Solomon walked toward the grief-stricken T'Challa, expressionless, utterly ignoring the Wakandan Royal Guard clustered around him. The Sisterhood kept tight on his heels, muzzles trained on the Guard. If the Guard made any move that threatened the Sovereign, the girls carrying fusion weapons would pull their triggers without hesitation, scouring everything with fusion shockwaves and vaporizing both the Royal Guard and the future king. Not even vibranium could withstand those temperatures. It wasn't that they'd "happened" to bring such cumbersome anti-armor kits; this was targeted by design—by the time the bomb detonated, Victoria Hand had already set the operation in motion to make sure the plan ran smoothly and achieved the outcome he wanted.
"I've called the security team loitering in orbit. Let me use a craft to return the king to Wakanda. I'm taking control of this scene next, and you need to go back and take the throne." Solomon nodded to the Royal Guard, giving them room to remove the prince and the king. He stepped onto the shattered podium and abruptly raised his voice. "Everyone else—sit down!"
The once-noisy hall went silent in an instant. Every person, even the dignitaries who'd tried to run, found themselves compelled by an unknown force back into their seats. "No one leaves until everyone here is cleared of suspicion. I very much did not want this to happen. King T'Chaka of Wakanda meant to give you a gift, and you rejected it with malice. After T'Chaka's address, Latveria—your faithful ally—was going to present you with a different gift. Unfortunately, you brushed aside the sweet candy and proved you deserve only malice. If you'd paid attention to the regent of Latveria's list of gifts, you'd know exactly what you're about to receive."
He lifted his hand, and in an instant the broken glass flew back to its frames; the entire hall stood whole again.
Solomon asked the Sisterhood to help the Royal Guard move the body, and he brought a deep red linen shroud to wrap it. Hammurabi stood beside him with the war banner raised, the greatsword in his hand ready to fire, because according to their intel Austrian armed units were rushing in. Another thunderclap followed—a white news helicopter was blown out of the sky by a Fortress-class combat robot and crashed near the complex, twisted blackened aluminum lying beside burning armored cars.
In a blink, the area became a war zone. Any attempt to cross the cordon met the fiercest response. The district was now, in the practical sense, a no-fly zone; no aircraft could pass without permission. This was the security package Konstantin had arranged for the Sovereign—able to erase a district in short order—and that was without the assault gunships launching missiles or the follow-on forces even entering the fight. The security detachment carried weapons of mass destruction at all times; the only reason they weren't using them was Solomon's mercy.
A politician with a European face screwed up his courage, stood, and denounced Solomon as a Nazi, declaring Latveria was practicing terror rule and genocide—because its flag bore an eagle. Solomon had no interest in such idiocy; to engage people like that was to learn the lower bound of human intelligence. A Sisterhood assault squad leader at his side was astonished anyone could be that stupid and, without prompting, happily blew the man's chair into splinters with a single shot.
Solomon had no patience for politicians who would never stand with Latveria and only sought to make a name by slandering it. Leafing through the attendance list, he had found there were many like that—people who imagined that sitting inside a monumental edifice of human ingenuity made them civilized. Solomon showed them the world remained a jungle; the politician writhing on the floor like a bleeding hog and wailing was warning enough. He did not care about so-called international image. T'Chaka's greatest mistake had been trying to appease people who cannot be appeased. Solomon would rather deal with the Italian mafia than parley with politicians.
The reason he had the love of those at the bottom was not brute force but heartfelt care. To him, such people had more principle and were more genuine than those gripping power—even the mafia. But the ones before him now, especially the ones welded to the military-industrial complex, had no principles. Irritated, he waved a hand and told Tita to pick a few and throw them out. These people would never give up their gains, and neither persuasion nor threats would move them.
"You know who I am. You've heard my speech in Hungary. Your greatest mistake is assuming I'm like you—some politician who rose by elections, who manipulates public opinion to harvest votes, takes political donations, trades favors in back rooms, and rides the revolving door to the top. No. I rely on the sword and the gun—just like the law of survival in this universe: the weak are meat. I learned that roaming the galaxy. Don't imagine you can bind me with your morals and laws. Don't think your little make-believe rules have any constraint on me. The only thing that restrains me is the survival of the human species—only that. And that bottom line is being trampled." Solomon swept his gaze over every face, looking down on them as if he could see straight through their eyes into their souls. He set the hand sheathed in a giant claw atop the re-raised lectern and leaned forward slightly, as if to remind them who held their lives in his grip. Every delegate felt as though a citadel built on bedrock was tilting down over them; no one could ignore the suffocating weight.
"Wandering the galaxy, I heard the name of the master of that alien fleet—whose goal is to slaughter half the universe. I have the power to kill that cosmic tyrant by myself. I have the power to teleport into the home of anyone who opposes me and butcher them. And still humanity could not resist a fleet spread across the entire solar system. Perhaps you think, because the Avengers repelled the invasion of New York, that you can rest easy—that alien fleets are nothing much. The Chitauri in the Battle of New York were only a small recon force, a component of that armada. When the fleet that fills the solar system truly arrives, you will find the enemy more numerous than bullets. That is not a problem your political games can solve. For years, a band of nameless people has been dying so you can keep living—and what they get in return is your stupidity, your behavior that drives humanity to the brink. You are drunks with the keys to the school bus, carrying the future of our species and driving straight off a cliff without a backward glance."
Perhaps it was that unknown force, but everyone present could feel the anger coiled beneath his words. It seemed to punch through the veil between real and unreal. The air in the hall—whose glass walls had so recently shattered—suddenly felt hotter; sweat streamed; many felt like misbehaving students being scolded by a teacher again. Yet in reality, neither the Sisterhood nor the Praetorians detected any temperature change. He stood on an absolute high ground, and rightly so: he had the capability to eliminate every opponent with pinpoint strikes—politician or corporation—and no one could bear that kind of damage, just as no one could withstand Asgardian force projection.
Solomon reached into the armory case the gold-armored Praetorian carried and drew out a blood-smeared cap. At the same time, the Sisterhood handed out a sheaf of datapads to the delegates. This was per plan; everyone got one—including the politician on the floor.
Meanwhile, the projectors were playing the same content; Solomon would pause now and then to explain a point or two, until a photograph appeared.
"The owner of the cap: Admiral Frank Craig Pandolfe, commander of the U.S. Navy's Sixth Fleet. He confessed a great deal of classified intelligence. You will receive all of his statements, including the CIA's sponsorship of Eastern European human trafficking and U.S. Army human experimentation in Eastern Europe, and more. In addition, there is intelligence Latveria extracted from the Sixth Fleet's carriers, intelligence from U.S. military satellites, and from captured CIA operatives. Everyone present will receive versions in your own languages. You will see, in the clearest and most direct way, the crimes and greed—how human beings will turn others' lives, deaths, and suffering into the seasoning of their own comfort for the sake of wealth and power. Since World War II, the atrocities the U.S. military has committed around the world for these reasons have gone uncounted and unjudged. I will judge them, because Latveria's bottom line is life. Every blood debt will be repaid; if the father dies, the son will stand in his place—until every plutocratic tyrant is trussed up in a noose. Only when every last one has been beheaded will Latveria cease its operations and welcome the day of human unity."
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