Stephen Strange, like Tony Stark before Afghanistan, was utterly insufferable. Only suffering could grind these egotistical fools into something resembling normal human beings. These days, talking to Stark no longer gave Solomon the urge to punch his eyeballs out through his skull—but that didn't mean they got along. If it weren't for Stark's research capabilities and his tempting pile of black-tech prototypes, Solomon would've preferred to avoid him entirely.
It wasn't just a matter of differing tastes—though that certainly didn't help. Stark liked voluptuous bombshells; Solomon also liked bombshells, but he preferred them with a bit more muscle tone. The real divide was trust—or lack thereof. Neither of them trusted most people.
Stark didn't trust Solomon, thinking he should have disclosed the crisis to the Avengers so that everyone could pitch in. Even if they failed, at least they wouldn't die in ignorance. This was the "right to know" that both Stark and Steve Rogers valued—transparency, even in the face of death. Of course, Stark's standards shifted when convenient: some intel, in his eyes, wasn't suitable for the public, lest it incite chaos. In short, he viewed the Avengers as a quasi-official agency that existed apart from any government. Solomon knew exactly why—because, goddammit, "the people love us." Avengers-branded ice cream was a bestseller. On Christmas, children begged for Avengers-themed gifts. Anything associated with the Avengers sold like hotcakes. Hasbro could swear by it.
To a sorcerer like Solomon, Stark's lax information security was like a revolving door.
"Looks like you finally found a way to keep the Avengers from being dismantled. Congratulations, Stark," Solomon said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Though your teammates probably wouldn't agree with your methods."
"You've got a mole in the White House… goddamn telepathy."
"Your mind is easy to read. I don't even need the details to figure it out. Your visits to the Rockefeller family aren't exactly a secret. Nor is the fact that you handed over most of the Arc Reactor clean-energy project's profits. I'm sure a few people are starting to ask questions." Solomon gestured toward the bar floor. The agents pretending to drink and chat didn't notice the motion. The bartender walked over and topped off the glass Solomon hadn't touched. "To them, I'm still sitting here, sipping whiskey. Of the people you brought, two are CIA, one's FBI, one's Homeland Security. Only two are actually S.H.I.E.L.D.—and one of those is the bartender. The Avengers have always been transparent to intelligence agencies. That includes your data."
"I know. But do you think I had a choice?" Stark exhaled anxiously. "I'm a regular guy. I'm not some cloaked freak who can vanish into a Himalayan cave. I have to think about Pepper—and the daughter I'm fated to have. And Steve—he doesn't want to end up locked in a lab as a serum specimen. Natasha—she doesn't want to be interrogated or sent back into the field as an assassin. You can't even imagine the methods they'd use on her. Clint's got a wife and kids—he just wants a quiet life. Banner—I haven't even seen him lately, but you can bet Ross would love to take him in. Vision—there are a lot of people who want to take him apart."
He downed the rest of his whiskey in one angry gulp, coughing like his lungs were trying to leap out of his chest.
The bartender refilled their glasses.
"You've changed a lot, Solomon," Stark said. "What happened?"
"That's called growth. If you can't look back and call your past self a dumbass, then you haven't grown at all." Solomon smiled. "Like you, I'm ready to shoulder responsibility. That's why I've changed."
"Even Fimbulwinter?" Stark muttered, grimacing. "I used to wonder why you refused to go public and become a hero. Now I get it."
"I doubt you really do. Superheroes exist because of public safety failures and a crisis of institutional trust. That has nothing to do with me. And I have zero interest in being the subject of public debate, approval ratings, or mass-market affection, you idiot."
Every agent in the room tensed, standing up and scanning the area, hands on their weapons. Even the bartender reached under the counter and pulled out a gleaming pistol. One of them reported in via the micro-mic at his collar, then strode toward the bar.
"External surveillance teams report nothing unusual. Mr. Stark, where's the target?"
"No idea," Stark replied, lifting Solomon's untouched glass and taking a sip. "We were having a pleasant chat—then he vanished. You all knew the target had superpowers. What do you expect me to do?"
He knew Solomon had gone off to kill someone.
As part of the arrangement, Stark wouldn't say a word. In some ways, he admired Solomon's rhetorical prowess—if the guy hadn't been a sorcerer, his academic record and intellect could've made him one of the most powerful politicians or scholars on Earth. Solomon was clearly determined to sabotage the Rockefeller family's march toward renewable energy. Pepper Potts would be quietly cooperating behind the scenes.
Solomon seemed far too eager—Stark even wondered if he had some personal vendetta with the Rockefellers.
And in fact, he did. The Immortal City's first official combat exercise had targeted the Clinton family's private army. And Clinton's biological father? Winthrop Rockefeller of the Rockefeller dynasty. That wasn't exactly a state secret in Little Rock. On top of that, Hillary Clinton's deep ties to the Freemasons and Skull and Bones society at Yale meant that the real enemy of the Sisterhood was the Rockefeller clan—and their vast financial syndicates. Stark, representing an upstart faction, had caved to these people. That's why media under their control constantly praised the Avengers. Had he refused, the same media would've turned the public against them, branding them a menace. Even the White House would've labeled them terrorists.
Only by tracing the years-long infiltration efforts of HYDRA was Solomon able to use the Malik family to peer beneath the surface of human society. Setting aside the Nazi faction, the other HYDRA branches' influence couldn't even compare to the damage done by the Frankfurt School's feminism and human rights movements—brainchildren of these financial cabals. These financiers weren't officially part of HYDRA, but their actions were worse.
And yet, on the flip side, Mobil Oil was an important partner of the Immortal City. So Solomon's assault on the Rockefellers was also strategic—meant to ensure that energy resources remained in "friendly" hands, like the Malik family. Gideon Malik was thrilled. The Maliks had never meddled in the energy sector, but that was about to change. With Solomon's backing, they could steal slices of cake already divided and served to others—and no one cared whose slice it was originally.
(End of Chapter)
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