faderift | open | if every constellation above us has a counterpart below.

WHO: Stephen Strange & you
WHAT: yet another new rifter arrival
WHEN: nowish and throughout his quarantine period
WHERE: Around the Gallows
NOTES: Catch-all spot for the month and to continue TDM arrival threads; feel free to tag in tho!

arrival (a variety of prompts).

It begins as an anxiety dream.

He’s experienced no end of nightmares about no end of trauma, but this time the stakes are banal: Doctor Strange is dressed sharply in a formal suit with a scarlet pocket square, giving a speech at a medical conference, standing at a podium staring at the hundreds of faces staring back at him, and finding that his iron-trap memory has suddenly failed and he’s forgotten his entire damned speech. It’s almost a relief when the enormous tentacled eyeball monster barges into the conference center, sending people screaming and scattering, and just as the Cloak of Levitation reappears around his shoulders, Strange finds himself —

somewhere else —

What ensues is a disorienting battle on the outskirts of Orlais, with a rifter appearing in anachronistic formalwear and a red cloak gone inanimate, with a conference lanyard hanging around his neck and a little adhesive nametag (‘DR. STEPHEN STRANGE, MD, PHD, NEW YORK METRO-GENERAL HOSPITAL’ now rendered in Thedan script). And in the fight, Strange realises that almost none of his magic behaves as he expects it to. It’s not the first time he’s found himself unexpectedly dumped in another universe, but this is the first time his own capabilities have failed him. Even after the battle ends, wraiths banished and his dream-monster killed, he keeps trying to light a spark of fire between his hands and finding it more difficult than it ought to be. On the carriage ride back to Kirkwall, with both him and the Riftwatch agents covered in horrid black ichor and gore from the eyeball monster’s innards, at least Strange has the decency to look a little sheepish while the other agents scrutinise him.

“Done this sort of reception a lot?” he asks, lightly, while he keeps unconsciously kneading at his left palm. His hand aches. This is normal. What isn’t normal is the green shard embedded in it like some kind of ethereal splinter, and it makes the usual pain in his scarred hands even worse.

Afterwards, during his quarantine, he can be found in the library at all hours, surrounded by stacks of books, devouring them even late into the night – he’s an avaricious student, and wants to learn everything about his new circumstances. He breaks the polite silence when a glob of hot wax from a candle lands on his wrist, and he curses with a sudden sharp “Oh, what the fuck.”

Strange goes for long walks around the Gallows. You might literally run into him where he’s crouched in a hallway in the lower levels, examining the cleansing runes embedded in the floor which prevent the growth of red lyrium, puzzling over the clearly-magical symbols, feeling that faint hum of magic in the back of his teeth. “Do you happen to know what these do?”

He also inevitably winds up poking his head into the infirmary, morbidly curious; one might walk in on him peering through the bottles of potions and jars of dried herbs, and surveying the surgical tools with a thoughtful little hm in the back of his throat.

wildcard.

feel free to toss me anything (late-night insomnia wandering the halls? new dorm roommates? mealtime in the dining hall?) and i’ll roll with it! or hmu @ quadrille to confab. i’ll match prose or brackets.

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Strange takes that moment of rest, grateful for it, catching his breath and waiting for that pattering heartbeat in his throat to calm down. Note to self: get better at the goddamn cardio.

But as he finally straightens and rejoins Julius on climbing that terminally-winding stairwell, his head whips to the side upon hearing that last tidbit. “Is that sort of common phenomenon common here?” he asks; a little sharp, a sudden attention-to-detail prickling in his words which shows it isn’t just idle curiosity. He’s been hungry to learn everything he can about this world, and this one’s a particularly juicy morsel.

“Because that sounds familiar. I was experiencing some— strange dreams, for a while. Someone far more experienced with multiverses told me that our dreams, our nightmares, are glimpses into alternate worlds. At least that’s how it works back home.” A beat, and now it is curiosity asking: “Did you see anything?”

