea_: Purely hypothetically, could we kidnap all of the arms barons? Ten Rings, if you're reading this, I can make a list for you.
Karma_Is_Real99: He gets kidnapped IMMEDIATELY AFTER demonstrating a new super missile? Lol, karma strikes without missing. #StarkUnlucky
ArmoryGeek: I don't understand what this presentation was even for. The Jericho missile is a technological curiosity. Why is it needed when multiple rocket launcher systems, like the Grad, have long existed and work perfectly? This is just showboating. It's Stark showing off. I think the Ten Rings kidnapped Stark to teach him some humility.
Steel_Skeptic: The Jericho is absurd? Stark is showing off? You must be writing from another planet, where the Soviet Grad is the pinnacle of technology. Comparing the Jericho to the Grad is like saying that a solar calculator is cooler than a quantum computer. The Jericho is a compact, smart, cluster missile that launches from anything and hits a bullseye. The Jericho is the Lamborghini of weapons, and your Grad is a Zaporozhets that gets stuck in the mud.
And there were dozens of similar comments. In the mass opinion, Stark was not loved. In connection with this news, another question arose. Should I save him, or not?
The answer was obvious. I was sorry, Tony, but this was your path of becoming. It was your baptism by fire, and you had to pass it yourself. In theory, I could pull him out, and I could possibly even do it without leaving my laboratory. But, objectively, it wasn't worth it. Besides Stark's favor, I would be unlikely to receive any tangible benefits. I would catch problems up to my neck, and I would violate the sacred canon of the Marvel universe. I would just send an anonymous tip about Obadiah Stane, after his return.
The next piece of news was about Victor von Doom's coronation. His father, Werner, had laid down his powers, and on October fifth, his son had ascended to the throne of Latveria. In his official photographs, he showed the classic image. He wore a heavy iron mask and a green cloak with a hood. He had become taller and more massive. Questions arose. The official answer was that an unsuccessful space expedition, which had been led by Reed Richards, had altered his physiology, and that the mask was there to hide the disfigurement. Reed Richards presented the Fantastic Four, and he proposed that cosmic energy could usher humanity into a new era. Ben Grimm looked like an exhibit in a freak show.
The comments reacted as expected. People were skeptical about the PR stunts. Others celebrated. The world reacted with a mix of awe and cynicism.
I glanced at the navigator, and I noted that we had about five minutes until our destination. We arrived at a service entrance to one of the office buildings in Midtown.
The perfectly white, acoustic ceiling of the hospital ward had been his universe. Dr. Stephen Strange thought, and he regretted. He dissected every second of his life with surgical precision. The mistakes had accumulated. One mistake, behind the wheel of his Lamborghini at a hundred miles per hour in the rain, had cost him everything.
The main impact had fallen on his hands. There was massive nerve tissue damage. The bones had been shattered, but they were fixable. The key nerve bundles in both of his hands had been torn and crushed. An eleven-hour operation and titanium pins had restored the functionality for household tasks, but they had left him with a strong, uncontrollable tremor. His fine motor skills were destroyed. A neurosurgeon's work required jeweler's precision. Any tremor at all would be the end of it.
The most humiliating part was the fact that nothing and no one in the world could help him. The level of American neurosurgery was the best, and he was at its very top. He thought of some names. There was Nikolai Rostov. There was Nikolai Burdenko. There was Alexander Konovalov. But he had had conflicts with some of them at a surgical summit. There was also Ho Yinsen, a brilliant surgeon in regenerative medicine, but he had disappeared. He could not rely on others.
There had to be a way to heal his hands. It had to exist. He would find it, at any cost.
//==============//
"Chapters on Patreon progress: Currently at;
1. Harry Potter: Satan? Nah, Just My Family Crest = CHAPTER 180
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3.Harry Potter: Beyond Good and Evil in the Wizarding World = CHAPTER 160
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