After Solomon came of age, the Sorcerer Supreme rarely gave him direct orders. On one hand, he was legally and financially independent (though he was actually older, he was still twenty-one in the legal sense); on the other hand, Solomon had already begun treating the affairs of the Eternal City and Kamar-Taj as his own responsibilities. Officially, his authority within Kamar-Taj was second only to the Sorcerer Supreme, but in truth, the Supreme had already transferred all responsibilities to him. Many reports from the three Sanctums were redirected to Solomon, and he had the power to assign missions to other mystics. He even had unrestricted access to dungeons where many secrets were kept.
In simple terms, like the Sorcerer Supreme, if he deemed something necessary, he could do it.
For example, attempting to send a letter to the goddess of death Hela via the root of the World Tree leading to Niflheim was deemed necessary.
"I thought you were going to break in and fight her!" Victor Von Doom couldn't help but smack his own helmet. "But you actually wrote in the letter, 'Your dad wants to visit you. You'll be out soon. I'm waiting at the door. Don't kill anyone, or I'll twist your head off. Kiss kiss, and night night.' Are you insane? What the hell do you think that'll accomplish? That damn sense of humor of yours—I don't even know why I came with you!"
"I don't know what Wotan's planning, but having Hela a little unhinged isn't a bad thing," Solomon shrugged. "I've fought her once or twice, but she never knew who I was. So I signed the letter to let her know I'd be waiting outside. Whoever's here when she gets out—well, they're getting stabbed. Just imagine, if Wotan wants to talk to her... yeah, that talk's not going anywhere. We just need to make sure that happens, right?"
The "signature" in question was a crude drawing made with yellow and black crayons stolen from a schoolboy's backpack. It showed a person in yellow armor holding a sword, and a black-horned figure lying on the ground with its tongue out. There was also an ugly black cat drawn across the front and back of the paper. Poke it gently and it would meow—a small, handy magical charm often used in illustrations.
Just thinking about it made Victor Von Doom's mask vents hiss with heavy breathing. There was no need to hear the servo joints humming to know he was angry. He had expected Solomon to issue a challenge here, or do something heroic. He had come to ensure Solomon's safety—because without him, the people of Latveria had no hope.
He had never anticipated something so absurd.
Though he'd long known Solomon was the type to conjure butterflies with magic to entertain children, or annoy Mordo with his homemade spells, he didn't think Solomon would still act this way as an adult. "You won't have many chances to joke around after this, Solomon," he said sternly, his gaze behind the lenses stabbing at Solomon like knives. "Even if your method works, don't do childish stuff like that again, okay? You're the ruler of the Eternal City, and the future ruler of the human race. Nobody wants to see a king making jokes!"
"I know, I know. I'll return the crayons. I don't want to make a little boy cry. Relax, Victor. I'm trying to enjoy life while I still can. I know I don't have the right to say that—after all, I've been much luckier than you since birth. You've suffered more than most people in the world. But life can't be just about fighting—look around us. Don't focus on the glacier. Look further. This is human society. We can hit a bar in town later, or drop a raw egg in some whiskey..."
"We've already had two liters of whiskey today!"
Solomon pretended not to hear Victor's complaint. "...Listen to people laughing, then toss empty bottles into Niflheim. I'm pretty sure that helps reduce environmental pollution on Earth. A death goddess who hasn't had alcohol in centuries is bound to lose her mind. If she's already mad, she'll just go madder. Don't be like my assistant. She's cute, but incredibly annoying sometimes."
"Like when she reminds you you've had too much to drink?"
"Oh wow, now you're even more annoying than she is! I don't want an annoying regent, I want—"
"Don't act like an idiot! Don't slide off the glacier like a kid! Oh shit!" Victor groaned with genuine regret. "What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to be your regent?!"
"Oh, you mean the part where you got into a bar fight in that Norwegian town, and then had drinks with the cops afterward?" Bayonetta paced the living room, her black silk nightgown fluttering without wind, sapphire triangle earrings sparkling. Everything would've seemed perfectly normal—if not for the gun in her hand. "You drank everyone under the table, including the town's only police officer. That still doesn't explain the lipstick mark on your face, little boy!"
"Could've been from the bartender. A lot of people wanted to kiss me—some with fists, some with lips. The punchers didn't succeed. As for the others? Who knows? Everyone loves me. It got chaotic." Solomon handed Diana a plate of thin pancakes, which she placed on the table. Cooking was one of Solomon's hobbies, and Diana enjoyed watching her master in the kitchen.
"Even the guys I knocked out tried to offer me drugs—while the cop was right there! Probably the craziest thing I've ever experienced!" Solomon tossed bacon into the pan. Jeanne had requested it—she wanted something crispy. She now sat properly at the table, her pale gray eyes locked on the pan in Solomon's hands. She didn't want to miss the pairing of garlic-buttered baguette and bacon—the taste reminded her of home. Bayonetta had dragged her out of bed that morning, and she'd been grumpy ever since. Something sweet was needed to fix her mood—hence, Diana was preparing toothache-inducing macarons for dessert.
"What's even crazier is that you and those guys stole a live octopus from the sushi place's display tank!"
"The octopus wanted to go back to the sea. I heard it say so!"
"You sure you weren't on drugs?"
"Of course not. My own alchemical potions are a thousand times better. Total accident. Also, the bartender was a guy about my height—and he's gay. That's why the lip print was so big." What most would consider rampant drunkenness had zero effect on him. Even if his blood alcohol content was high enough to ignite, his brain would remain untouched. Victor had long since left to complete his mission. Before leaving the town, Solomon had also checked the cave—Hela hadn't replied.
"Besides, I washed my face," he added. "Clean as a whistle. Not a trace left."
"Oh! Well that's fine then!" Bayonetta casually tossed the gun. The Cheshire Cat leapt up from the carpet and caught the precious magical weapon, gnawing the barrel like a fish, kicking the grip with its hind legs. Phoenix tilted his head, made sure the cat wouldn't accidentally pull the trigger and blow itself up, then returned to his perch, pen in paw, scribbling new verses. Solomon had already arranged a pseudonym with a publisher—six months from now, Phoenix would release a new poetry collection.
"I want some garlic-buttered toast," Bayonetta said. "And a whip. I need to confirm my husband's sexual orientation is still intact. Is that in your pan? Or did you leave it in the bedroom? Either way, you're sleeping on the couch tonight. You're welcome."
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