Solomon fully expected not to meet Stephen Strange on the first attempt—and he wasn't in a hurry.
If the car crash was to be Strange's first true failure in life, then Solomon had no issue introducing an earlier one—like appointing Christine Palmer to the hospital's administrative board and putting her in charge of Strange's medical program. Maybe, just maybe, it would chip away at the arrogance of this foolish narcissist. If not for the fact that Strange was the ideal, controllable candidate for the title of Sorcerer Supreme, Solomon would've preferred someone more competent, responsible, and intelligent. Rumor had it there was a certain private detective in London with exceptional deductive skills and a notably serious temperament (shhh). Solomon even had an old business card he'd once gotten from a cab driver—with a phone number that could reach that very detective.
And if that didn't work, there was always the Silver Key.
Solomon had already selected a backup for the next-next Sorcerer Supreme: a blonde girl named Illyana Nikolaevna Rasputina, a.k.a. Magik. What he was looking for wasn't just a Sorcerer Supreme—it was an assistant, someone who could help shoulder the future. Still, if he could help it, he'd rather not resort to cross-multiverse kidnappings. That meant he had to thoroughly assess Strange's aptitude and temperament before pulling him into Kamar-Taj through one of the secret channels, all while planting the seeds of responsibility in his mind.
But judging from the current state of affairs, it was hard to imagine this annoying man-child ever understanding the word responsibility. Which meant the car accident was necessary. The Ancient One would have to place the weight of suffering on Strange to forge him into something stronger. Solomon wasn't exactly a fan of hardship-based education, but he couldn't deny its effectiveness. Suffering tempers the spirit. "When Heaven is about to place great responsibility on a person, it first tests their resolve, exhausts their body, starves their flesh, and frustrates their plans—so that their will may be strengthened and their shortcomings corrected." Solomon didn't necessarily subscribe to that philosophy, but he had, himself, endured countless trials—mental and physical. Even one of the smaller examples, such as waking up before dawn for over a decade to train and study, required a discipline not many could manage. That was nothing compared to the burdens he'd taken on since. Just knowing the truth of his own nature—and remaining faithful to the principles taught to him by the Ancient One—was a burden few could carry.
The Sorcerer Supreme had never used any kind of mental conditioning or spiritual rewriting on Solomon.
In fact, with zero psychological preparation, the Ancient One had coldly laid bare every possibility of what Solomon could become. Some of those paths were grotesque to the point of physical nausea. Without Kamar-Taj's intervention, he might've gone insane from his stigmata, been devoured by beings from beyond, or thrown out of time and space entirely. Even if he had remained on Earth, he might have died in some unknown era—from starvation, from a bullet, or locked away in Saint Elizabeth's psychiatric hospital. Such knowledge would have broken most people—or twisted them beyond recognition. But for Solomon, it was like dust on a page—nothing that could shake his resolve or alter his behavior.
This psychological resilience was anything but ordinary. Nick Fury had noticed it from the start.
And Solomon knew it, too. This state of being was a prerequisite for the burden he intended to shoulder. He had to wear down his passions, strip away his personal desires—only then could he grasp the future he sought. There would be no cheerful, family-friendly happy ending. The world didn't run on a Disney script. Either way, he was off the clock. To hell with Stephen Strange. Solomon now sat at the dinner table of the witch's apartment in New York, leaving all the consequences of the Fimbulwinter battle behind the closed front door, patiently waiting for Diana to bring dinner to the table.
The witch, after Fimbulwinter, had finally shed her emotional baggage. The only lingering side effect? Heavy drinking.
By the time Solomon got home, half his liquor cabinet was empty. He had nothing to complain about. This was the only happy ending he could achieve across all timelines—and a few minor hangovers were a small price to pay. Before the main course was served, Jeanne handed him a massive glass of sherry and watched as he drank it down.
The next morning, Diana cheerfully changed the damp sheets, starting her most familiar routine.
But no matter how much Solomon wanted to leave the Fimbulwinter aftermath behind, the people he needed to deal with still came knocking.
"I've been looking for you for a while," said Tony Stark without preamble. "Anything you want to say about Kazakhstan?"
"Here? In a bar?" Solomon glanced around.
The bar was decorated in a retro style, dripping with the aesthetic of the '80s and '90s. Arcade cabinets and record players sat in the corners, and a dusty disco ball hung from the ceiling. This kind of rural Americana bar didn't see much foot traffic. Even the bartender looked half-asleep, wiping glasses with a filthy rag. Anyone with half a brain could tell that, without outside funding, this place wouldn't last. Solomon hadn't bothered to investigate the venue after receiving the invitation—but he could still guess that it had probably served as one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s old drop points or waystations. Even the bartender's body, beneath his clothes, was packed with muscle.
"In a bar full of agents with concealed handguns? I don't think whiskey pairs well with bullets. If you've come here to question me, I'll dig deep into my limited reserve of patience to answer. Just don't pretend this is some Christmas party. If I hadn't told my security detail not to clash with your goons, none of them would've walked out alive."
"Okay, okay—you're a big shot now, with bodyguards." Stark scoffed. "These agents were assigned by Agent Hill, not me. They're here for my protection. I don't care what you did, but I hope you understand the consequences. Do you know how many refineries had to shut down because of the earthquake? Kazakh oil prices are soaring. Do you realize how many lives you just upended?"
"I do. But it was necessary. At least they're still alive," Solomon said, not touching the glass on the bar. "As for your questions, my only answer is: no comment."
"What if I insist?"
"Then I'll officially ignore your request." Solomon massaged his temples. Last night's drinking had left a slight hangover—not too bad, especially after downing one of Bayonetta's ancestral hangover remedies. "The situation was bad enough to justify collapsing a mountain. Do you really think I'd tell you? Besides, I'm guessing you're only here because the White House pressured you, right?"
"You guessed it?"
"Let me ask you this—have you already made peace with the Rockefellers? Planning to co-develop a new energy initiative?"
"You can check the news for that."
"For someone from a financial dynasty, you're still painfully naïve, Tony Stark. This is all just the Rockefellers trying to figure out why their joint venture with Mobil Oil and the Kazakh ex-president's family got shut down." Solomon stood up and patted Stark on the shoulder. "You're getting worse, Tony. You want to atone for your sins, but those sins are far beyond what one man can repay."
(End of Chapter)
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