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STRANGE

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About a dozen years ago I was submerged in toxic run-off.

[ And did he get cool powers? Is this a Bruce Banner or Harley Quinn origin story? No. ]

I had sustained a wound that bisected my brow and eyelid and opened the conjunctiva. The injury became infected, and treatment has had some... side effects.

[ Oof? Oof. ]

Side effects that require treatment of their own? I'm not on staff here, but I can confer with the clinic or give you the names of the other medical staff in our situation working there to see that your medication's supplied. We've a registered nurse who should be able to administer for you.

[ Politely not reccing the services of the residents he hasn't spoken to yet. ]

That may not be possible. The treatment I was using was... specialized. One drop - weekly - cures most ills. More provides physical strength and speed, along with unfortunate mutations. Enough of it applied proactively can heal even fatal wounds. The chemist who created it called it Shimmer.

So you were micro-dosing with an unstable miracle drug.
Perhaps it's time to find a new prescription.

[ That's exactly correct. ]

I suppose we shall see what the clinic says.

Were you a practising doctor, before you came here?

No. I switched career paths a handful of years ago. Before that it was neurosurgery.

Left anything particularly riveting behind yourself?

I ran a city. I'll miss it very much - the city, not the running of it.

You ran a city.
As in... mayor?

Not quite. Originally Piltover was quite literally stratified; those born in the undercity toiled amidst toxic waste and poison gas to supply those who had built over our heads. The wealthy families on the upper city council passed laws, and their enforcers enforced them, and their wealth increased on the backs of our labour.

Violent revolution failed. So instead I united all the miners and factory workers, the street gangs and the desperate impoverished, and took economic power. The council called me an industralist, at first. When I made demands, that quickly switched to insurrectionist.

I imagine it did.

That's quite an endeavor to leave behind. A weight off? For all you'll miss the city.

Perhaps. My beloved daughter - the spraypaint enthusiast - is not exactly conductive to a restful holiday.

[ Ah. More shared worlds, close connections. There's a lot of that going around here. ]

Better to be worrying about a city than a daughter left to her own devices in it.

[ Bit taken aback by that, because it resonates. ]

Yes. Yes, that much is true.

If she doesn't have any luck tracking down the paint herself, she can get in touch. Dr. Stephen Strange.

Ah, that explains the name shown; I thought perhaps you simply considered yourself an oddity.

Silco, of Zaun. No house names for the undercity. My daughter is Jinx.

No, the shoe just happens to fit. I neglected to mention I'm a sorcerer.

I don't think I'll struggle to remember either of those.

Magic? Interesting. Is that an acceptable thing to be, where you're from?

Not historically. But I've landed on the right side of popular opinion for the most part.

Lucky you.

How's your magical chemistry?

Is this a prelude to you asking if I'll remake your mystery drug?

Could you?

Did you arrive with any at all?

Not conventionally.

Meaning there's still some in your bloodstream?

[ Smart man. Though he isn't thinking of his own. ]

Could you work with it, in blood?

	
		OSZAR »

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