“Cool. Coolcoolcool,” Strange says at the prospect of even the locals not knowing much about the local darkspawn king; and there’s a peculiarly snappy modern-Earth quirk to his voice and sarcasm which sounds, for a fleeting moment, very Tony Starkesque.

But then he’s sliding forward in his seat, drawn to those stacks of books and paperwork like a moth to the flame. “Alright. Working the problem. Fill me in on what you’ve got.”

Information was key, as far as he was concerned. Even Thanos, for all his eyewateringly incomprehensible power, had had gaps in the armour. He had bled. Wanda had almost brought him to his knees on her own. And Strange reminds himself that Corypheus can’t snap his fingers and rewrite all of reality at his whim — so if he’d seen an army take down the Mad Titan, then surely Corypheus, too, can someday be defeated.