"You'd better not move too much; this is to keep you alive," Anna said as she glanced in the rearview mirror. Her brother, Daimon, was writhing in the back seat of the car, while Sister Gabriella Rosetti sat beside him, her expression a mix of worry and defiance. When she tried to undo the zip tie restraining Daimon's hands, Anna swiftly reprimanded her and tied the nun up as well.
"To make sure you idiots don't interfere with him again, I'm taking him out of here," Anna said coldly as she cast a final look at the office belonging to Dr. Hastings in the Saint Teresa Psychiatric Hospital. The office had caught fire, and if it weren't for the nun's pleading, Anna wouldn't have bothered dragging Hastings out of the flames. Now that the guards, having woken up from being magically put to sleep, had brought the blaze under control, it was time to leave.
"I'll take him to San Francisco and send you back to the Vatican. Solomon, can you make that happen?"
"Of course," the mage shrugged nonchalantly. He had no intention of meddling in the complicated family dynamics of the Hellstorm siblings, but that didn't mean he wouldn't take the route most beneficial to his goals. With Anna's growing demonic instincts showing more and more, Solomon found her progress as an ally satisfying. That said, neither Anna nor Solomon paid any heed to Sister Rosetti's protests or resistance. Ultimately, at Anna's suggestion, Solomon cast a spell that put Daimon and the nun into a peaceful sleep in the back seat.
"And then? What happened next?" Anna asked as she started the car, her tone almost casual. She accelerated onto the slick suburban road, steering the vehicle skillfully despite the rain-soaked pavement. "I wouldn't mind hearing your little story while we're on the road. Keeps my mind off all the chaos back at Saint Teresa's."
"Oh, you know, the usual—boring old tale. When ordinary people witness magic, they always overreact and then… become obsessed. Thank Harry Potter for that. Magic is no longer demonized by the Church, but for anyone who doesn't possess it, magic has an unmatched allure. Like a spindle to Aurora… or Disney to an all-ages audience!"
"What a terrible analogy," Anna chuckled despite herself. "So what exactly happened there?"
"If all contracts could attract people the way a spindle lures a princess, I'd be thrilled."
"That's an utterly terrible analogy, Mr. Solomon," Harold Finch muttered under his breath. He had come to believe that any situation involving a mage—especially one like Solomon—was destined to spiral into chaos. The last time Solomon and John Reese had gone to a bar to "teach drug dealers a lesson," the encounter left several people permanently disabled. Finch couldn't let something similar happen here—breaking a senator's legs would not be amusing.
"You should know that everyone must sign a contract," Solomon said firmly.
"The government personnel here haven't witnessed your... capabilities yet. Let us handle this without resorting to violence against Senator Garrison. Reese, please keep an eye on Mr. Solomon. This doesn't need to end with anyone getting hurt."
"I can't babysit two people at once, Finch," Reese replied helplessly, tightening his grip on the woman they'd just restrained.
"Apologies, but I don't have any information about you, sir," Senator Garrison said, his gaze scrutinizing the mage. "Who exactly are you?"
"See? They always ask that question," Solomon quipped, turning to Finch. "My appearance always comes with questions. People are always chasing truths that don't belong to them." He then reached into his bag and pulled out a homemade wand. "What's even more ridiculous is that some people think they can counter magic with bullets. I suggest you tell your people to lower their weapons, sign this contract, and we'll be done. I won't interfere in your business after that."
"What are you even talking about?" the senator asked, bewildered.
"This," Solomon replied, brushing past Sameen Shaw and boldly stepping forward. Without breaking a sweat, he took the gun out of Hersh's hands, the former handler standing frozen as though bound by invisible chains. The senator stared in stunned confusion, unable to comprehend what had just transpired.
"Now, your turn, Senator," Solomon said, raising the handgun. "I'm quickly running out of patience."
"So, did they sign the contracts?" Anna asked as she pressed down on the accelerator, speeding through the rain-slicked countryside. Solomon wasn't much of a storyteller, but his ramblings were enough to pass the time. Anna didn't need a gripping narrative—just something to take her mind off the tangled mess at Saint Teresa's.
"Of course they did. Who can resist signing my contracts? Honestly, I'm starting to really enjoy this. Maybe this is what business feels like? If so, I must be a natural-born entrepreneur!"
"Trust me, it's not even close to the same thing," Anna retorted with a wry smile.
"Can you believe it? Someone just insulted my entrepreneurial skills!" Solomon exclaimed as he cradled his teacup, complaining to the woman seated across from him.
"I believe business involves intellect, some muscle, and maybe a touch of crime—plus a keen understanding of legal loopholes and perfectly timed bribes. By that definition, I think I'm naturally gifted. I could even make a fortune in the stock market and not have to worry about the SEC."
"Well, I, for one, am grateful you've not yet gone into business, Solomon. Cleaning up the chaos you'd create would be a nightmare," Natasha Romanoff sighed, her weary expression making her look like she was about to doze off. She wore a simple office suit and slouched in her chair, looking utterly exhausted. "So, is this why you called me out here? Just to complain about contracts? I'm in the middle of a mission, you know. Only you could make me put that on hold, sweetheart. So, unless you'd like to join me for a nap—and I mean wherever, even if we don't leave the bed—can we get to the point?"
"Artificial intelligence, Natasha," Solomon said bluntly, unfazed by her flirtatious banter. Having survived both Athena and Bayonetta's relentless teasing, Solomon was practically immune to such verbal traps. However, given the mutual trust they'd built during some truly harrowing shared experiences, he decided to cut to the chase. "You have Level 10 clearance. I need to know if SHIELD is aware of this AI and the true controller of this so-called 'Northern Lights' organization."
"My, my," Natasha said with a sly grin. "When did you start caring about the mundane world, darling? In my memory, you couldn't care less about things like networks, governments, or intelligence agencies. What's changed?"
"Someone as brilliant as Stark created a real artificial intelligence, Natasha. One that's constantly monitoring all of us. It's embedded in the internet itself. I'm not talking about the crude 'PRISM' program; I'm talking about something that can truly monitor every piece of data."
"Sorry, I've never heard of it," Natasha replied, locking eyes with Solomon. "And you're the only one in the world who can tell when I'm lying, so I won't bother. Why not just ask Nick Fury? I'm sure he'd tell you everything."
"The problem is, no one knows where the AI actually is—not even itself. It's free now," Solomon said with a sigh. "And Fury? He'd sooner shoot me than give me answers, especially after I made him wear bunny ears to that hearing."
"I'll inform the Director about this potential problem," Natasha said, standing up with a yawn. "In the meantime, how about we deal with our problem first? Let's grab that nap. Anywhere you want—even if we don't leave the bed afterward."
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