The mental burden of paranoia, inherited from the Sorcerer Supreme, had deeply rooted itself in her successor, Solomon Damonet—though he was entirely unaware of it. What he also didn't know was that, in another dimension, people were openly discussing his mental state. Perhaps Nick Fury's observations weren't entirely off base. Solomon likely did need a therapist. However, the cruel reality was that no one could help restore his psyche to that of a "normal" person.
For someone as unique as Solomon, his life's trajectory had always been abnormal. From birth, the immense weight of his responsibilities had already begun to push him to the brink of madness. The Ancient One's brutal actions during his youth—forcing him to confront life's most brutal realities and take lives with his own hands—had only worsened his condition. Perhaps his life with the witches was slowly softening his psyche, but how long that would take, or if it would even work, was still an open question.
Blissfully unaware of his own mental struggles, Solomon had no time to reflect on such matters. He was busy marching through Hell.
Not long ago, he had passed through the territory of Marduk, an ancient devil once mistaken in human history for the protective deity of Babylon. In truth, Marduk was a wild and chaotic devil, so uncharacteristic of devils that he was often mistaken for a demon by other Hell lords—who mostly regarded him as a lunatic. Since Marduk was also one of the contenders for the Seventh Throne, even Solomon's brief presence in his domain would have made him a target. Thus, Phoenix had advised Solomon to bypass Marduk's lands altogether and find a more tolerable location to rest.
Solomon's food rations consisted solely of jerky and water. At first, he tolerated it well enough. But by the third meal, stuffing another piece of jerky into his mouth made him long for a restaurant back on the Material Plane where he could gorge himself properly. If not for his magical tricks to alter the jerky's flavor into various fruits, he might have given up altogether. His supplies dwindled rapidly as he raided his dimensional pouch for anything remotely edible. Other hardships—heat, dryness, exhaustion—were minor inconveniences in comparison, and he solved those with magic. At the very least, he wasn't in danger of dying of thirst.
But Pegasus was less adaptable. The dust storms clogged its feathers and mane, and even seeped into its nostrils, making it impossible to fully clean itself. By the end of the first day, Pegasus had demanded a thorough bath. After Solomon cleaned its nose and feathers, the celestial steed returned to the Astral Plane to rest, refusing to reappear until summoned.
The monotonous cycle of eating, marching, and sleeping dragged on for days—though Solomon had lost track of time by this point. All he could think about was reaching Mephisto's domain, meeting up with the other sorcerers, blasting the devil's palace to pieces, and finally returning home for some well-earned rest.
Phoenix, too, was weary, having shouldered the responsibility of ensuring Solomon's safety throughout their journey. The firebird only found brief moments of respite while they were on the move.
Fortunately, before Solomon completely lost his sense of time, he encountered a Kamar-Taj elder steward sent to rendezvous with him. This seasoned sorcerer seemed remarkably experienced with the rigors of marching through Hell. Whether this was knowledge passed down through his family or something he had personally endured was unclear. Regardless, the moment he met Solomon, he expertly produced a variety of food—none of which was jerky.
"Once you break through Mephisto's defensive wards, you'll be allowed to return to Earth," the elder steward said with a slight shake of his head, clearly unimpressed by Solomon's pampered demeanor. To him, this was a minor issue that could be fixed. He even made a mental note to suggest to the Sorcerer Supreme that Solomon undergo harsher survival training in extreme conditions, training that would continue until he could endure even the harshest of dimensions.
"Finally!" Solomon exclaimed, nearly on the verge of tears. His armor was soaked, water dripping steadily from its edges. It was his makeshift solution to staying cool and hydrated. Without it, the oppressive heat would have roasted him alive in his heavy gear.
At this point, Solomon even missed the witches. A few swats from Bayonetta's whip wouldn't be so bad if it meant being back home.
"Let's get moving!" he said enthusiastically.
"Calm down, boy," the elder steward said dismissively. "Your mortal friend is still trailing behind. For the final stretch, you'll travel with us, and we'll handle the rest of the work."
Nick Fury, who had been documenting Hell with his camera as if he were on some bizarre sightseeing trip, finally caught up. His military background, particularly his time in jungle warfare, had equipped him with survival skills that translated surprisingly well to Hell's dry, hostile environment. Compared to the other sorcerers, who were visibly worn out, Fury was faring relatively well. American military rations were more nutritious than jerky and didn't risk causing mouth ulcers.
When he saw Solomon, Fury's face lit up. He'd encountered countless things he didn't understand during the march, and the sorcerers' attitude toward him had been less than friendly. While they had agreed to let him tag along, their disdain for the audacity of a mortal daring to traverse Hell made them unwilling to answer his questions or accept his offered food.
"You look awful," Fury quipped, taking his usual verbal jab before expressing genuine concern for Solomon's well-being. Fury himself was still clad in his signature black leather jacket, refusing to part with it despite the hellish heat. Perhaps he feared that removing it would expose some small alien piloting him from within. The other sorcerers had sensibly switched to lighter clothing, but Fury and Solomon continued to suffer in their chosen attire.
"Yeah," Solomon muttered weakly. "Let's just get this over with."
"Wait." A younger sorcerer approached, dragging along a twisted, red figure that vaguely resembled a human. "You should hear what this one is saying." The sorcerer gestured toward the trembling, barely coherent devilspawn. "It just descended into Hell, and it's muttering something about… Stark?"
Meanwhile, on Earth, Tony Stark paced restlessly as he repeatedly tried to make phone calls.
The first number went unanswered.
Frustrated, he dialed another number, only to be met with silence again. Finally, his patience snapped, and he called S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main line, which was answered by Maria Hill.
Hill listened as Stark ranted about his predicament. Unfortunately, she could offer little assistance. The terrorist organization Stark had provoked was not affiliated with the CIA or any U.S. government-backed anti-government factions. She had no information to provide him.
"Where's Nick Fury?" Stark demanded, his irritation growing. "Is there anyone who can actually help me?"
Regret began to creep in. Stark knew he'd gone too far in provoking the terrorists, but with Happy hospitalized, his pride wouldn't allow him to back down. On the surface, he maintained his bravado for the media, but privately, he was desperate for answers.
"I don't know where Director Fury is right now," Hill lied. She was well aware of Fury's current location. Every agent involved in that mission had signed confidentiality agreements barring them from discussing what had transpired. As Fury's assistant, Hill had access to the details but adhered strictly to the rules of secrecy.
"But I gave them my address!"
"My advice is to accept S.H.I.E.L.D.'s protection. I'll send agents to escort you and Miss Potts."
"But that would mean admitting I lost to those terrorists!"
"What exactly are you trying to prove, Stark?"
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