The old man was delighted, because in a sense, Doctor Strange had a deep connection with him.
He took Doctor Strange's hand and began asking him this and that, as though the curly-haired mage with the mustache were his own son.
Such warmth made Strange, who had spent so long amid ice and snow, somewhat uncomfortable. Alone here, his only amusements had been playing video games online or arguing with people on BBS forums. Now that there was suddenly another living person, and one so overly familiar, it gave him the creeps.
But since Master Deathstroke had said this was a guest, he should treat him properly.
"Married?"
"No."
"Got a girlfriend?"
"No."
"Any apprentices? How much do you make every week?"
"No apprentices. It's not like I have any use for money."
The old man asked questions like these all along the way, as though he knew other Stranges, and the differences between them had stirred all sorts of curiosity in him.
After every question, he muttered to himself, whispering things like, "Strange," "That shouldn't be," and "The story's wrong."
That left Doctor Strange even more speechless.
The flying carpet headed slowly toward the ruins. After all, they had to consider what an ordinary person could endure. They passed countless shattered walls and broken structures, but the blood from long ago had already been buried beneath the ice and snow, nowhere to be seen.
Strange, having been bombarded with mundane questions the entire way, wore a dark expression. He wanted to tell the old man that after joining Kamar-Taj, he no longer had any worldly desires. As long as he could smoke, drink, and get his hair permed, he would gladly serve the Sorcerer Supreme for generation after generation.
Fortunately, the little ice house was not too far from