"I did. Several of us did, though unfortunately, our memories of it were ... impressionistic after the fact." Broad strokes, not fine details. "I would say meaningful dreams aren't uncommon, precisely, but this was different. It was a large group of us in a shared dream space, which is rare. Mages can enter the Fade consciously and encounter one another there, but that's a different phenomenon."

He leads them toward his office. As they arrive, Strange can see the space is neat: clearly a working office, given the amount of books and papers, but they're arranged in orderly stacks. "Both of those dreams were Thedas, though. One an alternative vision of our present, with a change in the past. One a vision of a possible future, from the point in time the event occurred."

“Do you think it was a warning of some kind, steering you towards what to do? Mine was technically an alternative present— I saw myself dying, and I saw someone else I needed to help. Or was it more a cautionary tale: here, witness, this is how much worse it could have been.”

Strange is itching for someone to quote It’s a Wonderful Life to, but he bites back that pointless instinct — it does take effort, please applaud his self-control — and then he’s shifted his attention towards just admiring the office, the clean tidiness of it, inhaling the scent of ink-covered paper like an old library. It’s a comforting smell. “What sorts of things do you work on here?”

"A warning. It was explicitly designed as one; we were able to remember that much, compare notes. The possible future's nature was obvious enough in context; a glimpse at a world where Corypheus wins the war and those of us who survive at all are reduced to a tattered group of rebels. The alternative present ... we were told it was meant to emphasize some threats growing in the war's shadow, though I admit, from the little I remember of it, threats weren't a principle feature. Others had different dreams."

He sits, and gestures for Strange to do the same if he likes. The man's second question is easier to answer, if still somewhat complex.

"As for what I do, most of my time is taken up as the head of Project Sashamiri. We're trying to focus on counteracting what Corypheus can do, specifically. Research on red lyrium, his apparent immortality, his dragon. I can't say we ever lack for questions, though sometimes leads are thinner than I'd prefer. And," he gestures at a different stack of portfolios and books, "I'm also a member of the Diplomacy division, so I've work for that function as well. Writing letters, mainly, but occasionally some translation work."

“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?”

A bit wry, of the first observation: "Those of us who have lasted some time keep acquiring more hats." Whether or not it's an expression he would normally use, the meaning is clear enough. He leans back in his chair.

"Yes, they're open to Riftwatch personnel. I can point you toward them. May I ask if you were just curious, or if there was another line of thought or research pointing you toward them? Frankly, I'm always looking for a fresh perspective, even if you don't end up in the project proper. A lot of what we do is looking at resources from an increasing number of angles, hoping something new will click into place. It happens, sometimes, and other times I've just read the same set of letters a dozen times."

“Curiosity for now. As much as I like to think I’d have some bolt of genius revelation as soon as I read the paperwork, I probably won’t; I’m simply trying to learn more, to understand what and who we’re up against.”

Strange considers how to explain it. He hasn’t fully articulated the urge to himself, but it turns out he’s always like this when plunged into an unfamiliar setting: greedy, hungry, inhaling as much knowledge as he can, placing sticky fingers in a dozen pies and then processing whatever he can get his hands on.

“My last two enemies on this sort of scale, I knew who and what they were.” He says it as carefully as he can, but there’s a kind of delicacy in admitting the fact that he knew his enemy: like a splinter in his thumb, a lingering pain. He walks right past the topic, continuing: “Darkspawn, though, are flat-out new to me. And some ancient mythical king of darkspawn pulling the strings of national politics? Also new. That’s probably an oversimplification of the situation you’re facing, but still. I want to understand as much of it as I can.”

"I'm not any sort of expert, but I have seen regular Darkspawn up close. I'm happy to answer any basic questions, though you might find a Gray Warden would know more, given their training. As for Corypheus..." He indicates the neat but substantive pile of notes, letters and books on his desk and the shelves behind him. "It's what we've been working on. There's no precedent that we know of, even for those of us native to Thedas. So you're only a few years behind at worst, on that topic."

“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.

open | if every constellation above us has a counterpart below.

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ty for your ongoing patience

np i exist in permanent backtagging

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possibly closed; or yrs to wrap on them hunkering down to study together?