"Sweet morning, huh? You bring breakfast to the witch's bedside, gently wake her up with your oh-so-tender touch—"
"Don't start, Stephanie."
"—and maybe even have a quickie after breakfast, while I'm up here on a private plane cleaning up after your apprentice. Bribery isn't even the hard part. That councilman? Dumb enough to buy off, sure, but exactly the kind of idiot who'll end up in a scandal. I had to start scrubbing the transaction records the second the deal was done. I even made a new deal with Citibank as soon as I got to the hotel. Do you have any idea what pulling an all-nighter does to your skin?"
Stephanie changed clothes right in front of Solomon. The two Sisterhood androids had already put on their pencil skirts or tailored suits, ready to accompany her into the White House. "What are you doing in Washington? If you need a fight, go hit up any bar in the city. Plenty of assholes there for you to smack around without feeling guilty about hurting the weak. Go pop a pill and screw some of them—but leave me out of it."
"I brought you a tonic—First Honeyflower. Guarantees a full energy refill, a thousand times better than those garbage energy drinks. Might even help you live to two hundred." Solomon took the brandy from one of the androids, nodded in thanks, and poured the potion into Stephanie's glass.
The daughter of Hydra, now fully dressed, walked over expressionless and took the glass from his hand. Solomon was sure she'd done it on purpose—making him wait just to punish him a little. But he found the gesture charming.
"I only came to D.C. because I've got a meeting today too," he said. "Didn't even know you were coming here until last night when you showed up at the apartment."
She gave him a long look, surprised that she hadn't known his schedule. But she was used to Solomon keeping secrets. As he often said, the right people knew the right things. If he thought she needed to know, he'd tell her.
"So are we heading back to the Eternal City together?" Stephanie took a sip of the potion-laced brandy, then raised an eyebrow in surprise. It actually tasted good. That couldn't be a coincidence—very few people cared about the flavor of alchemical potions, and even fewer used them in cocktails. Solomon was one of them. She'd heard all about it while researching in Kamar-Taj. A lot of sorcerers had been used as test subjects for his flavor experiments.
"Wow, not booger-flavored! I remember you gave Mordo a recovery potion once that tasted like nose mucus. He nearly exploded just telling the story. Anyway, my meeting should be over by three. Then I'll figure out whether that Saudi prince is a Skrull. After that, the assassin and interrogator take over. Our part will be done."
"No problem, my meeting ends before one."
"Wait." Stephanie stopped the archmage just as he opened the suite door. "That robe's not suitable for a meeting. Here's your tailored suit. Put it on and look sharp—I don't want to be embarrassed."
"I don't need this. My meeting's in a bar, not the White House. It's full of junkies, drunks, pedophiles, and racists... Shit, now that I say it out loud, I realize that's no different from the White House. You're right—I'll wear the suit."
Victor Von Doom let out a cold laugh, expressing his disdain for Solomon's wardrobe. "You wore a tailored suit to this bar? What, did you think this was some political mixer?"
"You're the one wearing the mask I gave you," the archmage replied, already overwhelmed by the endless cigarette smoke. Even so, he caught the unmistakable stench of urine under the bar counter. "Besides, we're going to a high-end gathering to steal something. Dressed like that, you'll pass as the janitor. Don't worry—I've got the invite. I'll handle the money."
"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Doom put down his glass, his face grim. "We're going to the CIA Deputy Director's family gathering. We've got one shot to find that document. I must know what the Americans did to my homeland. That bastard skimmed off the top—he took my people's sweat and blood. I want him to pay. I'll hang everyone in that profit chain—won't even spare the dogs. My people starved while their pets dined on Wagyu beef. And don't tell me you're one of those idiots who want him handed over to U.S. law."
"The law protects the weak. He's not. Not even those dogs are."
"Good. I knew you weren't a fool. Let's finish our drinks and get to work. To a successful partnership."
"Ahem. No magic. Remember? You're a defector."
"I don't need it," Doom replied icily. Solomon had shown him the Eternal City, persuaded him to consider partnership, but Doom still needed proof—proof that Solomon was serious about building something bigger. He needed to see that the Eternal City would really help his homeland thrive, take resources back from Western politicians, and give them to the people, just as they'd done in certain African cities. But Eastern Europe wasn't Africa. Any move like that would immediately attract attention.
Despite their public denials and rhetoric condemning racism, Westerners still viewed Africans, Middle Easterners, Latin Americans, and Asians as subhuman. Only blond-haired, blue-eyed people were "human." Wars in Africa, the Middle East, and Asia were just images and headlines—meaningless to them. Many still believed things like "They're not Christians, it's God's punishment." That was their real mindset. They just didn't dare say it aloud. And if they ever made a mistake? Off to a Baptist church for a holy bath and boom—they're reborn saints.
Victor Von Doom was one of the rare people Solomon could truly rant with about the idiocy bred by Western propaganda. After this job, their bond would be more than just tactical. In fact, Doom had already spoken with Solomon multiple times about Latveria's future development. "Food, defense, energy, metallurgy, banking—all must be nationalized. If we seize Western assets, sanctions are inevitable. Our production can't sustain the blow. Not even the Eternal City can feed so many. Solomon, your ideals are grand—but the Eternal City is still too small."
"What if… what if I already have a food base and hydroponic farm?" Solomon downed the last of his beer and gave Doom a slightly smug look. "You think I didn't prepare? My scientists have already selected optimal genetically modified crops—high yield, pest resistant. Perfect for your people."
"I didn't see any farms in the Eternal City," Doom replied, his mask faithfully mirroring his skepticism. It was a gift Solomon had sent via silver messenger dove—a little token made with tech stolen from S.H.I.E.L.D. "Even if you start now, it's too late. We move in one hour!"
Solomon loved watching Doom overthink things. But before Latveria's future monarch lost his temper, he decided to drop the bomb.
"I never said my farm was on Earth," Solomon said. "My farm is on Mars."
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