In case you need a Doctor, sir.

Name: Strange, Stephen

Nicknames: Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, Master of the Mystic Arts, crazy homeless guy with shaky hands

Age: 45

Sex: Man

Sexual Orientation: The ways of the Supernatural are numerous and facing a vast ensemble of directions. The Doctor is currently facing up North.

Origins: Stephen Strange was born in a small town, in Nebraska, grew up on a farm and had a normal childhood, studying hard to quench his thirst for money and recognition. Surgeon was a perfect job for him.

Abilities: The Ancient One had taught Strange numerous things. He had taught him the way of the mind, how to set fire to the falling snow, how to appease the spirits and how to summon the fearful Vishanti. He had learned to way of the body just like he had learned to use the supernatural entities, training in the foreign mountains of Asia, fighting demons from other dimensions as well with kicks than with spells. But, years after the death of the previous Sorcerer Supreme, Strange's most cherished learning was the one of humility, when, on that snowy night, the Ancient One had told him that the only way to cure his hands was to work within himself.

Anterior life: Sometimes, Strange looked at his hands. They were horrible, scarred beyond recognition, their shaking imperceptible for anyone who didn't know how deadly a small slip of the scalpel could be next to a human heart. There are but a few things he could remember clearly of his life as one of America's top surgeon, the greed of it all, how he bought houses after houses, cars after cars, wives after wives. He remembered the crash, though, the feeling of his soul seemingly leaving his body for a few moments, the sound of metal crushing flesh and bones. It hadn't hurt, not really. There had been only white noise and darkness.

Waking up had felt odd, his whole body feeling like one huge wound. Re-adaptation, the smiles that mixed pity and a fleeting indifference, anger, medication. Months passed by before somebody finally told him the truth he didn't want to hear. He could never operate again, not with that tremor that shook his destroyed hands. Strange remembered screaming.

The desperate search for a cure was something Strange had witnessed often as a doctor, but the horrible scrambling on the floor, the begging, the despair was something entirely new for him. They wouldn't cure him, not the scientists, not the doctors, not the impostors talking of mystical cures and the powers of his own mind. He was broken beyond repair, money flying away from his hands like a flock of birds, fixing up shot gangsters in the backroom of a shady dance club to get by. Strange remembered observing his now-useless hands, anger distorting his face, each cut and each severed nerve making him breathe kicker with rage.

His life had changed on a Wednesday. The middle-aged man he had finished patching up had remarked the tremor in his hands, something only but a few ever saw. He had given him a knowing expression shaking his head, talking of that lone man in the mountains, who could cure everything with a few words and a blast of light. Strange's rational mind had tried to dismiss the idea entirely but the thought had wormed its way into his head, and a few months later, he was flying to Tibet, to the mystical mountains, to find his cure.

The rest, was, well, history.

Motivations: The dimensions had grown quiet. No monsters from another dimension threatened to destroy the whole of reality, crossing the enchanted bridges between the worlds. Well, some of them did, but it wasn't something Strange could handle with a good seal over the portals and a little bit of kung-fu. The burden of Sorcerer Supreme didn't feel like an enormous weight on his shoulders anymore, and he didn't miss his other life anymore, didn't wonder too much about how the Old Man would have done things had he been alive.

He gave the man sitting before him a questioning glance. Nick Fury, head of SHIELD, felt so out of place, surrounded by books and magical artifacts in Strange's library. He hadn't touched the coffee the doctor had offered him, his expression serious and unmoving.

Strange sighed, gave a kick look to the tea leaves in his own cup. The omens were right.

“I'll accept your very kind offer, Director Fury.”

Philosophy and Eastern Religions. Teaching to the bright, young things who would shape tomorrow's world. Well, it couldn't be that bad.

(Em, yeah, not from the movie-verse yet, so have Voltaire's singer, he looks delightfully strange.)