As a command center, Zephyr One was never built for heavy firepower. Its strength lay in detection, communications, and personnel coordination—everything a mobile command hub should excel at. Mike didn't need a radar officer to tell him about any anomalies; he could already hear the roar of engines carrying through from the ramp area. The rapidly approaching noise was so loud it was like someone was screaming inside the cabin.
"That's not the sound of a Quinjet engine." Mike looked up, frowning. He knew the sound of S.H.I.E.L.D. aircraft well, and compared to this, a Quinjet was like a kitten just opening its eyes and mewing. The radar confirmed his suspicion—the incoming craft was moving at incredible speed, enough to make him think its passengers weren't ordinary people.
"Arm up and prepare to defend."
Nearly five minutes later, the engine noise faded. The agents who'd gone outside for defensive positions came back with conflicted expressions. One of them was half-dragging, half-carrying a black-clad figure into the command deck. The air filled with the sour stench of half-digested food. "Daisy Johnson, wanted fugitive," the agent in front announced with a grimace. "Do we inform Agent Coulson?"
"No. Just put her in a seat," Mike said, glancing at the 3D map on the screens before walking over. Even after resting, Daisy's complexion was still deathly pale. She lay limp in the seat, eyes closed, looking as if she couldn't care less about her fate. "What happened to her?" he asked.
"A black craft dropped her off. More precisely… threw her out." The agent clearly would never forget the scene—while they had their weapons trained on the incoming ship, Daisy Johnson had stumbled down the ramp like a drunk, then collapsed at their feet like a rag doll. The craft's doors shut immediately afterward, and it blasted back into the sky. "As for her… well, you can see for yourself—motion sickness. Medics cleared her airway and gave her a shot. Sir, I suggest we cuff her."
After watching the footage from the cabin's internal cameras, Mike shook his head.
He recognized that craft. Just as S.H.I.E.L.D. had its Quinjets, other organizations had their own specialized aircraft. This heavily armored, heavily armed type belonged to the Eternal City. S.H.I.E.L.D. had once faced the threat of these very ships—capable of carrying nuclear warheads—and had been helpless against their missile-like speed. It was understandable that an agent who hadn't been on an alien rescue mission wouldn't recognize it. But Mike wasn't about to tell him anything about extraterrestrial rescues or alien nano-parasites.
"No. Let her rest," Mike said. "Wake her when Coulson returns. I'm sure she'll have something to tell us."
"In fact, the Eternal City's work in materials science is extremely valuable, and all of it's been turned into practical products. The pilots of every assault transport wear lightweight flight suits, better than any other nation's space gear. It's just that most passengers are either in power armor or genetically enhanced, so ordinary comfort issues get overlooked." Solomon, wearing sunglasses, read from the documents in his hands. "Looks like the magic world's disregard for customer experience has bled into our research division—or maybe it's because the Eternal City doesn't have a complaints department. I think we should design something passengers can get on and off in quickly. It's the best way to stop them from puking on the deck. Don't you think?"
"I think we should get a bit more sun and then enjoy dinner. You've been working for five hours straight, darling—it's time to relax. Don't forget you're here on vacation, not as a slave." Bayonetta emerged from the clear pool water, gripping the ladder to climb onto the deck. She reached back to undo her bikini strap, letting the soaked garment fall to the ground without a care, then shook out her dripping hair as she headed toward the lounge chair beneath the umbrella and the champagne chilling in the ice bucket. There'd been no pool here before, but after buying the estate, Solomon had insisted on building one—with a heating system so it could be enjoyed year-round.
"Dayna made Texas smoked brisket, but before we enjoy that…"
Solomon checked a box on the document, then tossed it aside.
It was a completely unconscious action, and only after doing it did he realize it had happened. He stared at his own hand in surprise—then, inevitably, his gaze shifted. The wide pool surface caught the orange-red afterglow of the sunset, its rippling surface like molten gold mingling with the silver-white glow of the lights, forming a dreamlike palette. Bayonetta came at him like a night sky woven of pale gray, blood red, and deep violet, straddling him with a body still dripping warm water. Droplets slid from her skin and splashed against him like warm rain. Her pale gray eyes locked on his, brimming with power and desire. Solomon felt his throat go dry, his body heat rising, her beauty hitting him like a tidal wave—the heat of her thighs against his waist was the killing blow.
The witch's expression was one of lofty dominance as she held two flutes of champagne, their icy glass walls frosted by the chill of the bubbling liquid. She knew no one could resist her—her opponent had already surrendered. She was the queen of this battlefield, just as she always had been. Though defeat would inevitably come later, she never feared the challenge; sometimes, she just needed an ally.
When Solomon accepted the glass she offered, it still felt like he was falling endlessly through a dream.
"No praise could be too much for you, my dear—just like the first time we met." He had painted her countless times, always as his muse, but no brush could capture the surge of vitality and magnetism within her. No matter how he tried, he could never reproduce the molten love in those pale gray eyes.
"Let's have the champagne first," his Adam's apple bobbed. "Dinner can wait. If Jeanne wants to complain, let her—but we won't tell her."
Her palm pressed flat to his chest, fingertips trailing upward in a line sharp enough to feel like it might cut his skin. She smiled lazily, savoring her control in that moment. "I want to try it in the water… don't you?"
After savoring the sweetness of life, Solomon allowed himself two seconds of guilt—then lifted the black-haired witch and drifted into the warm pool with her. Night had fallen, and the only light came from the cold lamps set around the pool's edge. I'm on vacation, he told himself again and again, so that he wouldn't finish dinner and immediately reach for his guns and blades to head into Latveria's mountains. Duty would always push him to bury himself in reports and walk among the poor, but he had to remind himself he'd return to that high-pressure work once his break was over. He couldn't let himself drown too deeply in this land of tenderness.
Bayonetta clearly saw through him.
Her tired face bent into a smile, and she reached out to pinch his cheek.
"Stop torturing yourself, little boy," she said. "You work every day, don't you?"
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