Constantine's jet-powered motorcycle landed on the helipad of a high-rise building roughly one kilometer from the target. Through the heads-up display in his helmet, he watched as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Quinjet sat parked outside Dr. Holden Radcliffe's suburban home. Perhaps due to the Quinjet's noise, the drone Constantine sent in for close reconnaissance remained undetected. Through its lens, he could see the freshly trimmed lawn and blooming roses—he could almost smell the cut grass and flowers, as if the scents crossed the distance to reach him.
The house was in a wealthy suburb, a place where—back when S.H.I.E.L.D. still existed—at least two agents were posted daily to monitor Holden Radcliffe.
The jet's rear ramp lowered, and Melinda May was wheeled out on a gurney, tightly restrained. The woman was a victim of spiritual possession, her face twisted in agony as she screamed, struggled, and cursed. Yet Phil Coulson and Jemma Simmons looked on with worry, not revulsion. Dr. Radcliffe quickly took charge of the patient, ordering them to bring her into his lab—which, in this case, was his living room—and inject her with sedatives.
Through the drone's camera, Constantine watched Jemma Simmons press a needle-free, high-pressure injector—loaded with a full vial of sedative—into May's arm. It took multiple times the standard dose to finally calm her down.
"What the hell is Coulson doing? Isn't he afraid May might die?" A very distinctive voice crackled into Constantine's earpiece. "And where did that Radcliffe guy even come from? Last I checked, that lunatic was still serving time in prison!" the voice continued. "You should storm in there right now and drag Melinda May back to the Undying City instead of letting some mad scientist and his AI take over! I gave him all that networking power not so he could lead S.H.I.E.L.D. into licking the boots of some senator! And now he is—like it's a damn mozzarella stick! Damn it, damn it! S.H.I.E.L.D. used to be a neutral intelligence agency—at least used to be—now it's no different from the CIA, the FBI, or Homeland Security! I'm going to be laughed at for the rest of my life! Salomon's going to stand over my grave and spit on my coffin!"
"Mr. Nick Fury, your job is to provide mission intel and analysis. You are not authorized to issue me commands," Constantine replied calmly, unaffected by the shouting on the other end. "And for the record, you won't have a grave or a coffin—because the Undying City doesn't have cemeteries. Only columbariums."
Though Constantine couldn't understand why the Monarch would assign the former head of a once-hostile intelligence agency as his intel officer, he obeyed nonetheless—following the Monarch's belief that the Praetorian Guard required a bit of 'personal heroism' in their operational model. "Only the Monarch may issue me orders. Unless you want to go back to your cell and eat protein-enriched mashed potatoes, stick to the mission. Also... what is a mozzarella stick?"
"Motherf—! You know you're wasting my talent making me an analyst, right?" Fury was so angry he nearly threw down his headset. But the whiskey ration for the day sat on his desk in front of him, and that quieted his fury for now.
He was located in a middle floor of a tower in the Undying City, designated specifically for the Praetorian Guard's operations. It was the only level his clearance allowed him access to. The room was filled with devices that allowed him to comb through nearly all intelligence department files. From here, Fury could command many analysts under the Guard's banner. A large window at the front of the room looked down on rows upon rows of personnel at computer terminals—analysts with clean backgrounds, many alumni of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, and all former agents who once wore hand-shaped shield pins on ribboned lanyards. Not bumbling CIA agents, nor FBI paper-pushers, and certainly not Skrulls.
Victoria Hand had repeatedly complained about how the Praetorian Guard operated with brute force—Constantine frequently recruited analysts without prior notice. Those who joined the Guard's intel apparatus often disappeared from public view, fading into the shadows cast by the Undying City.
The authority was immense, but Fury could only see—he had no decision-making power.
As for the more mysterious departments within the Guard's intelligence network, no matter how deeply Fury probed, he could never find their trace. Yet somehow, they always delivered him leads. This time, Melinda May's name appeared on a small note sealed with red wax and the scent of scorched protein. After verifying the seal's origin—belonging to that elusive department—Fury's analysts acted without needing orders.
Initially, both he and Victoria Hand thought Salomon would simply fold Fury into the intel ranks, placing him under Hand's command. Salomon had a reputation for pragmatism—he'd even found use for HYDRA operatives. A like-minded former rival like Fury would surely be welcomed—unless there were irreconcilable differences. The Undying City prided itself on making use of any talent, regardless of past affiliations. Fury had accepted this himself. Despite his reservations about Salomon's methods, he couldn't deny the city's efficiency and precision in intelligence work. He even quit drinking—for a while. That wasn't easy, considering the high-end whiskey sold in the city's bars.
But ultimately, it was Constantine who came for him, citing a direct order from the Monarch. The rationale was simple: the Praetorian Guard needed independent thinking. Fury, as a dissenting voice, could provide radically different perspectives from Salomon's orders—perspectives the Guard needed to stay sharp.
"The AI is not currently a threat," Constantine said. "I need to infiltrate Dr. Radcliffe's house and install surveillance devices. Get me access to Fimbulvetr First Secret Regiment, Assault Unit Three and Recon Unit Four—I need them to secure the area."
"Now we're talking! Assault and recon squads are already armed and en route. Units One and Two will accompany the research team to the Pasadena energy lab within the hour. LAPD will be redirected from the area—they won't interfere." Fury was back in his element. "What about Melinda May? When will you bring her to the Undying City?"
"I won't." Constantine replied flatly. "I don't care about her. I only need her symptoms after being possessed. I'll compare those with national medical records."
"You're really sticking to Salomon's logic." Fury muttered. "But at least he's got a softer side. Do you?"
Constantine had no interest in answering. He cut communications and resumed his silent watch, waiting for the Fimbulvetr squads to arrive in Los Angeles. Before the snipers were in place, he'd infiltrate the house and install the necessary devices.
Though he was the only Praetorian Guard deployed for this mission, in the Monarch's design, every Praetorian was a multi-role operative. Constantine could spearhead an assault like a living weapon—or slink through the shadows and snap a neck without a sound. He'd done it before—to an alien nobleman. It wasn't difficult. The bones of Shi'ar aristocrats were fragile.
So were human ones.
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