“Many hats. I suppose you all just pick up whatever hodgepodge of duties that the war requires of you.” Strange draws up a chair, takes that seat across from the other man — like he’s sitting in an office for consultation, which still feels to odd to find here, but there’s something so familiar about it. (And, yes, he sneaks a peek at the spines of the nearest books around, the spidery writing on the papers.)

“I’ve looked a bit into the different projects. Trying to figure out how and where I’ll fit in. I’m I thinking might be better-suited to looking into rifts and anchors, considering,” he gestures with his left hand, splayed fingers around that heart of green, “that. For obvious reasons. But I find all of the topics interesting. And actually, if you’re Sashamiri—”

There’s a spark of recollection, an offhand mention which someone had dropped like a breadcrumb and which the doctor hadn’t been able to chase down yet. He leans a little forward. “I’ve heard there are some extant letters about Corypheus in the archives which we’re allowed to read? Are those still available for perusal?”