Solomon was still keeping a normal human build, but at two meters tall and armed with eye-catching weapons, he radiated a crushing sense of pressure. One look at his gear, and Natasha Romanoff knew this would be a hard conversation—no champagne, no bed, no pleasure. The man before her wasn't Solomon; it was the Sovereign of the Eternal City. His actions had prevented the Navy Operations Office from realizing in time that three carrier strike groups had gone dark; by the time others noticed the command chain had been severed, the three most important nuclear-powered carriers had already vanished, with wreckage from two of them only just being found. The investigation was underway, the news locked down tight, but the White House didn't dare let the media know, afraid the public (capital) would lose faith in the state. Latveria was one of the prime suspects, but for the same reason, the White House was dragging its feet on signing off on economic sanctions against Hungary.
The preliminary report Maria Hill obtained showed that many people had been perforated by large-caliber rounds. The military suspected someone stormed Navy command with an unprecedented heavy machine gun, yet that still couldn't explain the lacerating through-and-through wounds and cut marks on the bodies. Forensics and trace analysts had no reasonable theory for how the blood spatter on the walls had formed, nor could they identify the composition of the propellant residues left at the scene. More devastating still was the disappearance of a Navy vice admiral. No one knew how much classified intelligence the captors had extracted, and the entire Department of Defense was rattled, as if concussed by the attack. Beyond a few ultra-hawkish voices, some politicians were angling to convince Congress to pour more money into the war on terror—provided they could find a scapegoat. The military still didn't understand how the attackers had taken out the carrier groups, but regardless, Latveria was under heavy suspicion, and many eyes had turned to that little Balkan state, eager to find a casus belli.
"You handed the carrier from the 8th battle group to the Russians? Are you trying to start a thermonuclear war?"
"It's just a nuclear carrier. It isn't particularly important to the Eternal City. And my goal isn't to make the White House start tossing nukes around, it's to make them afraid. Even if they lose their heads and put a finger on the button, I can stop it. What matters more is your past." The mechanical eagle with a black cable trailing from the back of its head swiveled to look at her, while its master kept gazing toward Manhattan's blazing lights. That world and this neighborhood were like two different planets. He had chosen this spot for a reason; the talk to come wasn't righteous in the least—if anything, it was going to be dark.
"The only reason you're alive is because, back then, S.H.I.E.L.D. could shield you from the CIA and FBI. I imagine that's one reason you were recruited in Budapest. You made a smart choice: a state within a state. Crossing S.H.I.E.L.D. was a price far greater than the value of the Black Widow, so you survived—even if it meant picking up the dirty work you'd hoped to leave behind." He ripped open old wounds without mercy, letting them breathe in the open air. "The Avengers used to provide that protection too. But now the Avengers are on the verge of collapse. You're here looking for a new place to belong, aren't you?"
"You've been studying me? Not surprised—that sounds like you." She could feel him watching her through the eagle's ruby eyes, and even so, she was uncharacteristically unable to keep her cool; there were thorns in her tone. "Can't you look at me when you talk? Or is it that you don't want to see me at all—don't want to look at someone who betrayed her own country?"
"Natasha, don't say that. If you keep talking like that, you'll break my heart. You didn't betray your country; Yeltsin and Gorbachev betrayed you—betrayed a great ideal. If you wish, no matter their security, I can fetch you their heads." Solomon turned to face her. As he moved, those enormous, razor talons slid closer in an instant. "But that isn't the point. I'm rebuilding it. I'm making war on the power that dragged this world toward the abyss—let me put it another way, one you might find easier to accept. You want a place to belong, a home full of laughter and free of oppression. You've toured the Eternal City. You know what I'm doing. And I invited you years ago. There, no one will know who you are, and you can get far away from all this rot. Every vested interest on Earth wants me dead, because I'm in opposition to every political form in the world. With gun and blade I will redistribute the world's resources and concentrate them on humanity's future. I will preach scientific rationality and atheism, and set our species' destination among the stars and in freedom. They will slander me by any means and heap every infamy upon my head. Knowing that, do you still want in?"
"Who's already joined you?"
"Wanda has. Pietro's still thinking, but he's close—Maximoffs are family, after all. Steve Rogers and I have a small disagreement, but he understands the cruelty of war. Tony Stark's position is unclear, but he'll likely stand aside—he's accepted my mercy. My people will protect Stark Industries from emergency requisition by the White House and the military. That's my offer to him. Natasha, the world is about to burn. No one gets to sit this out."
A sudden knock at the door made her jump.
She had swept the stairwell on her way up: only a few elderly tenants lived in the building. A nearby gang hangout had burned down days ago; the survivors scattered. There was a power vacuum in the neighborhood now, yet the usual punks didn't dare fire shots into the air—clearly, someone had warned them off. Coupled with her interlocutor's superhuman physical prowess, the setting had lulled her into relaxing, just a little. The sliding balcony door eased open; she reflexively raised her pistol toward where a head would be. A moment later, a distinctive aroma reached her, and the golden eagle launched into the night with a snap of its wings. Solomon, grinning, walked toward the stairhead and spoke, in flawless Italian, to two elderly voices.
Faced with those terrifying yet intricate metal talons, the two voices showed no fear.
Natasha watched him reach past the door. In the light, a silhouette moved like folded paper. She heard respect in their tone—and then a baby's muddled babble. Solomon took two plates with practiced ease, cracked a joke, shut the door, and turned back with baby drool on his cheek. Only then did she see the plates held spaghetti with meatballs and sweet cream rolls. From the conversation, it was clear the residents knew Solomon well. Curiosity tugged at her. She holstered her pistol, pulled out a tissue, and wiped his cheek, closing the distance without a ripple. "You speak Italian?" she said. "So this isn't a random rendezvous spot. You know the people here?"
Solomon suddenly grew talkative, his expression animated.
"I bought this building off a gang. I paid for the Bernadello family's older son to get his bakery. I'm the one who sent the younger son to rehab. I even named the newborn. They're pure-blood Sicilians; the second generation ran with Al Capone's Italian Mafia during Prohibition. When they got in trouble, they hired a lawyer, the lawyer came to me, and after a few rounds of that, we got familiar."
He bobbed his head, a pleased look on his face. It was as if, compared to launching a surprise strike that destroyed three carrier groups, killing a Navy vice admiral (unconfirmed), and bartering a nuclear carrier with Russia, the life of a single working family in Brooklyn mattered more. He never thought himself different from anyone else. That was his strange value system—and the most fascinating thing about him.
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