It really doesn’t bode well. Normally the novices are meek little mice, scuttling around underfoot, outright terrified whenever they’re addressed directly by one of the full-fledged sorcerers. Even moreso when it’s Stephen Strange; Wong, at least, has spent more time here and is well-liked around the Sanctum, and they don’t mind dealing with him. Whereas Doctor Strange is acerbic and he’d been missing for five years. They naturally prefer the other one.
But now there’s an indefinable tension in the air, the sensation of an indrawn breath.
Strange is standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Mobius, and doesn’t that feel unusual, too— normally he and Wong are the united front, the team, the partners—
Wong’s questions are good ones, though. If this universe is real.
“I’ve asked you a few times about the temporal anomaly,” Strange says, a non-sequitur, his tone deceptively light, “and you’ve never given me a satisfactory answer. You’re usually so eager to explain things to me. And yet, no working theories or curiosity into how or why Midtown’s split between two different decades? Normally that’s something the Masters of the Mystic Arts would be very interested in. So I have a hypothesis.”
Wong’s mouth thins even further. “You’re losing your mind, Strange, if you’re doubting your own reality. You merely crossed universes, and then came back. You’ve done it before.”
The novice has put down the book she was shelving. Wong is on his feet. Not good.
Strange adds, “And to answer your question, Wong: you’re Sorcerer Supreme here. Your duty is to this reality, if this is reality. Me, I like to think my scope has broadened. I have a responsibility to other worlds too. And,” oh, there’s the rub, “shouldn’t you be worried about an incursion if they stay?”
no subject
But now there’s an indefinable tension in the air, the sensation of an indrawn breath.
Strange is standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Mobius, and doesn’t that feel unusual, too— normally he and Wong are the united front, the team, the partners—
Wong’s questions are good ones, though. If this universe is real.
“I’ve asked you a few times about the temporal anomaly,” Strange says, a non-sequitur, his tone deceptively light, “and you’ve never given me a satisfactory answer. You’re usually so eager to explain things to me. And yet, no working theories or curiosity into how or why Midtown’s split between two different decades? Normally that’s something the Masters of the Mystic Arts would be very interested in. So I have a hypothesis.”
Wong’s mouth thins even further. “You’re losing your mind, Strange, if you’re doubting your own reality. You merely crossed universes, and then came back. You’ve done it before.”
The novice has put down the book she was shelving. Wong is on his feet. Not good.
Strange adds, “And to answer your question, Wong: you’re Sorcerer Supreme here. Your duty is to this reality, if this is reality. Me, I like to think my scope has broadened. I have a responsibility to other worlds too. And,” oh, there’s the rub, “shouldn’t you be worried about an incursion if they stay?”