When news reports began covering the outbreak of yet another uncontrollable wildfire in Southern California, Solomon arrived at his destination without delay. A flurry of panicked chickens trampled through fallen leaves at his feet, instinctively attempting to soil his high boots. Covered in the dust of war, he pushed open the flimsy wooden door made from local timber and stepped into the old house built deep in the mountains. The homeowner did not protest his intrusion; instead, he calmly picked up a ceramic cup and kettle from a finely crafted wooden table and poured some liquid into the cup in silence, as if he had known all along Solomon would arrive at this very moment.
By the time Solomon sat down, the homeowner placed the brimming cup in front of him.
"As you can see, both the cup and the kettle are of my own making," the homeowner said in a rough voice. "Aside from wine, there's not much else that grapes can yield here. They're too bitter and too small—not even goats like them. They'd rather eat paper. In fact, the vodka here is better, but I've already drunk it all. After all, I don't like using magic to keep warm."
"Fine by me. I'm rather picky about alcoholic beverages. And by the way, I might have seen your goat—it's standing on the roof, clearly calculating how to take a dump on me once I step back outside. Damn goat. Probably because my motorcycle nearly hit it."
The homeowner poured himself a cup as well, his scarred face devoid of expression.
The room's only lighting came from the burning fireplace and a single desk lamp. There were no mirrors in sight, suggesting the homeowner had no interest in seeing his own face. The only reflective surface was an old television set in the corner beside a broken piano. The TV was connected to the roof antenna currently being trampled by the goat—clearly, it hadn't been used in a long time. Solomon could understand that. He had seen pictures of the homeowner in his youth; recalling that former beauty only made his disfigured face harder to accept. Solomon considered this the man's only weakness.
Not because he couldn't accept his disfigurement—but because he couldn't accept his past.
"By the way, I liked your tactics. Extremely precise missile delivery and siege artillery strikes. Faced with bunkers like those, using bunker busters followed by thermobaric and white phosphorus rounds results in maximum carnage." According to protocol, after breaching the granite and alloy-reinforced bunker rooftops with missiles, precise artillery fire would follow. The enemy was buried beneath shattered concrete and subjected to immense heat and pressure without ever glimpsing the faces of Fimbulwinter's First Secret Battalion soldiers.
It was precisely thanks to those two Gustav-class self-propelled cannons that the Eternal City hadn't needed to deploy all its manpower to assault the Skrull settlement. The troops moved in only to locate usable intel and potential prisoners, ensuring that the operation would leave behind no survivors.
"But what surprised me even more were your soldiers. Where did you find these people? Why are they all so fearless?"
"First, I've got a bit of money, and some technology. Second, they want redemption. They want to fight for humanity, not for politicians or oligarchs. So I found them. Then I combined that with some neurochemical treatments to dampen the brain's perception of fear, a few adrenaline-based stimulants, and a mixed combat drug cocktail. Even an untrained civilian can find the courage to face aliens and interdimensional entities."
"Lucky you," the homeowner muttered, glancing at the sorcerer. "Plasma weapons and nukes can erase most traces of war. Right now, the Southern California media still thinks it was a meteor strike that caused the fire—not your siege cannons, armored vehicles, or aircraft."
"Control the media, and you control public opinion. Old tricks, same results. Can't blame the world for being full of idiots. This isn't how I want things to be, but the U.S. will never publicly admit its airbase was attacked. One popular theory now is that it was a failed test of a secret military aircraft, which explains why the military is actively investigating the fire. That theory's dominating online discourse—everyone assumes that if the military's being this proactive, they must be hiding something. Maybe it's evidence of an unethical bioweapons program, or a record of some general's bribery—who knows?"
"I saw you deploying engineering equipment I've never seen before, within the visions cast by the Aether Currents. I also saw you walking through that door. But I still couldn't divine how you obtained those war machines. Ever since the Battle of Fimbulwinter, I've been casting divinations, and I've learned nothing. That's rare. I thought my prophetic magic was refined enough. The only explanation is that your security measures are exceptionally effective."
"In magic, I far surpass you—not just in divination, but across the board. You know it. That's an irrefutable fact. When you were still studying at Kamar-Taj, you practiced spells I invented, didn't you?"
"I also foresaw this conversation, Solomon. Even if prophecy and reality rarely match perfectly, I still think you're too idealistic."
"You don't have the right to judge me. Otherwise, you'd still be sitting in the Kamar-Taj library. You left before I even turned fifteen, but I still remember how you performed there. You were exceptional. So you should've known that after your defection, Mordo wanted your head more than anyone else. And you left too early—many things have changed since then." Solomon set down his cup and smacked his lips in distaste at the wine. "You really didn't poison the wine? That's a surprise. Still tastes like crap, though."
"As you can see, I'm broke. All I can afford is the local farmers' homebrew." The homeowner lowered his gaze. "If you wanted my life, I could at least make you pay a price. But wasting my only bottle of wine wouldn't be worth it."
"Since the Ancient One didn't want you dead, I won't kill you either. Though you already know this, I still need to say it—for formality's sake. I've come with an offer. I won't disappoint you, and I believe you won't send me away empty-handed." Solomon set down his cup and turned to face the homeowner's hideous face. His expression grew solemn, the joking tone from before instantly gone. The fireplace still crackled, the window remained open, but the air began to feel increasingly hot and oppressive. Though the homeowner's scarred face remained calm, his eyes gleamed with a strange light. He knew that what was coming next was exactly the kind of rhetoric that would go down in history. If possible, he would have liked to write it down—just to prove, when necessary, that his intellect had once outshone Solomon's. As a staunch Machiavellian, the subtle satisfaction of besting another brought him great pleasure.
Though he swore to correct this tendency one day, Solomon had already seized upon his weakness.
"I'm inviting you to join a long war—to defend humanity, to build a new order, to end our endless civil strife, and march toward the stars. To rule the galaxy. To establish human racial supremacy. To ultimately ascend as gods. Victor Von Doom, I need your brilliance."
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