Solomon in Marvel

A greedy beast lurked in the shadows, like a vulture trailing a lion. The methods Solomon had displayed sent a chill through Maria Hill's heart. She wondered why she and Nick Fury had only now begun to see the full extent of Solomon's ambition. Had they been deceived by his strikingly beautiful appearance? Had his humor and charisma distracted them from the truth? 

He was too charming—so much so that they had failed to notice his fangs, to ignore the venom that dripped onto the floor and sizzled upon impact. 

He will devour everyone, and we will struggle to stop him. 

Unlike the Avengers, Solomon was a force beyond control—he could not be swayed by money or honor. His motivations were too pure, too grand, for ordinary people to comprehend. 

Just like Nick Fury. 

She understood many of Nick Fury's secrets, but she wasn't sure if any of them could halt Solomon's rise. Even if S.H.I.E.L.D. were reborn under a new name, it might not withstand his advance. Their current collaboration was simply a matter of mutual benefit—Hill understood that clearly. But she could do nothing about it. 

With Natasha Romanoff's help, she had uncovered classified Stark Industries projects—specifically, specialized female power armor units. Before Hydra's uprising, she hadn't understood their purpose. 

Now, she did. 

Those sharp, decisive young women—they were the ones wearing the suits. 

They were Solomon's army, his homunculi. 

S.H.I.E.L.D. should have anticipated this the moment the first artificial soldier was created. No military force on Earth could match an army armed with both high technology and arcane magic. 

Now, Hill also knew the truth behind the missing nuclear warheads. Solomon had casually told her everything—why only Colonel Rhodey had survived, and what really happened in that base. She had seen firsthand his ruthless pragmatism. 

But S.H.I.E.L.D. had realized it all too late. 

Hill had decided to keep these revelations to herself—if exposed, they could cause irreversible chaos. 

She did not want a conflict between the Avengers and Solomon. 

Because she knew that, as things stood, most of the Avengers would lose. 

Everything pointed to one undeniable fact—Solomon had been planning this for years, ever since his first clash with S.H.I.E.L.D. It had all been so subtle. Even now, with certain cracks in his facade, Hill had found no trace of Solomon's financial network. It was as if his money manifested from thin air. His bank accounts seemed to be under some kind of spell—all normal economic logic failed when applied to Solomon Damonet. 

"Aside from hunting Hydra, I also need to speak with Nick Fury." 

Solomon made this statement just before leaving. 

"I know you can reach him, Hill. That man is alive and well. I want a meeting with him—we need to make some rational decisions about humanity's future. 

You know, I really admire him. Truly. We're the same kind of people." 

"What are you planning?" 

"Let's put it this way—I want to check out his disgusting little alien farm and water those poor little green bastards." 

A smirk curled at Solomon's lips, as if he were telling a joke. 

But nobody found it funny. 

The artificial soldiers, as always, lacked a sense of humor—Solomon was certain their alchemical engines simply did not process such things. 

And Hill? 

She found nothing amusing about this. 

"This has dragged on for years," Solomon continued, his tone darkening. "Fury needs to accept the truth—those aliens cannot be trusted. 

You short-sighted bureaucrats can't see the full picture. And I'm sick of listening to Nick Fury strut around like an arrogant rooster, crowing about his grand plans. 

Tell him to come to me—willingly. Bring a warm fireplace and a cup of sweet tea, and maybe, just maybe, this can be resolved peacefully." 

His gaze locked onto Hill's. 

"One more thing—I know a lot about slaughter. 

And I suspect those little green goblins scream delightfully when they die." 

Hill stiffened. 

"Picture it, Hill—a horde of squealing, shrieking, green rats, trampled into pulp. 

Fury needs to take responsibility for those rotting, foul-smelling guavas infesting human society. And for the record, polluting the human gene pool should be another charge against them, but frankly, the thought is too disgusting even for me. 

So get him to call me. 

Otherwise…" Solomon's lips curled into a mocking grin. "There will be more than one Moaning Myrtle crying in the bathroom." 

Hill had no idea how to respond. 

It was a twisted mix of Harry Potter references and botany jargon—she wasn't even sure if it was an actual joke. 

"Girls, Daddy parked the transport ship on the landing pad. Make sure you get home early." 

Solomon waved lazily and stepped into a portal. 

Nobody knew where he was headed. 

— 

The ferocious storm howled against the temporary base's reinforced windows. Had it not been for Wakanda's exceptional materials science, the prefab structure would have already been torn apart by the pressure difference between the interior and the raging winds outside. 

Heavy alloy supports kept the fragile research station standing. Inside, the heating system hummed steadily, preventing its occupants from turning into icicles. 

Fortunately, communications were still online. The sudden drop in temperature and extreme weather hadn't disrupted the Wakandan Antarctic Expedition—yet. 

Shuri sat in front of a display, analyzing topographical data sent back by aerial drones. She was narrowing down the impact site of a meteorite. On another screen, a satellite image displayed the storm's movements, slowly creeping toward the temporary base. 

The drones skimmed the edge of the storm, sending back images—a massive, white cloud giant, like an outstretched hand, sweeping away everything in its path. 

They didn't have much time. 

They had to leave before the storm fully arrived. 

But the workload was enormous—almost impossible to complete before evacuation. 

Solomon had instructed her to limit the search radius to just two miles. She didn't understand why, but based on past experience, Solomon's requests were always calculated and necessary. 

So, based on the available data, she had identified a few possible impact zones. 

But one thing still puzzled her— 

What was Solomon planning to do with that… big wooden stick? 

The staff in his hands looked crude, as if hastily carved. A rough-hewn wooden shaft, embedded with a clear crystal at its head. 

Yet Shuri's spectral analysis revealed something extraordinary. 

There was energy within it. 

Not only that—nothing about Solomon was ever as simple as it appeared. 

Even the furry black cat in his pocket seemed… odd. 

And that ragged old book he carried? 

Shuri recognized a few words on its cover—"Weather," "Wind," "Clouds," "Seasons"—but the rest was an indecipherable mess of twisted glyphs and geometric patterns. 

She understood what magic was. 

But Wakanda had never mastered it. 

Perhaps, in the ancient knowledge granted by the Panther God to the first Black Panther, there had once been mysticism. But in modern Wakanda, that knowledge was long lost, leaving only technology to flourish. 

Solomon had rejected her suggestion to retreat to the coast and wait out the storm. 

He stood there, unmoved, exuding the reckless confidence of an Arctic explorer, as if he were Fridtjof Nansen himself—unfazed by the raging blizzard before him. 

"What exactly are you planning?" Shuri asked. "Wakanda's weather weapons are too large to transport here in time." 

Solomon's lips curled into a knowing smirk. 

"I don't need those weather weapons." 

He lifted the wooden staff. 

"I can break the storm myself."

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