After getting up from the couch, Solomon picked up his phone and sent a text message.
Natasha Romanoff ducked carefully around the corner of an alley, her back against a dusty yellow wall. From beneath the full-body black cloak she wore, she retrieved her phone and glanced at the screen—then clenched it tightly and cursed under her breath. She knew Solomon couldn't sit still, and she hadn't known a thing about the Skrull settlement. Now Solomon was informing her only so she could gather intelligence within the Avengers about their reaction to the attack.
Setting aside how shocking this explosive piece of intel was, she barely had time between missions to keep tracking the Winter Soldier, much less take on this new assignment. Peeking out from the shadows to confirm that her surveillance target was still browsing a market stall, she lowered her head and began to reply. "Let Wanda handle this mission," she typed, pausing between each word. "She can do it."
Solomon replied almost instantly—six separate messages, with each word appearing one by one.
"Wanda has a job to do."
"Fuck you, Solomon!" Natasha growled quietly. As if on cue, another three words popped up on the screen.
"You are welcome."
She looked up and caught sight of a surveillance camera mounted above the door of a building across the street. Then she glanced down at the phone manufactured by the Eternal City and sighed. Natasha dialed the number. "Fuck you, Solomon! You're spying on me!"
"Ever since the Skrulls officially became a threat, this has been standard procedure."
"What's Wanda doing? I doubt you'd let her run around freely—she's your apprentice."
She gestured to her informant to continue tailing the target.
She had spent a small fortune turning someone close to the Winter Soldier. If this surveillance mission failed, not only would it waste all that money, but her chance of locating him again would slip through her fingers.
"Sorry. That's classified," Solomon said, feeling himself sinking comfortably into the plush couch cushions.
On the laptop in front of him were both Natasha Romanoff's current location and surveillance footage, as well as a report from the Eternal City's psychological analysts on Skrull facial expressions under interrogation. He was processing both streams of data simultaneously with practiced ease.
"You don't get to know what you're not supposed to know." He pressed the mute button and switched to another communication channel. "Ms. Jones, we need to determine whether Skrulls can still lie after being administered the interrogation serum. You have authorization to access the cross-examination facial footage, as well as the software engineer and bio-lab reports on Skrull physiological resilience."
The so-called interrogation serum wasn't anything rare—it was even used in testing at the Eternal City Academy. Of course, the dosage used in training was far less than in actual interrogations. Solomon didn't want his carefully cultivated students turning into vegetables.
Ms. Jones, the psychological analyst, was a young blonde woman whose expression was both proud and cruel. If Diana List ever heard her voice, she might recognize her as the one who had dragged her into the interrogation room while clad in black-armored body gear. The Eternal City had recruited her from among captured CIA Middle East operatives—through captivity, torture, and conversion. Jones herself suffered from mental illness, and the Eternal City had promised her experimental psychiatric treatment. That, along with the formal transfer of custody to the Royal Guard, had made her agree. Some experiments even the CIA wouldn't openly authorize—but the Eternal City had the resources and knowledge to allow it. The agent in charge had received her request, and with Jones' willingness to seek treatment, everything had fallen into place. She had military experience, no family, and had been listed as KIA in the CIA database. No one would come looking for her. She was, in essence, the perfect full-time operative.
"Is Wanda's mission really that dangerous?" Natasha asked. "Did you uncover another major threat?"
"I believe she can handle it. She's undergone professional training. My training," Solomon emphasized as he pressed another key. "Ms. Jones, I need your experimental report within four days. Time is tight. Thank you for your contribution—without it, we wouldn't have extracted so much intel from the Skrulls."
"My honor, my lord," Ms. Jones nodded, ending the video call. She had never seen Solomon's face; the video call had been conducted through a 2D virtual avatar rendered with motion capture. Simply put, Eternal City staff below a certain clearance level—even if granted a video meeting—were never allowed to see Solomon directly. Only his public "costume" identity.
"But I can't just act immediately every time I get bombshell intel, Solomon." Natasha frowned, squinting to shield her eyes from a sudden gust of wind and sand. "You attacked an Air Force base—do you even realize what that means?"
"Yes, I attacked a U.S. Air Force base. So what? I've got plenty of nuclear weapons and delivery systems that the U.S. can't intercept. Do you think that if I stood up and dropped a high-yield hydrogen bomb on Washington, other countries wouldn't call me a 'defender of world peace' or a 'partner in space exploration'?" Solomon's tone was full of disdain. "You've got forty-eight hours. After that, the plane takes off. If you want to resolve this properly, you're authorized to fire one missile."
"I'm not insane enough to bomb civilians!" she hissed, keeping her voice low. The local environment was not friendly—especially for English speakers. She didn't like killing the innocent, but avoiding trouble was impossible.
"Neither am I. So what are you waiting for?" Solomon ended the call, giving her no chance to argue. He shrugged at the witch beside him. "Just work. Nothing important."
He skillfully picked up a bottle of nail polish and began painting Jeanne d'Arc's nails. He had handled this task ever since he'd learned oil painting—choosing polish colors for both Jeanne and Bayonetta. Otherwise, Jeanne would wear deep red forever, and Bayonetta would always go with black.
"Once Jeanne's nails are dry, we can have dinner."
"You promised not to bring work home," the witch said from atop the sofa, looking down at Solomon's head. Though her tone was sharp, Bayonetta wasn't truly angry—compared to the past, Solomon was spending far more time at home now. Sometimes, official duties of the Eternal City were delegated entirely to alchemical golems, while he lounged in bed with her all day.
"Next time, I promise," the sorcerer surrendered instantly, expertly shifting the subject. "Wanda's almost done with her mission. Should I bring her home for dinner?"
"Now? Is the Ghost Rider that easy to deal with?"
"I beat that skeleton before I was even of age. Wanda can definitely handle him."
"Hoo!" Wanda let out a long breath, watching the flames on the skeleton lying on the ground begin to sputter out. Ghost Rider wasn't an easy opponent, but this one had only just started out—still in the phase of chasing mobsters through back alleys, and he didn't even know how to properly use his flames yet. She'd taken some time, but managed to bring him down. "Don't get back up!" she shouted at the Ghost Rider, now pinned beneath a car. "Unless you want me to beat you again. You wanna sunbathe, you idiot?!"
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