Your name is Stephen Strange and your life is perfect.

You work at a prestigious hospital. You are considered the best in your field. There is a waiting list a mile long of people who want you to work on them.

You are respected, revered, practically worshipped. When you stride down the hallways of the ICU, people move to let you pass. You hear them whisper as you walk by: There's Stephen Strange. He saved another life last week. How many is that now?

You have a perfect record. You have never lost a patient and you never intend to. You do everything in your power to make sure of that; you have never taken a high-risk case. And it makes sense, you think. There is only so much of you to go around. You have to be selective about who you accept, because you can't accept everyone.

So you strike a deal with your assistant. You preview every case that comes your way to make sure that it is worth your time. If it isn't, you pass it along. The less-experienced surgeons are always thrilled to be given a patient by you. They think it represents your approval.

They are wrong. You simply don't care enough to spend your time on a simple, easily-fixed brain tumor. There are more interesting cases waiting for you. Ones more worthy of your talent.

And you are talented. Extremely so. No one can ever deny to you that you are skilled. You take pride in this, because even your naysayers are forced to admit your superiority. No one can say that Stephen Strange is not good at what he does.

You are the one that the less-experienced surgeons come to when they have a problem with a patient. Sometimes you listen, if it interests you. More often, you don't, because the answer is obvious and boring. You tell the hopeful surgeon to ask someone else, because you don't have the time. You suggest Nick. Nick needs some more padding to his reputation, you think. He will gladly take the less interesting cases from you.

Nick, for some reason, does not like you. But you ignore him. He never holds your interest for very long.

You are on the list of 'Most Eligible Doctors' that the females of your profession have made in their free time as a joke to each other. You don't bother hiding the fact that you know. It makes getting what you want easier, when all you need to do is make eye contact and smile. You get twice as much vacation time that way.

You also get Christine. At least, until she leaves you. But you still see her, every day in the ICU. She is friendly with you, and you respond in kind. You are still attracted to her, but decide not to push. She will come back, you reason. There's no reason for her not to. But you know that she is stubborn and chasing her will only serve to make her more determined to stay away. You also know that she still holds a candle for you. You will give the candle time to burn, you decide. Eventually she will need someone to put out the flame, and you will be right there to provide the relief.

Your home is a penthouse flat. Your windows overlook the skyline of New York. You own a grand piano and a fully tailored wardrobe. There are three cars in your garage, each more expensive than the last. Your watch collection could give Tony Stark's a run for his money.

You spend your evenings sipping imported wine and admiring your art collection.

People invite you to speak, at conventions and gatherings of other, high end doctors. You always accept, unless it suits you not to. Sometimes the topics simply don't interest you, or the people you would speak to simply aren't on the same level as you. When you do speak, the room is always packed. You receive standing ovations at the end.

You are brilliant. A genius. You have a nearly perfect eidetic memory and you learn faster than anyone else you know. At some point you ran out of things that interested you, so you turned to music. You have created a game to play during operations. You have not been wrong once.

People envy you. You let them. You would envy yourself too, if you weren't already you. Your life is perfect.

You are invited to speak again. You scan the guest list, peruse the topic of the night. You approve. It seems to be worth your time.

You select your suit, your watch, your car. You drive down the twisting road. You ignore the speed limit. The car you are driving has an engine with 750 horsepower. It is a shame, you have always thought, to drive slowly in such a machine.

Your phone rings. Your assistant has sent you the next batch of possible patients. You take your eyes off the road and scan the images he attached.

You do not see the car coming the other way. Due to the steep curve in the road, the other car does not see you either.

Your name is Stephen Strange, and in the span of sixteen seconds, your life falls apart.

...Yeah. Technically, it IS in second person, but it wanted to be! I swear, I tried to write it another way and it just kept coming back to this, and...

I'm very sorry. Just, nobody tell the moderators and everything will be cool, okay? Okay.

That said! Yes, this is kinda a novelization of the movie, but I'm gonna be going very in-depth to Stephen's thoughts and reactions and I'm going to be taking the plot on a little spin of my own once we get past canonically established events. So hopefully, it should still be interesting. I've tried very hard not to be the person who word-for-word writes out the script of something and calls it a story when there's nothing original about it, so here's hoping I succeeded.

So, review if you want, Follow if it suits you, and even Favorite if you think it's worth it. I never know what people will like about my writing until they do, anyways.

And hey, maybe I'll even manage a regular update schedule this time. These chapters are fairly short, so what do you all think about Mondays and Fridays?

Changeling