The Quinjet was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s standard transport vehicle, its heavily modular design enabling a wide range of functions, from transportation to firepower support. It could carry personnel and cargo, provide heavy firepower, perform supersonic flight, vertical takeoff and landing, and even atmospheric escape. As physicist and mechanic for S.H.I.E.L.D., Leopold Fitz and Mike were well aware of just how tough its armored plating was. Except for the rear turbine engines and the jet engine at the tail, the reinforced hull could withstand a significant degree of firepower. And yet, this reliable piece of technology was now floating unsteadily in midair, surrounded by a shimmering layer of amorphous crimson light, like a translucent mist of deep red.
Before Fitz and Mike could even comprehend what was happening, the armor plating of the Quinjet groaned under tremendous pressure. Its sturdy alloys began to cave in, the folded wings bent at destructive angles, and the rear jet engine—along with its fuel lines—was wrenched out with brute force. The cockpit glass shattered like a spray of white snowflakes, making the entire jet look like a soda can being crushed. Sparks and ignited fuel flared up repeatedly, but all of it was contained within that crimson energy. Standing nearby, Fitz and Mike felt absolutely nothing.
But the transformation didn't stop at mere deformation by external force. The Quinjet also underwent a terrifying change from the inside out—one far more baffling. Instead of being crushed into a flat sheet of metal, the flames enveloping the engines and entire fuselage catalyzed a transmutation—not deformation, but transmutation. The nose of the jet stretched and split under the fire's blessing, forming a reptilian head and neck. The twisted beast's head burned with orange-red flames, trying to throw back its head and roar, but was quickly yanked back by the crimson energy. The landing gear twisted and sharpened into claws, the black rubber tires turned into a dark skin that wrapped around the now-metal talons. The folded wings began to unfurl from their fixed base, lengthening and thinning, while broken fuel lines, now streaming liquid fire, extended in impossible ways and fused back into the wings like living veins.
This transformation seemed to give life to the monster. The wings struggled against the external force, trying to spread wide, and the black claws swiped wildly through the air. The crimson energy wrapped around the aircraft was visibly resisting the mutation, and the plane—mid-transformation—looked like a giant living creature being strangled to death. After about three to four minutes, the red energy seemed to lose patience. It suddenly increased its force, and the deformed metallic beast was crushed into a cube the size of a compact car, like a junkyard compressor pressing a car into a block. Only when the crimson glow finally dispersed and gravity remembered it still had a hold on the plane, did the compressed air finally explode outward.
It was like a spontaneous detonation—fuel and sulfur reek exploded outward in a shockwave that blasted out over a hundred meters. Mike had already dragged Fitz to cover before the blast hit. They'd taken shelter behind a row of green metal dumpsters about thirty meters away from the Quinjet. The shockwave shoved the bins against the wall, pinning them. Had Mike not braced himself in front of Fitz and held the bins back with everything he had, the smaller, less muscular Fitz might've ended up with broken ribs and a punctured lung, carted off to the hospital.
They had avoided the worst of the blast but couldn't escape the ringing ears, stinging smoke, or sulfur stench. Though they didn't yet know what had caused it, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had long learned the first rule in dealing with supernatural phenomena: secure your safety, then figure out the cause. After retreating to a safe distance, they realized they weren't alone.
Standing not far away was a woman in a red leather coat, with long crimson hair. She held a staff that gleamed with a metallic luster, its head shaped like the skull of a massive serpent. Her hands glowed with energy of the same hue as the one that had crushed the Quinjet.
"Oh my god, how many more superhumans are we going to run into today?" Mike muttered irritably. "We've already got two on our tail! Isn't that enough?"
"Wait, Mike, I think I know who she is!" Fitz swallowed hard. "Jemma told me about this fanfiction she's been reading—about the Avengers. Daisy is often paired with Black Widow as a couple, though it's not that mainstream…"
"What?"
"Character pairing. Japanese term. Anyway, aside from Black Widow, there's another person: Wanda Maximoff. Red coat, deep red hair, red energy—it all matches. That's the Scarlet Witch." Fitz continued, "She fought alongside the Avengers in Sokovia against Ultron, remember?"
"Oh yeah! So the Avengers are involved in this now?"
"No, Mike! Did you see Wanda at any of Tony Stark's press conferences?" Fitz's expression turned grim. "The whole Sokovia aftermath is still classified. They say someone moved the floating city, and Coulson believes that person may have been Wanda Maximoff—or worse, because Salomon was spotted there too. If she's here, and considering the emblem we saw on that armor earlier, it's highly likely Salomon has his eyes on this place as well. As much as I appreciate him bringing Jemma and me back from that alien planet, we all know what kind of methods he uses."
"Shit! Are you sure?"
"I'm not." Fitz's voice dropped. "That's why we need to tell Coulson—not that new director. I don't trust anyone sent by that senator. We all know there's still Hydra in Congress. If Salomon learns someone else knows his identity—and if Hydra gets involved, especially when they find out it was Salomon who killed Alexander Pierce—I can't guarantee he won't do something drastic to keep it all quiet. You know he has nukes!"
"Have you considered using nuclear weapons?" Bayonetta raised an eyebrow, asking with interest.
"To be honest, I did consider it," Salomon nodded as he set down his teacup on a floating magical disc. "But I decided to try my own methods first."
Ever since Salomon shared his plan with her and Jeanne, the three of them had moved out of the witches' apartment and into the Oxfordshire estate, cutting off contact with the outside world and preparing for the long ceremonial rites of their kind. They wandered the estate dressed in loose silk sleepwear. The witches disliked tying their robes shut, preferring to let their graceful figures bask in the sunlight. Even on their afternoon forest walks, they shunned outdoor clothing. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting a glow on them so radiant it made them appear almost transparent—like fairy-tale spirits of the woods.
Bayonetta's favorite activity was picnicking.
Behind the estate lay a dense forest, and in the heart of that forest was a vast clearing carpeted with carefully cultivated grass. Bayonetta loved to spend warm afternoons there, carrying a wicker basket and a soft cotton blanket for a picnic. Salomon always took her hand and went with her. They would spread the blanket and enjoy tea under the gentle sunlight. Soon after, Bayonetta would invite him to share pleasures atop the blanket. Only once the sky was filled with stars would Salomon carry the spent witch back to the estate, bathe her in their opulent bathroom to wash away the traces of their joy, and then begin preparing dinner.
And after dinner, another round of pleasure would begin.
Life was so blissful that Salomon sometimes forgot he had a looming, deadly adventure waiting for him.
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