The massacre site wasn't a place Lorna should linger. While Solomon didn't particularly like Athena's softened Spartan-style education, he stuck with it. He believed the children, especially Lorna, didn't need to endure such rigorous training. He had voiced his objections before, but Athena always silenced him with impeccable logic.
"Are you going to protect her forever?" Athena hadn't even looked at him. "Do you think you can shield her from this extremely dangerous world for her entire life? Do you know why I teach them how to fight? It's so they'll have a voice in this world. Survival is the most important thing. Only those who are capable get to speak. If you keep them away from combat, you're stripping them of their right to live. None of the children I've raised are the type to cower under a desk and scream. Not one. So, let Lorna try. At least she shouldn't flinch when she sees a corpse."
Lorna looked like she was about to throw up. Solomon quickly tucked the petite girl under his arm like a briefcase and carried her out. The smell of blood wasn't pleasant, but at least she wouldn't vomit on a crime scene. That would be too much to clean up. He also made sure to grab her handgun—after all, there was still target practice to complete. If Athena said Lorna was going to kill a rat, then by God, a rat would die.
"Don't throw up here. You don't want Minerva seeing you like this," Solomon sighed. Lorna's skin was cold to the touch despite the oppressive summer heat, and the massacre scene had clearly been too much for her. "Do you remember Minerva's friend? The one who lives in Hell's Kitchen and married that rich guy? The abstract artist, Vanessa? You've met her before. She's the one who paints white streaks on a canvas and calls it art. We're going to see her. She can give you a glass of lemonade."
Vanessa was incredibly hospitable. Not only did she offer Solomon and Lorna lemonade, but she also handed Lorna a chilled towel.
"Minerva told me you got into Oxford. Congratulations, Solomon." Vanessa sat on the sofa, dabbing Lorna's forehead with the towel. The color began to return to the girl's face. Vanessa added, "Lorna took oil painting lessons with me once. But unlike you, I don't think she has much talent for it."
"Neither of us has much talent for abstract art."
"Ugh—"
"Oh, dear!" Vanessa cried out as Lorna began to vomit. She quickly patted Lorna's back and used the towel to clean up the mess. Her movements were gentle, but Lorna still glanced up at Solomon, her eyes red with embarrassment. She felt utterly humiliated. Vanessa clearly noticed this as well.
"What happened?" she asked, glaring at Solomon. "Where did you take her? Don't lie to me. I can smell the blood."
"It was just a quick stop by a crime scene."
"Where?"
Solomon didn't answer. Vanessa shot him a sharp look.
"It's none of my business where someone got killed. That's for the police to worry about. People die in Hell's Kitchen every day; it's not exactly news," she said. "What I care about is you letting a child see something like that. How old is she? She hasn't even started high school yet…"
"How did the conversation go?"
"Not great," Harold Finch said as he settled back in front of his computer and let out a long sigh. Being under the air conditioner felt amazing, but his stiff neck still hurt, and the stabbing pain in his spine hadn't let up. He blinked a few times, trying to shake off the heat-induced daze. His hand groped around the desk, especially under the folders, hoping to find something round and familiar.
"Looking for this?" The sound of a pill bottle rattling froze Finch in his chair. John Reese rolled his wheelchair closer, holding up the orange bottle of OxyContin. "You're already on these, Finch," Reese said, handing the bottle back. His tone was light as usual, but his words carried a hint of concern. "Don't overdo it."
"I need them, Mr. Reese," Finch said with a weary sigh. He removed his glasses and opened the bottle, shaking out a single white pill. "Just one. I'll control the dosage."
"Good. Mind telling me how the talk went?" Reese leaned forward, his forehead creased. "Carter's losing her mind. The homicide unit's workload is off the charts. Do you think we should tell her who's responsible for these killings? 'Let the guy take out some scumbags. Makes our job easier.' Guess who said that?"
"Detective Fusco? You've got the tone just right."
"Bingo. But Carter wants to catch Castle. She insists on bringing him to justice in court. She's worried that sooner or later, innocent people will get caught in the crossfire. And she thinks we know who the killer is."
"She's right. But going after him is too dangerous for the police, Mr. Reese. He can take out twenty men in one go. They'd need SWAT, a federal task force, and a district attorney's full cooperation. This isn't something a few officers can handle. Let the city deal with it. We'll try to strike a deal with Frank Castle—get him to handle criminals in a less… lethal way and avoid harming bystanders. If that fails, I'd rather warn his targets."
"That's all we can do in this godforsaken city. Any decent person here is a step away from picking up a gun and resorting to violence. Until you recover, Carter and Fusco should stay out of this mess. They've got dirty cops to deal with anyway."
"Oh, and this." Finch handed Reese the vial Solomon had given him. Seeing Reese's puzzled expression, Finch explained its purpose and added his own critique: "It looks like something brewed from lizard tails and bat wings. I doubt it tastes any better."
"And you're only giving me this now?"
"Apologies. The headache took over my brain."
"Whatever." Reese pulled the cork from the vial and downed the potion in one gulp.
It was late when Solomon finally returned to Athena's apartment with Lorna. Vanessa had been overzealous, insisting on driving them back instead of letting Solomon take the wheel. Upon arrival, she got into a heated argument with Athena about Lorna's condition.
Solomon didn't involve himself in women's arguments. Instead, he opened the car door, slipped into the driver's seat, and was about to start the engine when he hesitated.
"Hello, Agent Coulson. You look terrible," he said.
"Yeah, dead people tend to look awful after a few days," Coulson replied, his attempt at humor doing little to hide the tension in his voice. "I know about Tahiti."
"You died, then you were resurrected. So what?" Solomon turned to face the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, his face half-illuminated by the car's interior lights. "If you wanted to ask me something, a phone call would've sufficed."
"You know what they did to me, don't you?" Coulson's calm demeanor masked the turmoil raging within.
A few days earlier, during a mission Solomon wasn't aware of, Coulson had been captured by a group following the orders of someone called "The Clairvoyant." They wanted to uncover the secret of Coulson's resurrection.
Coulson described the ordeal to Solomon.
Under the Clairvoyant's interrogation, Coulson had been forced to relive fragmented memories of his death. He saw himself, alive but immobilized, with his skull opened and a machine probing his brain with electrical currents. It was a form of advanced memory manipulation, and he had to remain conscious throughout the procedure, enduring the excruciating pain of his brain being rewired.
Even after being rescued, Coulson hadn't shared this harrowing experience with anyone.
"I don't know how you perceive death, Agent Coulson," Solomon said seriously. "But I've always believed you didn't need to be brainwashed. During your resurrection, my magic played only a minor role. I never summoned your soul. Fury doesn't know that—he thinks I brought your soul back."
"Resurrection requires a soul?"
"Absolutely."
"Then how am I alive? GH-325 doesn't seem like it could affect souls. It's just a healing serum."
"Decayed Kree blood isn't nearly that powerful. The Kree are only slightly more resilient than humans, capable of faster healing, that's all. Remember what I told you before, Agent Coulson?" Solomon smiled faintly. "Even if you ended up in hell, we'd pull you back. You're too important to lose."
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