In legends, alchemists are often depicted as wild-haired figures working fervently over a steaming cauldron, surrounded by strange ingredients, conjuring precious metals amidst clouds of acrid fumes. Reality, however, often diverges sharply from such tales. Nowhere in the annals of history is there a record of an alchemist taking such meticulous care with a toy robot. Yet here was Solomon, painstakingly polishing the tiny components of a model kit.
Natasha Romanoff stood nearby, unable to discern what exactly Solomon was up to. Although Nick Fury had promised Solomon a complete collection of Japanese robot anime merchandise—hoping to secure the mystic's cooperation with the TAHITI project—this wasn't the time for distractions. Coulson's body was still lying on the operating table downstairs.
Just as Natasha was about to scold him, Solomon's frustration erupted. He was struggling to snap the chest armor of a limited-edition Unicorn Gundam model into place but dared not use excessive force. Letting out a deep sigh, he seemed as though he might exhale his very soul. "This isn't just playing around," Solomon muttered to himself. While his passion for Gundam collecting was undeniable, this was "training" for assembling constructs—or so he rationalized. Not a bad excuse, one he could use again later.
"Don't stress yourself out," Solomon said, noticing Natasha's stern expression. "Coulson hasn't started sprouting maggots yet; we still have time."
"You weren't so cavalier when it was me," Natasha retorted, her eyes narrowing. "You said I'd been dead for barely a minute back then."
"Why are you suddenly acting like Stark? I just want you to focus. Coulson's been through days of surgeries, and his medical records are right next to you, but you haven't even looked at them!" Natasha's annoyance suggested lingering resentment from Salem, where Solomon had once sacrificed her soul without hesitation. Feeling guilty, Solomon decided not to push his luck. If Natasha remembered how casually he had abandoned her spirit, he wasn't sure she wouldn't exact physical revenge.
"The doctors did a great job," Solomon deflected, setting the model kit aside and flipping through Coulson's medical file. The records documented the six prior surgeries, detailing the medications and symptoms during each attempt. Far from a standard medical chart, it resembled an exhaustive log of experimental procedures, spanning six inches thick. Lacking the patience to read it all, Solomon skimmed the most critical parts: the effects of GH-325 on Coulson. Fury's preservation measures had ensured that Coulson's body showed no signs of decomposition—his blood had remained fresh—but prolonged surgery without revival would lead to fatal blood clots, even with GH-325.
"Okay," Solomon finally sighed, standing up. With a resigned expression, he gestured for Natasha to help him remove his tailcoat, navy waistcoat, and leather shoes. She assisted as he donned surgical slippers, followed strict handwashing protocols, and changed into a sterile surgical gown and gloves.
"You smell nice," Natasha teased as she fastened his gloves. "No sweat, just a hint of fresh grass."
Having endured far greater temptations from witches, Solomon merely rolled his eyes and walked toward the operating table where Coulson lay. "You've all signed the contracts I provided, correct?" he asked the two doctors nearby, including the one who had greeted them earlier. Both nodded. Only then did Solomon press his gloved hand against Coulson's chest.
"Then you know what happens next is not to be disclosed," Solomon warned as he reached toward a briefcase Natasha had brought into the operating room. Inside was a mound of shimmering powder, reflecting multiple hues. Grabbing a handful of diamond dust, Solomon began his spell. Behind him, a massive white spectral figure materialized, nearly filling the room. Its features were indistinct, but the glowing sword it wielded and the shield adorned with the Vishanti's trinity sigil were unmistakable.
This was Solomon's summoned spectral guardian, a protective entity that would attack any hostile presence approaching him during the casting.
"Now, it's magic time."
"So this is why you're late tonight? I can smell the disinfectant on you, along with seawater... and a hint of some red-haired woman's perfume!" Bayonetta toyed with a beaded bracelet in her hand. The artifact, supposedly the Queen Nehetep's bracelet from Ancient Egypt, was a museum-grade national treasure. But in this room, no one cared about its historical value. For witches and mystics, its aesthetic appeal was all that mattered. Artifacts of Ancient Egypt were hardly rare to them.
Whether Nick Fury had stolen it from a museum or it was merely a replica didn't matter—it wasn't a magical item. Solomon planned to enchant it later during a break from crafting alchemical maids.
"Well, I have to earn a living somehow, darling," Solomon replied smoothly, shifting the conversation as he sat beside Bayonetta. "Kamar-Taj's funding doesn't cover my personal expenses. Speaking of which, Byron's estate is up for sale. If you're interested, we can take a look. Or perhaps next weekend, we could hunt for leprechaun gold in Ireland? That's an entire warehouse of coins! Or we could picnic in Avalon—I'll ask the Ancient One for directions."
Solomon smiled as he fastened the bracelet onto Bayonetta's wrist. He vividly remembered Natasha's shocked expression when she handed him the intricately crafted piece of gold, lapis lazuli, and colored glass jewelry after he completed the spell. Romanoff had been utterly baffled that Solomon's entire effort had been for his lover to acquire a piece of Ancient Egyptian jewelry, likely authentic. On the one hand, she marveled at Fury's generosity; on the other, she found Solomon's priorities absurd. He seemed to care little for money, valuing only gold, equivalent artifacts, or gemstones.
"Not bad," the witch murmured, planting a kiss on Solomon's cheek. Nearby, Jeanne stared intently, as if waiting for Solomon to produce something for her. It wasn't that Jeanne wanted jewelry for herself—she wanted assurance that Solomon treated all the witches equally. Or so she told herself. Okay, maybe she couldn't fool even herself.
As family of sorts, Solomon had to produce something for Jeanne too. She needed to ensure that Solomon wasn't giving such things to other women. Otherwise, Jeanne might have to "reclaim" what rightfully belonged to Bayonetta—with knives and guns if necessary. This wasn't about wanting the objects, but about her responsibility toward Bayonetta. Of course, it was totally not personal!
"And where's my gift?" Jeanne finally asked, breaking the silence. Solomon, still cozy on the sofa with Bayonetta, had made no move to offer her anything.
"Oh?" Bayonetta adjusted her glasses, the glare obscuring her eyes. "Darling, it seems you've forgotten Jeanne's present."
"Present? What present?" Solomon blinked, confused.
Jeanne's face turned crimson.
"I'm not asking for a gift!" she protested. "I just want to make sure you're not giving gifts to other women. That's all!"
"Really?" Bayonetta teased, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Are you sure it's not for yourself?"
"Absolutely not! Bayonetta, you have to believe me!"
"But last night, you didn't say that~"
"Bayonetta!" Jeanne, flustered and furious, pulled out her pistols.
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