When stripping away surface-level distractions and focusing on the truth, it becomes clear that the Immortal City—despite its high-tech weaponry, well-trained soldiers, ongoing training programs, and genetic modification experiments—is fundamentally a military organization. And Solomon is, at his core, a warlord. The word "warlord" doesn't carry a flattering connotation, and Solomon was well aware of that. But he also knew that eventually, he'd have a chance to swap that label for something far more prestigious.
After all, the world was full of idiots who declared themselves gods the moment they gained a bit of power, or who dreamed of world domination just because they'd come into some money. At the very least, Solomon saw himself as superior to those fools. Stephanie, ever ambitious, was entirely loyal. The power-hungry bloodline of Hydra had given her a deep, intrinsic understanding of what must and must not be done.
For instance, when Agent Coulson sent her a communication, she answered it but promptly ignored it—she could handle such decisions on her own.
S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Immortal City had diverged completely in their research into the monolith. While S.H.I.E.L.D. was fixated on tracing the artifact's whereabouts after the Napoleonic Wars, the Immortal City had already turned toward the Middle East, pursuing ancient legends. This was the direction Solomon had mandated, and Stephanie had absolute faith in it. She had never seen her lord make a mistake. However, since the Immortal City lacked a formal archaeology division, Stephanie contacted the adventurer and archaeologist most familiar to Solomon: Lara Croft, a woman who had survived at least two harrowing archaeological adventures.
"Painting, sculpture, books—these are all artistic expressions created by past humans to praise something, whether it be a virtue, a myth, or a figure. These things define a people's culture and way of thinking. Culture is the other vessel that carries us to the stars," Solomon had once said in regard to historical art and culture. "If we lose these things—our culture, our way of thought—then even if we reach the edge of the universe, we'll still only be beasts using high-tech tools. In the future, we will establish a department to preserve and explore the world's relics. Protecting our culture defines who we are—and is also part of conquest."
That would mean a massive budget, Stephanie thought grimly.
Lara Croft replied almost instantly, full of enthusiasm, asking if an exciting ruin had been discovered.
Solomon was her sole financial backer—because she could never make her findings public. Yet despite that, the adventurer remained passionate about her work—especially since the Immortal City began purging the Trinity organization. Even the tabloids in London had dialed back their smear campaigns, and Lara had become noticeably more upbeat. She even found time to practice shooting and combat. Considering Solomon's past indulgence in financing her explorations—essentially burning money—Stephanie could only force a smile and transfer the funds. She also promised armed support so Lara could make an "indelible contribution to global cultural heritage."
And then there was that damned private jet!
Technically, the jet was Solomon's personal asset, but Lara Croft was its primary user. Stephanie also wanted to ride in it, but since Solomon favored the safety, speed, and firepower of assault shuttles—comfort be damned—she, who often accompanied him, had to endure the rock-hard seats. She had to admit: the turbulence in those shuttles was brutal on the backside. What annoyed her more was the rumored ambiguous relationship between Solomon and Lara Croft. Though she lacked the authority to dispatch the intelligence department to verify it, the rumor alone was enough to make her deeply unhappy.
"I also need to visit a friend of my father's in Norway," Lara said apologetically.
Clenching her teeth, Stephanie fired off a message to the airport to arrange Lara Croft's flight to Norway. The archaeologist promised to begin examining the Immortal City's materials once her personal matter was concluded and swore it wouldn't take long. Stephanie had no interest in investigating which friend of Richard Croft's lived in Norway—otherwise, she would've noticed the flight logs from S.H.I.E.L.D. agents overlapping with Lara's travel plans.
"I have guests!" Professor Randolph was growing increasingly annoyed with Coulson and company. "Leave the files, and come back in a few days," he said. "If I can't give you an answer by then, do whatever you want."
"We're not thugs, Professor Randolph," Coulson replied with a smile. "We're just asking for your help. And unfortunately, we don't have a few days—we need to solve this now."
"I get it." Professor Randolph stood and glanced toward the end of the corridor outside his cell. Lowering his voice mysteriously, he asked, "Did you bring me anything?"
"They screen everything at the entrance."
"You're agents—you must have ways to bypass that!"
Coulson threw Daisy a look that said, I told you so. Daisy scowled and pulled a small flask from her chest pocket. "This is all I've got," she said, slipping it through the bars. "No comments, and don't sniff it."
"Human women are so troublesome," Randolph muttered as he eagerly uncorked the flask and downed it in one gulp.
Daisy's face crinkled in disgust.
"Now, let's take a look at what you've brought," Coulson said, handing over photographs of the monolith, video footage of its liquefaction, a scan of the parchment, and Fitz's speculative notes. Randolph skipped right past Fitz's data and charts like a child flipping through a book for pictures, stopping at the first page with illustrations.
"A portal?" Randolph looked up, confused and intrigued.
"Yes, a portal," Coulson confirmed. "You've been hiding on Earth for centuries—surely you've feared the Bifrost whisking you away. I bet you've studied the relevant myths."
"But I've never seen this stone before."
"Think again."
"I wasn't finished... I have seen this—this ancient Hebrew word. It means 'death.'" Randolph tapped the scanned parchment image. "Where did you get this?"
Daisy jumped in. "From a thug in Tangier's old quarter. If it matters to you, that means you've seen it before."
"It's just a common Hebrew word. But you've got good instincts—it's common, yes, but I have seen it in an unusual place, in England," Randolph said, licking his lips. "I was attending a noble banquet. Europeans had finally learned to bathe again by then, but the smell still wasn't great. I met a beautiful lady, and come morning, after her perfume wore off…"
Coulson promptly cut off the old man's nostalgic rambling. "Ahem. We're not here to hear about your romantic escapades, Professor."
"Fine, fine. I really did see that word carved into the wall of a castle in Gloucestershire. I'd been drinking, so I didn't pay much attention."
"If we give you a map, could you point out the castle's location?" Coulson asked.
To that, Randolph simply pointed to his head. "Have you gone stupid, Son of Coul?" he said. "Just use Google Maps."
(End of Chapter)
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