Solomon acted so swiftly that Fury had no chance to intervene. It wasn't just that the mage cast his spells quickly—he had grabbed a small vial from his pouch, downed its contents in one gulp, and slammed his forehead onto the table, entering a deep slumber before Fury could even ask what the liquid was.
Fury stood there, dumbfounded. This was not the plan. They were supposed to release the suspect, let him return home, and wait for him to fall asleep before taking action. Not dive headfirst into the operation like this. To make matters worse, Solomon had left Pegasus parked in the precinct's paid parking lot—sandwiched between a Ford sedan, the S.H.I.E.L.D. black Jeep, and a crate of freshly bought apples. What if someone noticed the winged horse during their delay?
Anger surged through Fury. "Damn it, this little punk! He never sticks to the plan!" He slammed his fist onto the table in frustration, causing Solomon's head to bounce slightly before landing back on the surface with a dull thud. Yet even this jarring motion didn't wake the mage. The potion's effects remained unyielding.
"Fine, cleanup duty falls to me—again. Maybe he spotted something urgent," Fury muttered, exhaling heavily as he began making calls and organizing the scene. Once he finished, his gaze landed on the empty vial on the table. Expertly wielding a cotton swab, he collected some residual liquid from the vial. Then, he pulled out another swab, intending to collect a sample from Solomon's mouth—an unprecedented chance to gather data on the enigmatic mage. After all, S.H.I.E.L.D. had nothing more than his fingerprints; neither Agent Coulson nor Romanoff had ever managed to gather more.
However, as he approached Solomon, a sudden burst of golden-red flames erupted in the room. A massive phoenix unfolded its wings, perching directly in front of Fury.
"Uh… We're friends, right? I wouldn't harm him," Fury stammered awkwardly, forcing a smile. He wasn't foolish enough to antagonize a poetry-writing phoenix, possibly smarter than most people. "I was just trying to, uh, check on his health." His flimsy excuse earned a withering glare from the phoenix, whose eyes radiated disdain.
"Fine, fine. I'll stop. But can you at least tell me what your master is up to?"
Fury backed out of the room, realizing Solomon had once again outmaneuvered him. The phoenix was clearly a safeguard, ready to pull Solomon from the dream realm if necessary. All it needed was a gentle peck to wake the mage—a failsafe Solomon had devised for himself.
Once Fury left, the phoenix shook its feathers, filling the room with the scent of burning. It began tracing a complex magical circle in scorched lines across the floor to enhance Solomon's dreambound strength.
The design started with a charred ring surrounding Solomon, followed by a square enclosing the circle, with four six-pointed stars at each corner bearing iron crosses. These represented the four elements and the realms bridging the soul and body. The stars themselves symbolized the macrocosm. Around the outer edge of the stars, the name "Adonai" was inscribed, signifying the link between the worlds. Near two of the stars were written "Alpha" and "Omega," representing the beginning and the end.
The scorched marks extended upward, climbing the walls and ceiling. Hebrew characters densely populated the space, detailing the divine names and the nine emanations of the Tree of Life: Crown, Wisdom, Understanding, Kindness, Severity, Beauty, Victory, Glory, and Foundation. Encircling the divine names were four pentagrams representing the microcosm of humanity. Flames ignited atop three of the pentagrams, while the phoenix itself claimed the last.
When Fury re-entered the room, the sight stopped him cold. He hesitated to step inside, and the phoenix barred his way with a firm refusal. Within the circle, Solomon's presence had been elevated to that of a deity, his consciousness now interwoven with the world.
As for Solomon's purpose? The answer was becoming clear. He had detected something far more troubling than a mere hell-breathing stowaway like Spnorg.
He had smelled something familiar.
Deeply, hauntingly familiar.
The unsettling scent lingered like a nightmare, an odor that had tormented him since leaving Salem. It had invaded his dreams, and now, he had caught a whiff of it here.
It was the stench of a nightmare.
That cursed hell-breathing creature, Spnorg, knew something. It wasn't a simple trespasser. It was an escapee.
Solomon kicked aside the red sofa cushion at his feet, examining his surroundings. This was the dream of the suspect, Connor. The spell had put Connor to sleep, drawing Solomon into his subconscious. But as expected, this dream wasn't entirely Connor's. It was just a manifestation within someone else's domain.
Stepping over intertwined figures on the carpet—men and women tangled together—Solomon avoided scattered syringes and bags of white powder. He walked past distorted shadows cast by colorful, flickering lights, finally reaching a large glass door. With a flick of his finger, it swung open, and he stepped onto the balcony.
Before him stretched a towering cityscape, skyscrapers rising endlessly into the sky. Giant holographic advertisements flickered and shifted across his view. Cold, unceasing rain drizzled onto the balcony, carried by a gentle breeze. Odd shadows danced across the weathered building, its yellowed white tiles peeling away to expose rough concrete beneath.
This was a dream.
The wet scent of rain and the faint noises from alleyways confirmed it. He reminded himself where he was.
This was a nightmare.
Because as he glanced down at the trash-strewn street below, he saw a dog he recognized.
And the dog recognized him, too. It locked eyes with Solomon, delivering a message.
Something had awakened.
---
S.H.I.E.L.D. quickly took over the local police station in Orogrande, a small town south of the White Sands Missile Range and not far from the Pegasus Base. Fury made calls to ensure no complications would derail the mission. Initially confident he could handle things, he now saw that wasn't an option.
When the Quinjet landed, Agent Coulson entered the interrogation room.
"Director," he said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, "we can't get near the horse."
"Then leave it alone," Fury said, glancing at the phoenix calmly perched beside Solomon. He lowered his voice. "That kid's not dead, and that bird of his is quite capable." Fury turned to Coulson. "Deploy a strike team to surround the station. If you see a monster, shoot it."
"What kind of monster, sir?" Coulson asked, ever the diligent agent. Despite the overtime, he didn't complain. "We've already got a flaming bird and a winged horse munching on apples. What else qualifies as a monster?"
"Are they ugly?" Fury shot Coulson a look of disdain.
"No, sir."
"Then when you see something truly ugly, you'll know." Fury recalled Solomon's description of the hell-breathing Spnorg. "Shoot the ugliest one you can find."
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