Solomon spent two minutes debating whether he should call himself a "philanthropist," then waved for Royal Guard No. 0 to go clean the Wakandan black cat's litter box. He decided it was time to clock out, and that thought alone perked him up. The most hectic phase had passed; everything was progressing on schedule. The Eternal City's output could just barely meet demand, and logistical support for both sky and sea carriers was stable. All he had to do now was supervise.
"My lord, shall I begin transferring your consciousness back to your original body?" No. 0 asked.
"What a silly question. My alchemical golem is still at Oxford!" the arcane sorcerer replied with a playful wink. "It's not like I'm learning anything anyway—I'm just there for the degree. And the golem doesn't work the way you think—it's an automaton with a fragment of my personality, remotely piloted by my soul. I still need to upgrade it so it can write my papers automatically."
"Lady Miranda Minerva may object to that. I doubt your alchemical golem can fool her."
"My dear foster mother won't mind a little mischief." Solomon looked like he was about to revert to his tea-sipping, humming self again. No. 0 was long used to his master's multifaceted nature. One moment he'd be cleaving through enemies with a longsword, and the next—still streaked with blood—he'd be cracking jokes. To those unfamiliar with Solomon beyond his deeds, he seemed like nothing more than a tyrant trampling human rights and social order, showing no respect for life.
In fact, he was precisely that—according to a psychological profile by a CIA analyst. A middle-aged white male, probably a Vietnam vet. It was this portrait that led the CIA to suspect the Langley airbase attackers were disaffected Vietnam or Afghanistan veterans. They had found nothing linking any suspect to the Eternal City. Only then did Solomon realize where all the CIA's funding went—clearly, today's CIA was not the Cold War-era intelligence juggernaut it used to be. Rampant nepotism and corruption had rendered the agency incompetent. In the Eternal City, such failures would be met with immediate execution—no trial required.
Royal Guard No. 0 shut off the floor-to-ceiling screen that had been looping peaceful countryside scenes. The meeting room dimmed, now lit only by the desk lamp before Solomon. The entire space seemed to plunge from the surface into a sunless abyss. No. 0 pressed another button; the central air system cut off circulation. The layered curtains stopped fluttering. The room became silent as a tomb.
"If you're at leisure, could you train my swordsmanship?" No. 0 asked. "Your standard for the Royal Guard is proficiency in a hundred weapons. I'm not there yet."
"I suppose I could, child. Grab your blade and wait in the arena. I need to have a word with Sophia. She's starting to act more like a mafia boss than a soldier."
"You tasked her with handling war dogs, my lord," No. 0 replied. "If we were recruiting South American insurgents, it would be better. Their combat skills are awful, but they're enthusiastic. U.S. veterans from the Afghanistan War are millennials. I don't expect them to care about war or ideals. They want money."
"So it's my fault, then?" Solomon grinned. "You dare speak to me like that?"
"You instructed me to serve as your advisor—and to speak frankly."
"Good boy. Keep thinking like that." Solomon nodded with satisfaction. No. 0 was right. He'd wanted well-trained soldiers, but the current geopolitical climate made that difficult. South American rebels were largely backed by the U.S., while government forces were anti-American—proxy wars fighting over resources. Still, No. 0's reminder brought someone to mind. Solomon decided to make a long-overdue call.
"Head to the arena. I'll be there in ten minutes. But I'm adding five auto-guns loaded with salt rounds."
"I think you're holding a grudge and abusing your authority." No. 0 laughed, then got smacked upside the head. His body, augmented through costly alchemical gene modification using Solomon's own adjusted genome, had gained fragments of Solomon's strength. He was physically and cognitively enhanced. Dodging five crisscrossing machine-gun barrages was challenging—but doable.
As the armored doors closed behind No. 0, the Sisters of the Eternal City's security team cast him brief, resentful glances. Solomon activated the projection table's communication system and pulled up a contact. He believed this method would still reach the man.
"Good morning, Agent Coulson. I trust your Inhuman problems are resolved?" Solomon said with a breezy tone. "I'm calling to ask for someone."
Agent Phil Coulson looked shocked.
He had assumed that after the Inhuman incident, Solomon would no longer contact his small team.
"Don't look so surprised. This isn't kindergarten. Adults don't hold grudges forever. Everything is negotiable." Solomon's video showed no background, but Coulson's wasn't so discreet. Judging by the bright sunlight and intel Solomon had acquired through the CIA and Eternal City's channels, it looked like Coulson's team was operating again under the S.H.I.E.L.D. banner.
"I'm not sure… Skye might not agree. Sorry, I mean Daisy," Coulson said, his trademark forehead lines as deep as ever. He smiled politely—except for the new item hanging around his neck.
"I must say, it's only by seeing your receding hairline that I'm reminded what kind of world we live in," Solomon said, raising an eyebrow. "What happened to your arm?"
"Oh, a little safety incident involving a Terrigen crystal," Coulson replied, showing his arm to the camera. "Mike's axe is sharp. Didn't even hurt. Fitz is building me a prosthetic—he thinks it'll be better than the original. And your timing is impeccable. I'm busy."
"You're being too conspicuous. The current S.H.I.E.L.D. hasn't shaken off the Hydra stigma. Announcing yourself now is like admitting you're Hydra. I can delay the military's response on your behalf, Coulson. In exchange, I want the location of someone: your old flame, the Peruvian army officer Camilla \[see S.H.I.E.L.D. Season 1, Episode 2]."
"No, not that, Solomon. I'll deal with the Defense Department myself." Coulson shook his head. "I have another request. Actually, I need your portals."
"I see." Solomon nodded. He looked as if he'd relaxed a bit. "We'll talk. That favor is nothing compared to what I'm offering you."
(End of Chapter)
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