The Bus, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s once-iconic mobile command center, had been temporarily brought out of retirement for this operation. Since the Helicarrier had become S.H.I.E.L.D.'s flagship during the Battle of New York, the Bus had been mothballed, awaiting a new purpose. However, the Helicarrier was off the table for this mission—deploying it during a non-catastrophic event was something the World Security Council wouldn't approve of. Nick Fury wasn't in the mood to argue with the bureaucrats, so he pulled the Bus out of storage. Its VTOL capabilities made it an ideal choice for this situation.
Upon returning to the Bus, Nick Fury got straight to work. Faced with a mountain of paperwork, he found himself regretting not bringing Maria Hill along. She was his most dependable assistant, but he had left her behind at Triskelion Headquarters to deal with the World Security Council's incessant questions.
"How's it looking?" Fury asked one of the medics onboard. "Any unusual findings?"
"None, sir." The doctor removed his rubber gloves and shook his head. "The so-called devil's spawn doesn't have horns, a tail, or even an extra appendix. Johnny Blaze, after reverting to human form, is back to normal—flesh and blood—but he's still unconscious. For safety, I've given him a hefty dose of sedatives. As for the boy's mother, Nadia, apart from a few scrapes and bruises, she's unharmed. That said, her emotional state is highly unstable. She insists on staying close to the boy."
"If you think that report's worth a fat paycheck, by all means, keep going."
"Blood tests are the Science Division's job. Samples have already been sent to them. I'm just an EMT." The doctor rolled his eyes at his superior. "I handle emergency care, sir, not miracles. And while I have professional ethics, I'll have you know I'm absolutely not prescribing you medical marijuana." With that, the doctor walked off, leaving Fury alone in his office.
"Damn it," Fury muttered, rubbing his temple. He couldn't stop thinking about Solomon Damonet. That damned mystic clearly knew something—he was waiting for Fury to come and ask, probably in a groveling tone. Only then would Solomon offer some tiny, useless morsel of information. The brat was sadistic like that. Fury shook his head, trying to stay awake. He hadn't slept at all on the Quinjet the previous night, staying alert in case Johnny Blaze woke up. If he'd known Blaze would sleep so soundly, he might've gotten some rest himself.
Damn doctors, won't even prescribe anything to help.
Damn drunken priest, whose only contribution so far had been providing an address!
Fortunately, Fury had struck a private deal with Solomon. The mystic hinted that the Inquisition backing Father Moru wasn't as mysterious as they wanted to seem. S.H.I.E.L.D. knew about them, as did Kamar-Taj. It's just that neither faction paid much attention to the Church's power. Compared to S.H.I.E.L.D., the Inquisition's influence in the secular world was negligible. And compared to Kamar-Taj, their spells—or divine magic—barely registered. Solomon suggested Fury prepare for the "purification" ritual at the location Father Moru had provided. The moment the boy boarded the Quinjet, Fury sent a message to a nearby base, mobilizing a large force to secure the area and detain the ascetics stationed there. Defensive positions were already being established.
That location, as Solomon had hinted, would also serve as the battlefield for the showdown with the devil. Fury could only hope that the mystic was as prepared as he claimed to be.
As for what the purification ritual entailed, Fury didn't know. While he believed in leaving specialized work to experts, every supernatural event had to be monitored by S.H.I.E.L.D. The entire process would be under their surveillance to ensure the boy wouldn't be harmed. This was a direct request from Agent Melinda May, who would personally oversee the ritual.
In fact, Fury had suggested taking the boy back to the U.S. for protection, either at a S.H.I.E.L.D. or military base. But Solomon had simply shot him a withering look. Fury admitted the boy wouldn't fare well in the U.S.—the military's approach would likely involve exploiting the boy's latent powers, which ran counter to Solomon's goals. The mystic wasn't concerned with the boy's fate; he was focused on purging the demonic bloodline to prevent the boy from ever summoning Mephisto. The military's meddling would only strengthen the boy, which was the last thing Solomon wanted.
"Is Solomon Damonet awake?" Fury asked when Agent May entered his office to report. "He's been lounging on that Quinjet long enough. If he's still asleep, drag him in here."
"He's been awake for a while, sir," May replied. "He's currently in the kitchen making breakfast. Looks like it'll take him a while."
"What?" Fury blinked in disbelief.
"Breakfast is eggs Benedict and French toast. If that's not enough, he's also making spaghetti with meatballs." May paused and offered her critique. "Tastes pretty good."
