Constantine remained as silent as ever, but the same couldn't be said for the person next to him.
Daisy Johnson, ever since being released, acted as if she were now the lead on the mission. After confirming that Wanda Maximoff was the person sent by Solomon, she had picked up the backpack Constantine had rummaged through and began organizing the clues she'd gathered—for the Royal Guard's benefit. As she worked, she insisted on voicing her opinions about the current state of S.H.I.E.L.D., regardless of whether Constantine wanted to hear them. She also repeatedly asked him whether he'd undergone biochemical augmentation, why he didn't join the Avengers, and why he referred to a sorcerer as his master—but the Royal Guard didn't respond even once.
"All the Skinheads have been killed by Robbie Reyes," Daisy finally offered another piece of intel she hadn't previously disclosed. Perhaps encountering an associate—even a strained one—put her more at ease. After all, their goals were aligned: both were trying to figure out where the Skinheads had hidden a potentially world-ending weapon. "I'll overlook your heavy-handed approach this time, big guy," she added, giving a playful tap to Constantine's armored abdomen. "By the way, why is your power armor gold? Not saying it's ugly or anything, but don't you think the style's a bit… over the top?"
"My master has excellent artistic taste."
"That's the first thing you've said since you let me go!" Daisy fumed. Constantine was puzzled—was this woman unstable? She was angry when he didn't speak, and angry when he did.
"Since we're working together, you should be sharing information. Like... do you know what exactly the Skinheads stole? I know you do, otherwise you wouldn't be in L.A. And Wanda Maximoff—someone that powerful wouldn't be here for a minor issue, right?"
"You don't have clearance." Constantine reaffixed his helmet, the crimson lenses once again obscuring his eyes. He already knew Robbie Reyes' likely destination and the location of the surviving Skinhead. With all mission-critical intelligence obtained, there was no need to remain. "I never said I'd be working with you. Cooperation might lead to unnecessary casualties, because you lack operational discipline," he said. "My master will not be as forgiving as S.H.I.E.L.D. This mission cannot fail. Do you understand? Anyone who stands in my way will meet the same end. I don't care what you've done—if your actions trigger a larger crisis, I'll kill you without hesitation, even if my master wishes to spare you."
Solomon reached out and switched off the monitor. He had always encouraged Constantine to think independently—even to disobey orders if necessary—so long as he believed he was doing the right thing. Hearing his Royal Guard speak those words gave him a sense of satisfaction. "Darling, I'm afraid this is all I can let you see," he said to Stephanie. "The next part of the mission isn't exactly suitable for broad disclosure. Not everyone can withstand that kind of psychic contamination. For your own well-being—and the internal affairs and logistics work of your department—I suggest you enjoy a cup of tea and take a break. Don't worry, if the Guard and the Ghost Rider clash, you'll get a first-person view of the fight."
"I've seen enough, thanks," Stephanie muttered, rolling her eyes. "That strike sequence from the Guard almost made me puke."
The data terminal was displaying Constantine's point-of-view via his helmet cam—essentially first-person footage. Though selectively filtered, the feed still allowed the viewer to experience mission progress through the Guard's eyes. It was an immersive method, but with drawbacks: because the Royal Guard moved too fast, when he stormed Daisy Johnson's hideout, all Stephanie saw was a blur of shaky, disorienting movement.
The screen's framerate was perfectly sufficient—it was just that an ordinary human brain and eye couldn't process visuals at that speed.
Stephanie still had no idea what weapon Constantine had used on Daisy, how he had pinpointed her floor, or how he executed the strike—until Solomon broke it down for her: The Guard had used a shock-and-awe tactic to catch Daisy off guard and bait her into using her powers. He then confronted the shockwave directly, countering it with an experimental gravity weapon developed in their labs, reversing the blast and riding its force to overwhelm her—capturing the target with minimal harm.
Any well-equipped soldier facing Daisy Johnson would have a tough time—even Iron Man couldn't guarantee a win. But for the Royal Guard, even superpowers weren't enough if the opponent lacked battlefield instincts. Daisy hadn't even thought to use her abilities on the floor to drop him through it—that oversight gave Constantine the opening he needed to subdue her.
Only now did Stephanie understand why Solomon insisted that the Guard be equipped with melee weapons rather than being turned into a long-range firepower platform. To do so would be a waste of his enhanced physiology and advanced power armor. Only weapons capable of slicing through armored plating could truly unleash such terrifying violence. The Asgardians had long mastered this principle: with their powerful physiques, mastery of melee weaponry, and research into small boarding craft acceleration systems, they brought naval warfare tactics to space—perfecting their legendary void fleet maneuvers. No matter how strong an enemy warship's guns were, if the pack of void wolves latched on, Asgardians would board from within and tear the ship apart.
Many of Immortal City's military R&D efforts followed this philosophy: technologies like drop pods and space torpedoes were all developed to rapidly deploy troops onto enemy ships and dismantle them from the inside—minimizing costs while maximizing disruption. According to Asgardian legend, the All-Father himself would personally lead boarding charges, storming enemy decks atop Sleipnir and emerging victorious again and again. From what Stephanie knew, Solomon had done much the same—but with an old crew of misfit space pirates. Had he not fought alongside them, they'd have lost every single battle.
Even now, Solomon occasionally recounted those wild stories to her—how he ordered half-cybernetic beings to bathe catfolk, or how he led a bunch of cosmic idiots in raiding monopolist crime syndicates across the galaxy to bring advanced tech back to Immortal City.
To Stephanie, though, all those tales reeked of recklessness and a dangerous disregard for consequence. She couldn't fathom why a war leader would personally charge into battle—she could only see the terrifying reality: if Solomon were ever injured or killed, everything—Immortal City, the Mars foundries, and all their pacts—would collapse like a feudal kingdom after its king dies. Everything she'd worked for would become meaningless.
And the thought that he might do it again in the future sent a chill down her spine.
"Darling, I need a favor. About the Pasadena Energy Laboratory…"
"I knew you didn't invite me to watch the mission footage for nothing!" Stephanie growled, clenching her fists and pounding Solomon's thigh. "Fine. But I'm not getting too involved—I'll just make a few calls," she sighed. "You said it yourself. I'm supposed to be off-duty today."
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