"If you're driving down the street and get stopped at a police checkpoint, do you know what to do? Keep your hands where the officer can see them. Don't argue. Every move you make must be approved by the officer. Got it? Doesn't matter if you're like me—a goddamn Black man—or not. You follow the law because that's the law! Now repeat after me: follow the law!"
Nick Fury's voice boomed through the room, his passionate gestures nearly knocking over his desk lamp. Maria Hill, standing calmly nearby, wondered if Fury's lone good eye might pop out from sheer frustration.
She wasn't particularly worried about Fury's health; she was more concerned about getting the stack of papers in her hands signed.
This was official S.H.I.E.L.D. business, after all. Fury wasn't one to casually sign off on anything. Among lower-level agents, the Director's office was often referred to as the lair of a file-eating monster—a creature that scrutinized every letter on every page of every report, even down to the soap formula used in headquarters' restrooms.
"Hey, you didn't wash your hands—Director Fury's gonna arrest you," male agents would jokingly growl at one another. Hill, having barged into the men's room on a few occasions (thanks to agents who failed to file their paperwork), knew exactly how immature they could be. Only those with an unshakable confidence in themselves dared use adjacent urinals. The unspoken rule was always to leave a buffer.
Still, none of them would dare pull such antics in front of Hill. Her icy gaze was enough to make even the most self-assured agent second-guess their existence. "That's it?" her look seemed to say. "You're bragging about that?"
"Listen here, Solomon Damonet! I don't care if you're using magic or not. If your car gets towed for illegal parking, you pay the fine and get your car back. That's how it works! You don't seem to get it. As long as you're standing on American soil, you follow American laws!" Fury was shouting into the phone so loudly that even Hill felt a phantom urge to comply.
"Don't even think about it, Solomon! Don't you dare think about it!" Fury barked, sweat dripping from his brow. "S.H.I.E.L.D. abides by the law. We're not above it. I can't give you any prisoner—not even one heading for the electric chair! Got it? And don't even think about grabbing someone from Guantanamo! You'll get yourself shot!"
Fury's tirade paused momentarily. Hill couldn't hear the person on the other end but could see that Fury's temper wasn't cooling. She moved to place the documents on his desk and leave, intending to return when he called her back. But Fury waved her over, signaling for her to stay.
This gesture told her something important: Fury wanted her to be privy to this conversation. The subject—Solomon Damonet—was classified at the same level as Thor, if not higher in certain contexts. His actions in New York, combined with his formidable magic, made him both an asset and a wildcard.
Although Damonet wasn't officially part of the Avengers, many believed his involvement in the New York battle effectively placed him among their ranks.
Fury's tone shifted, adopting a calculated, persuasive rhythm.
"I understand, Solomon. I saw firsthand what you're dealing with. But this isn't the same. Lone superheroes are one thing; armies of supersoldiers in armor are something else entirely. I know your capabilities, and I believe you could create beings stronger than any supersoldier. But that's not allowed. If you go down that path, the White House will task me with eliminating you. Do you get that?"
"The White House and the U.N. don't care where those soldiers point their guns. All they'll see is a threat to their power. Do you know how panicked they were when Thor showed up with Asgardian soldiers? Those cowards nearly declared war on Asgard! You're different, Solomon. You're on Earth. You don't have a Bifrost. If you make a move, the CIA, FBI, NSA, and every other alphabet agency will come for you. They'll ruin your peaceful life. You won't even make it to university; they'll make you a fugitive."
The phone conversation continued, Fury's tone laced with frustration and desperation. Hill couldn't hear the other side, but Fury's exasperated expressions spoke volumes.
"Don't even think about storming the White House with a sword, kid," Fury snapped. "Listen, America's bureaucracy doesn't crumble just because you take out one politician. For every corrupt official you eliminate, another takes their place. And let's be real: even if you succeed, do you really want Special Forces kicking down your apartment door?"
Fury leaned back, clearly trying to rein in his temper. "Solomon, you were lucky the CIA didn't retaliate for that drug operation in New York. They abandoned that network not because of you but because the FBI was breathing down their necks—and because I called in a favor. You have no idea how ruthless those bureaucrats can be. These are people who carve open dead soldiers, stuff their bodies with drugs, and ship them home as cargo. Do you think they care about who you are? Do you think they're afraid of death? Compared to them, you're practically an angel. They're savages."
"Fury, I wanted to take a shortcut," Solomon muttered. He lay on his bed, cradling the phone as Bayonetta traced the scars on his body with her fingers. These were battle marks left by Malekith and Hela. Despite magical healing, the faint scars lingered on his abdomen, shoulders, and sides—coin-sized circles that betrayed the violent past etched into his youthful, muscular frame.
Bayonetta seemed captivated by them.
Only the mark left by Yog-Sothoth refused to fade. This was the Gatekeeper's gift—an ancient and powerful spell Randolph Carter's notes described as having a half-mile range. Solomon wasn't sure what price he had paid—or if he'd already paid it at the end of some predetermined fate.
For answers, Solomon had spent countless nights deciphering Carter's writings, enduring their mental toll.
"CIA atrocities in the Middle East are well-documented," Solomon said nonchalantly. "If you won't give me what I need, I'll find my own way. I'll rescue orphans from CIA-backed militias, educate them, and let them become my experiments. I'll show them who destroyed their homes. I'll promise them vengeance. Is that what you want to see, Fury?"
His tone turned sharper. "If I reveal myself, if I go to Emmaus—the site of Christ's ascension—do you know the support I'd gain?"
The silence on the other end was palpable, like a storm cloud hanging over London.
"The Jewish lobbying groups bribing your politicians would rally behind me the moment I performed magic. They'd call it a miracle. They'd know it's not, but they'd pretend. And the Haredim, desperate for a Messiah, would flock to me. They'd see me as the bloodline of Abraham, the heir of Jacob, David, and Solomon—not America's puppet Israel, but the Israel of old."
"Solomon…" Fury's voice dropped, heavy with dread. "You're not thinking about pulling another 9/11, are you?"
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