"He made breakfast and didn't invite me?" Fury fumed. "Fine, forget the distractions. I need Solomon Damonet. I need intel on these devil-worshipping henchmen of his. I don't know anything! I don't know who our enemies are, I don't know what's at the location we're headed to, and I don't know what'll happen if we fail. May, we're going into this blind, and that little bastard thinks he has everything under control! Fck! Fck!" Fury pounded his desk in frustration.
"Your enemies are just ordinary humans," Solomon announced as he strolled in with a large plate in hand. "That's it. The rest of the supernatural stuff—devils, demons, and their ilk—are my enemies, Kamar-Taj's enemies. We've been dealing with them for over a millennium. This isn't Mephisto's first attempt at causing chaos, and his fate is always the same—sealed by destiny. Want some spaghetti? It's the only carb-heavy food on your plane, and these meatballs were close to expiring."
"What about the eggs Benedict?"
"We're out of eggs," Solomon replied. "Here's one piece of useful intel: Mephisto's avatar is an ordinary human. Powerless. All he has are the King of Hell's legal rights—like the ability to sign contracts or open hell portals. Historically, every time Mephisto sends an avatar, he gathers his followers—dark creatures, cultists, and the like—to oppose Kamar-Taj. This time won't be an exception. But with the advent of modern weapons, ordinary humans will join the fray too."
"Thanks for the useless information, Solomon. Did a nap on some girl's lap boost your IQ?" Fury sneered.
Solomon glanced at May. "Is he always this much of an a**hole?" he asked.
May shot him a cold look and walked out without answering.
"I've sent May to find Father Moru. He might have more information," Fury said.
"Who's Moru?"
"The Black priest! For Christ's sake, don't tell me you didn't even ask his name."
"Hmph, I didn't ask, and he didn't tell me. But I figure anyone who can track down Johnny Blaze has some skills."
"Do you have to drink wine in the morning?" Solomon couldn't believe his eyes as Father Moru chugged from a bottle of red wine. When the priest picked up a cold meatball from the spaghetti with his fingers, Solomon finally lost it. "There's a fork right there! And hot tea! This is supposed to be your sober-up time. We need the Inquisition's intel on mortal enemies. Kamar-Taj doesn't deal with that—it's your job."
"There are a lot of them." Father Moru licked the tomato sauce off his fingers. "Good flavor. Fine, fine, I'll be serious. I recognize the armed group that attacked us, but they're dead now—your girl took care of that, mage. Of course, the devil's minions don't stop there. I don't officially document this stuff, but I've picked up a few things."
What Father Moru said next left both Fury and Solomon wide-eyed. Mephisto's earthly forces included everything from the Irish Republican Army to Chechen militants, from African warlords to South American guerrillas, from small-time street dealers to crime lords. Mephisto wasn't picky; if you could cause trouble, you were on his team.
At least these were all ordinary humans, well within S.H.I.E.L.D.'s capabilities. "At least we can call this counter-terrorism," Fury remarked. "That'll help us secure funding."
Solomon nodded solemnly, deciding not to mention that one of Mephisto's operatives was a junk food supplier. He had a soft spot for fried chicken himself.
"Is that all?" Fury asked Solomon. "What else do you know?"
"Vampires, werewolves—your usual dark creatures. They're definitely in Mephisto's ranks. Chicago was America's biggest vampire hub, but we took care of it. Romania has plenty of vampires too, but they stay hidden in the mountains. Funny thing—a few years ago, one of Kamar-Taj's stewards came across a fight between vampires and were
wolves. Apparently, it was over a human girl. Ridiculous." Solomon paused. "Then there are the demon-worshipping cults. Kamar-Taj's been busy clearing out other cults, so we've let these ones slide. I'll ask around later."
He also planned to consult the Sorcerer Supreme. The Ancient One undoubtedly had her own schemes in play; otherwise, the temple stewards would have shown up by now. Solomon was completely in the dark about her plans, but that was normal. The moment she signed her contract with Mephisto, the wheels of fate had begun turning. All he could do now was prepare for contingencies—or, perhaps, simply wait for the Supreme Sorcerer's carefully calculated timing to unfold.
"Director!" May burst into the office, her expression tense. "Two unmarked drones are tracking us! They may be armed with missiles."
"F*ck! How's the extraction prep coming?"
"Still over 100 kilometers out. The Quinjet's firepower won't be enough to handle two weaponized drones." May glanced at the room's odd assembly—a one-eyed spymaster, a drunk priest, and a teenage mystic with stubble just starting to show. Her lip twitched. "I'll handle it."
"Order the jets to escort us. Let's see who's dumb enough to pick a fight with us."
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