Nick Fury nonchalantly patted the black leather jacket now covered in chalk dust. His one good eye gleamed, flashing like someone high on hallucinogens. He strode out of the abandoned building, stopping beside an empty trash bin. The junkies inside had nothing—not even garbage—because they used everything they could get their hands on to trade for drugs. Some even resorted to collecting the urine of fellow addicts living in the same building. Fury had witnessed it more than once—when withdrawal hit, addicts were no different from animals.
The neighborhood where he grew up had been cursed with opium, morphine, heroin, LSD, cocaine, and weed, swirling in the air alongside anti-war culture, hippies, and the refuse of society. Some Americans blamed the Chinese for the opium problem, the Black community for cocaine, and the Mexicans for weed. But even as a child, Fury had understood the truth—addiction had nothing to do with race. It was purely a matter of individual will.
That was why he had fought to escape that neighborhood, enlisted in the Vietnam War, and eventually became a spy.
In a way, he had broken free from the fate that so often befell Black men in America—dying on the streets from an overdose or getting shot by the police.
"I'd bet my life that what S.H.I.E.L.D. has done has made the world a better place. But we can't save everyone, and we can't completely eradicate drugs. That's not within S.H.I.E.L.D.'s jurisdiction," he said loudly. "I'm standing here in a place neither satellites nor surveillance cameras can detect. Won't you step out of the shadows and talk to me?"
"It's not that you can't do something about it—it's that you won't. Stop making excuses. Without drugs, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s budget would get slashed. Just like the CIA's black budget, isn't that right?"
Solomon emerged from the darkness, grimacing at the stench of excrement and vomit that covered the ground. Carefully, he tiptoed past used syringes and filth, then raised an eyebrow at Fury, who stood bathed in moonlight.
"The people in that building gave everything they had to build your Helicarriers. Shouldn't you at least thank them?"
"I already told you—I had no knowledge of Hydra's involvement in the past."
"Alright, alright, I'm not here to listen to that," Solomon said impatiently, waving his hand dismissively. "I want to know where you've hidden the green-skinned aliens."
He continued, "From what I know, the Skrulls haven't found a new home yet. That means they're still breeding somewhere on Earth. So tell me, Fury—where are the Skrulls?"
"Do you really refuse to trust any aliens?" Fury locked his single eye onto the sorcerer. "Even if they come in peace? What about the Asgardians? I don't see you raising your sword against Thor."
"I don't have a choice. Legally speaking, we're a vassal state of Asgard. At least for now, Earth doesn't have to pay taxes, thanks to the Ancient One. And besides, I have raised my sword—you just didn't see it. When it comes to defending humanity's sovereignty, Kamar-Taj bends the knee to no one."
Solomon's voice carried a heavy nasal disdain. "This isn't about whether aliens are friendly. The Skrulls' species traits and origins alone are reason enough for me to exterminate them. And the Skrulls you see now? They're merely the result of genetic stabilization. Let me tell you a little secret—one that those green shapeshifters would never share with you.
"In their religious prophecy, Earth is destined to be their race's place of rebirth. Every single Skrull on this planet is a fanatical zealot, worshiping Kl'rt and other Skrull gods. Of course, those gods are long dead—slaughtered by the Asgardians."
Fury stared at Solomon, saying nothing.
"Only an idiot would trust the Skrulls. Whether they seem friendly or not, they are a species that simply cannot coexist peacefully with humanity—or with any race, for that matter," Solomon declared. "I know you have a way to contact them. Now tell me—where are they?"
"What did you drive here in? Or did you use a portal?" Fury abruptly changed the subject.
Solomon accepted the shift in conversation with amusement. To him, Fury was just being stubborn, trying to regain some dignity before answering.
"I rode a horse."
He whistled, and from the shadowed corner of the street, a massive black Shire horse stepped forward. Standing at nearly two meters tall at the shoulder, only a horse of this size could match Solomon's stature.
"This is Dickens—the first horse from my estate's stables, and also my most ordinary horse," Solomon said. "I can't exactly ride Pegasus for casual outings, can I?"
"Solomon…" Fury sighed. "I need them. And I don't trust the Skrulls completely, either."
"I know. But what good does that do you? Your personal caution won't change what the Skrulls are," Solomon said as he took the reins and mounted the horse.
The magnificent beast snorted, clearly displeased with the squalid environment.
"You're going to gather them, aren't you?" Solomon continued. "That's your last card to play… probably. Right now, they're the only ones left who will work with you. Since you won't tell me where they are, I'll just wait for you to bring them together. Skrulls, once separated from their larger species network, are not a threat."
"I can get them off Earth. The World Security Council doesn't know the locations of every S.H.I.E.L.D. base. I can give you that information. I know you won't use those bases, but they contain archives of old S.H.I.E.L.D. data. I think you'll find them useful. In exchange, let me take the Skrulls."
"Good. You've bought yourself a little more time," Solomon said as he lightly tugged the reins to the right.
Dickens lazily turned in a circle and stepped through a portal. The horse had long since been bullied into submission by Pegasus—who was taller, stronger, and had an even worse temper.
"Make it quick. My patience isn't great."
As the swirling sparks of the portal's magic faded, Fury pulled out his phone and made a call.
"It's handled, Agent Romanoff," he said grimly. His face was even darker than the night surrounding him. "Agent Hill will issue your orders moving forward. She'll take over command. I'm going off the grid—somewhere not even Solomon can find me. No, don't worry. Even if our Hydra operations get exposed, it won't be too much of a problem. Keep an eye on Coulson's team instead.
"Solomon is far too interested in him. That's not normal. I don't believe he would waste his time on something meaningless."
Natasha Romanoff ended the call and looked up at Solomon, who sat behind his desk.
The massive black horse occupied nearly a quarter of the office space—and was now trying to take a bite out of some parchment.
"Nick Fury is leaving Earth," she said.
"I know," the sorcerer replied, playfully winking. A slight smile graced his sculpted, flawless face. "And I know exactly where he's going. Fury always thinks I don't know what he's up to. But I always know. Prophecy only gives fragmented visions, but what I did just now was analyze the key factors necessary for that future to happen—then nudge events along at the right moment."
"Are you really going to let those aliens go? Or Fury, for that matter?"
"Fury is useful," Solomon said with a grin. "And what he's about to do is exactly what I want him to do.
"I win again. And he knows it, too."
Natasha suddenly tensed.
"Where's your maid?" she asked, alarmed.
The artificial being who never left Solomon's side had vanished without a trace.
That sent a bad feeling creeping up her spine.
"She's taking care of something," Solomon replied casually. "I expect she'll be back in about two hours."
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