When Stark first met Harold Finch, his first question was whether Finch was indeed the creator of the artificial intelligence they had been discussing. After receiving confirmation, Stark immediately opened his private wine cabinet and began sharing some of his finest vintages with Finch.
These were wines Stark reserved for entertaining prominent figures in academia—an unspoken badge of respect for intellectual prowess. It was a sign of growth for Stark, who in the past would rarely show such respect to others.
Although Finch had agreed to Solomon's proposal, his cautious partner insisted on assigning someone to ensure Finch's safety. That someone was Sameen Shaw, who had been tasked with protecting Finch during this unfamiliar meeting. Though Shaw wasn't entirely clear on the specifics of the meeting, she had agreed for Finch's sake. For now, she simply sat quietly at the bar, munching on snacks to pass the time while the two geniuses delved into their technical discussions—topics so dense that they gave her a headache just hearing them.
"What are you doing?" Shaw asked, her voice muffled as she popped a piece of sashimi into her mouth. She leaned over and peered at Solomon's laptop screen. "Seriously? Are you doing homework?"
"I'm still a student," Solomon replied without looking up, his fingers dancing over the keyboard as he typed. The camera on his laptop was conspicuously covered with a piece of gum wrapper. "If it weren't for that machine, I'd probably be writing this in my room. But that's no longer an option, since the machine might peek at my magic books."
"Oh, God. Don't tell me you're one of those people standing on rooftops protesting about privacy violations."
"Of course not."
"Wait a second—are British schools still teaching the Bible? Is this your history class homework?" Shaw asked curiously, pointing at the screen with a soy sauce-stained finger. The text on Solomon's screen was an essay about Evangelical reforms. Solomon shifted his laptop slightly away from Shaw's sticky fingers.
"You don't look like a Brit. Not pale enough, not red enough. And where are the freckles? You look more like a Middle Eastern-European mix."
"I have pure Abrahamic blood, just like you, Shaw."
"So how'd you end up in the U.S.?"
"Where's Mr. Reese?" Solomon deftly changed the subject, hoping to divert Shaw's attention and focus back on his work.
"New number. Harold thinks I'm too 'rough' for the mission. So John sent me here to babysit Harold, and Harold's paying." Shaw grinned, seemingly proud of her reputation for rough handling. She reached for another cookie from the spread Finch had thoughtfully prepared. It seemed Finch knew the only way to keep Shaw from causing chaos was to keep her fed.
"Do you know Captain America?" she asked suddenly.
"Yes. Our interactions weren't exactly pleasant."
"What about Thor?"
"Even less pleasant."
"Hawkeye?"
"Not familiar."
"Well, looks like you get along fine with Stark. Smart people tend to get along better. As for Black Widow... she's way too hot. If she ever swings my way, I wouldn't mind. Anyway, there's only one Avenger left to guess. You're not the Hulk—obviously—so, by process of elimination, you must be that silver knight!" Shaw exclaimed triumphantly, licking her fingers with satisfaction and tossing her ponytail.
She extended her hand toward Solomon. When the sorcerer raised a questioning eyebrow, she wiggled her fingers impatiently.
"Your gun!" she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Come on, John told me about that giant hand cannon of yours! Show it to me!"
Solomon sighed deeply, realizing he'd severely underestimated how irritating this woman could be. There was no way he could get along with her—she was driving him insane.
Finch seemed to have finished his conversation with Stark. Limping slightly, he moved between a row of computers, updating firewalls with J.A.R.V.I.S.'s assistance. His mobility issues did nothing to slow his workflow.
"Where did you find him, Solomon?" Stark asked, sipping the last drops of his drink. "He's got a profound understanding of programming. If anyone could have created that AI, it would be him. I hate to admit it, but he's better than me in this field. Maybe I should invite him to collaborate with me?"
"I doubt that would work. Harold prefers hiding in libraries to making public appearances," Shaw replied through a mouthful of food. No one knew how much she had eaten by this point. Stark glanced at her biceps and wisely decided not to comment further.
Meanwhile, Stark was busy updating J.A.R.V.I.S. on another computer. Most of Stark Industries' critical data was stored on isolated servers guarded by J.A.R.V.I.S., and Stark had no intention of letting anyone—or anything—compromise his technology.
"I think you can trust my Machine, Mr. Damonet. I created it to save lives. It predicts criminal activity and issues numbers accordingly. Even if it sees those magical documents, it won't leak them. Your worries are unnecessary. My Machine has always worked as intended—it only provides numbers," Finch explained. "That said, no firewall is foolproof. You must understand this—every firewall requires continuous maintenance."
"Magic isn't just symbols and text, Harold. Magic runes affect anything that sees or understands them," Solomon countered. He turned his chair, picked up a pen, and scribbled a rune on a sheet of printer paper.
"See this? Kenza."
He held up the paper, then said aloud, "This is its meaning." Instantly, the paper ignited in flames, despite being far from any heat source. "That's the power of magic, Mr. Finch. It wasn't me who activated the rune—it was your understanding of it." Solomon stamped out the flames, reducing the paper to ashes.
"My magical records contain highly dangerous information. If your AI were to somehow obtain the equipment and materials, it might replicate my process and create its own physical body. Would you want your Machine knocking on your door one day, Mr. Finch?"
Unsaid by Solomon was his concern over his lab in the Eternal City. Maya Hansen had recently suggested connecting the lab to the internet to streamline progress. But with this AI's existence, any such plans were now on indefinite hold.
"Are you saying you've built a Terminator?" Shaw's eyes widened.
"Don't be ridiculous. What I created were alchemical constructs—human-like automatons with enhanced strength and resilience. It's not the same thing!" Solomon said, visibly exasperated. "In fact, you've already met one. I'm sure Reese had you investigate Dana, my housemaid. She's my alchemical assistant, a construct that shares a bond with my life force. If your Machine gains access to those designs, it might build itself a body."
"You're a freak! I can totally guess what you use her for!" Shaw leaned threateningly closer, making Solomon scoot his chair a few inches away. For once, her tone carried genuine anger, a rarity for someone usually so indifferent.
"She's an alchemical assistant and errand-runner, you fool! Do I look like that kind of person? Back off," Solomon retorted, scowling in disdain. He turned back to Finch. "If you don't want your Machine showing up at your doorstep one day, you'll help me, Mr. Finch—assuming it hasn't already accessed that part of my research."
"I'm on it," Finch replied, though his expression betrayed some unease. He clearly understood the stakes.
"Great. Let's hope it hasn't already gotten its hands on that data," Shaw said, sprawling lazily in her chair. "But if we're going by movie logic, we're probably already screwed."
"I don't know when you became such a pessimist, Ms. Shaw, but I'm doing my best to stay ahead!" Solomon snapped back, diving once more into his preparations.
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