[h1][center][b]Dr. Strange[/b][/center][/h1] The simple pleasures of a shave and shower in his own place had been exquisite, enough to clear any lingering feelings of remorse of losing the title of Sorcerer Supreme. He didn’t doubt Wong’s capabilities, it was just that Strange had gotten used to the role, and adapting would be one more part of the adjustment of returning home. After he finished up and ate some breakfast, Strange spent the morning gathering some of his belongings, and then stopped by the foyer on his way out to say a temporary goodbye to Wong. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? Your room is just like you left it, and I’m sure there’s plenty you can do around here.” Wong said. “No, I’m good. I’ll leave my stuff there and I might pop in, but I want to get out of my comfort zone. It’s all too familiar here.” Strange said. “Alright, but just remember, you’re welcome any time.” Wong said “Sure, and I’m glad things have been going well while I’m out. I think you’ll do a great job as Sorcerer Supreme.” Strange said. “Thank you, It’s a great honor to have this responsibility. I just hope I can live up to the previous examples.” “I’ve only heard a little bit but it sounds like it’s going well so far. Any goals you’ve set for yourself?” “Well, I think comparisons between us are going to be inevitable, so I might as well work off of that benchmark. I’m aiming for the same amount of saving the earth; maybe a little less mess along the way.” “Fair. If there’s anyone I trust to do that it’s you. I’ll see you around.” Strange said as he stepped out the door. One of the old tricks of the Sanctum Sanctorum was that the back door would deposit someone on any street in Manhattan as long as you thought about it hard enough. That tripped up quite a few visitors, but for Strange it was just an easier way of getting to the library. He had four months worth of news to catch up on and some time to kill while he waited for his check-in at the hotel. Strange grabbed whole stacks of back issues of the newspapers and magazines from the periodical section and walked over to a table where carved out space for his pile. Even before he was trained in the mystical arts, Strange had a knack for reading quickly and remembering most of it; it was hard to get through a top flight medical school without that. The pages flitted by as he went through the events of the past quarter, as soon as he had finished reading one another floated over and opened itself, continuing the rapid pace. An animated pen filled up a scroll conjured from underneath his cloak with notes, half-muttered, half transmitted through telepathy. It was a symphony of activity around Strange, hyperfocused and devouring information with mystifying speed. The thrill continued until he felt someone tap him on the shoulder and suddenly it all paused. An old lady with a library ID badge had gotten his attention, and spoke in a voice that was trying to be firm but clearly startled “Ummm, sir I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take your activities elsewhere. You’re scaring our other patrons.” Strange looked up slowly and saw that everyone in the room, from those seated at the table to the ones just walking by had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at him, and made sure to give him a wide berth. While walking through Bryant Park after his unceremonious exit from the library Strange stopped by a news stand. He looked over the newspapers and magazines and bought a few different ones, even though all of their headlines were about one thing: Krakoa. He could tell it was a big deal when he was going through the back issues in the library, and even before he got inside he saw two rival groups holding rallies in the park. They were still there, just as determined as before. The pro-mutant side was clearly enjoying themselves; despite the signs they held it had the atmosphere of a celebration. Everyone on the anti-mutant was angry, whether it was simmering anger or blinding hatred varied from person to person. They chanted their slogans and alternated between glaring menacingly at the pro-mutant side and the cops manning the barricades separating them. Strange took a roundabout way to the subway station to avoid them. On the train Strange enjoyed a proper New York bagel for the first time in what felt like thousands of years. Interdimensional wars didn’t care much about good food. Part of the reason he was so focused on the present and catching up was because it let him block out memories of the war. It had consumed him so fully for so long that much of it melded together into one massive event. He wish he could say he had come out of it better, but there was nothing he liked about it now, not even the “gift” they gave him at the end, a glimpse of the future as a way of thanking him for his dedication. That one would take him time to unpack, like many prophecies it operated on multiple levels, he had seen images, heard words, felt auras and so much more. Examining it would be for another time. For now he just focused on his food and the copy of the New York Times he had floating in front of