"You know I didn't want you to meet him," Nick Fury said sternly.
"Mm-hmm~," Solomon replied nonchalantly.
"You have to promise not to say anything reckless or spread your toxic ideas after meeting him."
"I can't make that promise."
"You little punk! I knew it!" Fury banged his fist on the table, his frustration evident. Then, with a heavy sigh, he leaned back into his chair, spun it toward the corner of the room, and covered his face with his hand. Solomon, unperturbed by Fury's anger, even found it slightly amusing.
"I didn't expect you'd only come to me now. Has Steve Rogers really held out this long? Or was it you who thought he could endure this? Or perhaps you believed S.H.I.E.L.D. could handle Hellfire? Well, I suppose it's my fault for giving you false hope, for letting you think those oversized cockroaches could solve the problem," Solomon said, leaning back in the soft chair across from Fury's desk, exuding an air of calculated control.
This entire scenario was indeed part of Solomon's plan, orchestrated from the beginning.
Who still remembers that Solomon was the one who suggested Captain America fight Ghost Rider? That wasn't some rehabilitation exercise. Mephisto, that cunning old devil, had seen through part of Solomon's schemes when they first met. At a time when Captain America was already struggling to adapt to life seventy years in the future, introducing him to something even more supernatural would draw his attention and make him more receptive to certain ideas.
This psychological conditioning was a foundational aspect of hypnosis. Only after such an experience could Solomon more easily implant certain notions into Steve Rogers' mind.
The Penance Stare didn't work on Captain America, and Ghost Rider's ability to manipulate objects had no effect on the vibranium shield. However, battle inevitably leads to injury. Captain America's wrist had been scorched by Ghost Rider's Hellfire-infused chain. Since that night, S.H.I.E.L.D. had tried every conceivable method to treat the burn—experimental drugs, theoretical surgeries—but none had fully healed the wound. The injury persisted, constantly burning his soul. Even when new flesh grew over the area, fresh burn marks would appear. This repetitive cycle of surgeries and pain was almost unbearable.
Solomon was confident that S.H.I.E.L.D. would never find a cure for this, not even if Fury resorted to his hidden stash of alchemical potions originally intended for Tony Stark. They might have impressive resources, but treating a Hellfire burn was beyond their capabilities.
Fury had resisted coming to Solomon for help, knowing the mage would mock him mercilessly. And yet, in a moment of smugness, Solomon had let slip a few words, tipping Fury off to his involvement.
"You wanted to meet Captain America? You knew he would get hurt? You also knew the wound wouldn't heal?" Fury glared at Solomon. "Why? You could've told me about this, and you knew I'd agree. Why go through all this trouble?"
"Who knows?" Solomon replied, standing abruptly. Realizing he had revealed too much, he refused to elaborate further. He had waited too long for this moment. It had been a week since Merlin's treatment, and even longer since Captain America's battle with Ghost Rider. Finally, the time had come to reap what he had sown—to show Steve Rogers the darkest corners of modern America and test the purity of his soul. Could "Captain America" acknowledge his country's injustices and embrace his destiny to fight for humanity? And more importantly, was he worthy of wielding Mjolnir, a critical component of Solomon's broader plans to sap Asgardian power?
"Enough," Solomon said with a sly smile. "You want this resolved quickly, don't you? Then stop wasting time."
"You'll be under surveillance during—"
"Then I'm leaving."
"Motherf—! Fine! No one will monitor this meeting!"
"Seal it with a contract, or I won't believe you."
"Motherfck!"
---
"Are you serious, sir? A kid? You're having a minor handle what grown men couldn't? Or is he some kind of scientist?" Steve Rogers wasn't in a hospital but in his Brooklyn home, a residence allocated by S.H.I.E.L.D. To show trust, Fury had refrained from installing surveillance equipment in the house. When Solomon arrived in Fury's car, Steve had just returned from the gym. His arm was still bandaged, and a white towel hung loosely around his neck.
A muscular man fresh from a workout was a striking sight, his broad frame barely hidden by his loose T-shirt, which caused many passersby to turn their heads.
"How are you feeling?" Fury asked as he stepped out of the car, nodding toward Steve. "Still hurts?"
"It always hurts, but I'm used to it. It's nothing," Steve said with a strained smile. Despite his casual tone, his pallor betrayed him. The Hellfire burn had severely impacted his life—precisely what Solomon intended. He wanted Captain America to seek him out, not the other way around.
"This is Solomon Damonet. He can resolve your issue completely," Fury said, glancing at the mage, who was busy eating a beef wrap. Fury knew Solomon's true intentions, but even knowing them, he had no choice but to agree to his demands. Even the Chicago-bought beef wrap Solomon was munching on had been paid for by Fury himself.
"What are you looking at? I haven't had lunch yet," Solomon said dismissively.
"Hi, I'm Steve Rogers," Steve introduced himself.
"I know. I'm Solomon Messiah Pendragon Damonet…" Solomon said, swallowing a mouthful of beef. "But this isn't the place to talk."
"Your name's a bit long. Follow me. Sorry about the mess—I wasn't expecting guests," Steve said, leading Solomon and Fury upstairs. He greeted his nurse neighbor in the hallway before unlocking his door and inviting the two inside.
The room was spotless, far too tidy for a single man's home. Everything was neatly organized. Solomon noticed a large bookshelf filled with books and records spanning from post-World War II to modern times. Clearly, Steve had been catching up, trying to bridge the gap between his old world and the new.
After Fury and Solomon each found a chair to sit in, Steve brought out three glasses of iced cola, handing one to each guest. In a moment of unspoken camaraderie, all three lifted their glasses simultaneously, then set them down together, each releasing a small belch.
The tension in the room eased instantly—such was the mysterious bond of male friendship.
"Things have changed so much. Even cola doesn't taste the same anymore," Steve said with a smile. "And there are so many soda flavors now—it takes me forever to choose. They keep saying the flavor hasn't changed, but as someone with a sharp palate, I beg to differ. I'm still catching up with the world, though. At least I've learned how to use a phone—the kind with buttons. I feel like real electronics should have buttons. Those without just feel… unnatural."
"Looks like you've got some catching up to do. Future gadgets won't have many buttons," Fury said, taking a sip of his cola. "Now, take off the bandages. That wound needs treatment. It won't get infected, but it's already done enough damage."
"But I don't see any medical equipment, sir."
"You won't need any of that. Solomon, show him what you can do," Fury said.
Solomon shot Fury a disdainful look. "What do you take me for? A street magician?"
"Sorry, sorry. Just get started—we're all short on time."
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