him, reading about the UN recognition of Krakoa. No one on the subway thought it wise to bother the man who could make a newspaper levitate. His room at the Hotel Chelsea was ready for him now. The clerk gave him a standard warning about how it was New York’s most haunted hotel, and Strange did his best not to laugh; while the clerk was talking he could see a whole host of malevolent spirits fleeing the premises, having realized who would be their new neighbor. Perhaps Wong could get one of the students to track them down before they found another place to haunt. Before he even opened the door he noticed someone had left a business card in the frame; oddly it was solid black, not a single mark on it. There was no magic residue at least, so Strange picked it up and filed it away as a curiosity. Traveling was easy with magic, even a small bag could hold an enormous amount and with the right spell it could pack or unpack itself. As soon as Strange was sitting down his record player had already settled itself and loaded a Mahavishnu Orchestra album, and the electric kettle was readying a cup of tea. He held the business card in hand and twirled like one of those cheap birthday party magicians, then came up with an idea as he supped on his tea. A spell let him see the past of the object, and with that he saw what had been printed on it before it was covered in black: The web address of a meal delivery service on one side, and a logo he had never seen before on the front, along with one simple phrase “We’d like to talk”. It could’ve just been an advertising gimmick, but Strange had a lifelong belief in meaningful coincidences, and filed the logo away in his memory as he set the card down. From the stack he opted to start with was a special issue of Time, “Krakoa: A Guide”. Most of it was basic, a lot of the profiles were of people who he had met personally, some of it was incorrect; overall it did help him learn about the power players and the features of Krakoan society. Strange kept reading and noticed a particular slant to the advertising, not a single slot was filled with the usual material about soft drinks and car brands. The most premium places had been taken by interests affiliated with Krakoa, the largest was an open letter from Xavier to the nations of the world, and further spaces were taken by the Hellfire Trading Company, the His Dream Foundation, Summers News and Media, and other mutant affiliated causes. All of it was glossy, well done, a little heavy on PR speak but clearly an earnest attempt to win the hearts and minds of the world, Human and Mutant alike. The rest of the ads were more numerous but less polished, and they all shared one feature: absolute opposition to mutants. It was impressive how every one seemed to come from a different group. Some of them tried to act highbrow, claiming to raise legitimate concerns about international law, world security, and human rights, couched in the sort of language common in the halls of power; those were credited to NGOs with little history and very generic names. Other ads came from groups aligned with old foes of mutantkind like the Friends of Humanity and the Church of Human Potential or new organizations like Facts and Logic About the Mutant Experience, and their content was downright vile. They featured headlines like “Magneto: From Nazi Collaborator to The Quiet Council”, “Decimation Wasn’t Enough: How You Can Continue Wanda Maximoff’s Legacy” and “The Genoshan Genocide: Mutant on Mutant Violence”. Whatever he could say about Krakoa, it had certainly given the anti-mutant groups a new sense of urgency. The next page made him pause. It was an ad that was vague about their intentions, just mentioning some conference on “safeguarding the human race”, but something struck him about the logo, which he had seen only once before: on the card left in his doorway. The only thing other identifying mark on the ad was the name of the group, listed in fine print near the bottom: Orchis. This inspired Strange to pause his reading, maybe pull out his aging laptop for some internet searches, but as he set the magazine down he saw something else that grabbed his attention. By chance the page of the magazine he left facing up was a profile belonging to Ilyana Rasputin, better known as Magik. They’d met before, but now seeing her photo triggered something inside his mind, it dredged up the prophecy he saw in the war, it made him relive those visions, and it explained a part of him. Now it was clear as day to him, he had seen Ilyana in the vision, she was at the center of it all. Outwardly he remained calm, standing, staring at the wall for minutes on end. Inside, all he did was go over the words of the prophecy again and again, repeating the poem in his head: “You Strange shall know earth's next sorcerer supreme None born human shall hold the title again All you know will be like water turned to steam Make straight their path, depart and find peace at the end of mankind's reign What more light, what glory shall be left for your eyes to ascertain Mankind draws near finality and sorrow Both you and they shall live without tomorrow”