Miriya narrowed her eyes, grinning as she watched the high-speed boxing match unfolding at a tempo no human eye could truly follow, never pausing her hand as she spooned chilled gelatin into her mouth; only when she let out a cheer would she stop for a beat, then go right back to the dentist-approved cold treat. Aside from her cheers always coming half a beat late, everything seemed perfectly normal. The whole hall was filled with the whoosh of limbs and clothing cutting the air; even the expensive crystal chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling swung non-stop, as if a storm were brewing. This was less a "boxing match" than a one-sided assault. The black-haired witch wore a suit and high heels, but that did nothing to hinder the pure, brutal physics of her body.
Every collision of fists, elbows, and knees boomed dully; every blow strong enough to dent the armor plate of a heavy APC drove the magically reinforced heels of her pumps into the polished Baroque marble floor like steel spikes—only for the flying chips to suddenly seem caught in a temporal eddy, zipping back to their exact places so the marble that should have shattered remained pristine.
Under Bayonetta's barrage—so fast it blurred past the naked eye—the hall was nothing but staccato crackles, while the opponent in a deep red robe carefully avoided every piece of furniture and still had time to dip his head and plant a kiss on the girl who'd only recently been given a name and had gone to the dentist today, making her giggle. In this manor in Oxfordshire, entertainment that could kill an ordinary person was a daily affair, and naturally the onlookers this time were no ordinary people either.
The white-haired witch, Jeanne, had slipped into Witch Time; to her, Bayonetta's and Solomon's movements were no different than usual. That sensory spell that dilated time was the foundation of a witch's overwhelming combat power. The girl, meanwhile, "saw" what had already happened in the Akashic Record with the strength of her mind; her reactions tended to lag a beat, but were all the more accurate for it. So long as she didn't break the rules and use power too great—peering into the trillion strands of fate—her mental state was perfectly safe. Only Hammurabi, standing in the doorway, kept up with the witch and Solomon using his gene-modded eyes and brain, reading stance and technique to judge the match. His lord had taught him many martial arts in the arena, and with the knowledge piped in through brain–machine interface, he could have become a formidable master even without the augmentations.
Yet until Bayonetta drove Solomon back into the foyer with a bone-crushing shoulder slam, Hammurabi was still boasting to the one spectator present who couldn't follow the exchange—little Lorna—that his lord was merely humoring the witch; if he wanted to win, he could take it in a blink. "That's because you don't know how to placate a woman, big guy." Though she only came up to his waist, little Lorna confidently patted the golden armor on Hammurabi's hip. "Bayonetta's in a foul mood—because of what big brother did."
"Vienna International Centre?" Hammurabi asked, lowering his head. "Just because of that?"
"Right now the whole world thinks Latveria's a terrorist outfit holding the world's diplomats hostage—at least until that video goes live, and you have to switch over to the Asian channels to see it. And the news is saying a lot of people died in the Centre, so the witch is unhappy."
"People die every day, Lorna Dane. I don't need to be the one to tell you that. A life isn't that precious. No matter how many Enlightenment-era decorations you hang on the concept, you can't hide one fact: every moment, somewhere, someone dies without meaning. Life is fragile—especially mortal life. Even if we did nothing, plenty would still die under the thumbs of Euro-American magnates and the terror groups they bankroll—or under the guns of the armies that preach peace by day and subvert by night. It's only because those people are Africans and Middle Easterners—subhumans in their eyes—that the Western media don't care," the Praetorian said with scorn. "The reason this has pricked them so sharply this time is because a lot of white people died. My lord shattered their quiet confidence that 'white people don't die.' He made them afraid. If only the Wakandan king had died in the blast, they wouldn't bat an eye! A life isn't valuable; only a life you can make hay out of is valuable! Now Latveria's actions will make them understand: Latveria will exact a blood reckoning for those people. That's my lord's will. He won't permit any behavior that wastes human life. Only such a person can stand against the darkness to come."
Hammurabi's thumb stroked the power stud on his halberd, reverence saturating his voice—but that reverence couldn't compare to the easy grin of the man who shoved the door back open and sauntered into the hall. The rift between Solomon's daily life and his work was vast; few would connect him to that decisive, pitiless king. The only thing the two shared was the body honed by battle and a frame laced with scars. "I know. And the witch knows. That's why she didn't use a weapon," little Lorna said, rolling her eyes—most of that for the Praetorian's worship of her brother. "But when a woman wants to vent, you'd better not try to reason with her. You seriously don't know that?"
"I don't feel that sort of thing. My only desire is to complete the mission," Hammurabi said bluntly of the current situation. "Latveria does not yet hold dominance over public opinion. But give it a few days—once every country confirms its diplomats are safe, the materials we've handed them will go public. Add in the regent's work, and sentiment will flip quickly—unless those countries don't want what Latveria can give them. If my lord decides to win a war, he will win—both on the ground and in the narrative."
Little Lorna tugged the red velvet cape at Hammurabi's back. "C'mon. Looks like they've got another twenty minutes in them, it'll take twenty to fix that door, and as for whether they head to the bedroom after… We can use the time to try some of Ms. Minerva's homemade yogurt. Ms. Maximoff will be here soon, too. Ms. Daina prepped dinner early—we won't go hungry."
"Your nails could give a sword edge a run for its money, darling." That night, sitting at the foot of the deep-red canopy bed awash in moonlight, Solomon worked a little spell coiled around his fingertips to heal the claw marks on his back. He spoke to Bayonetta, who lay against the pillows, cheeks flushed. "I get why you're upset, but I promise you—this is the way with the fewest casualties. I have to pull the human race together. We're out of time. And I promise I'll come back to my beautiful wife the way a hound returns to its master."
"No, you don't understand." The black-haired witch flopped prone, lifted a pillow, and lightly tossed it at his head. The cool bedside lamp limned her body, tracing an elegant shape in the air like an ethereal serpent submerged in darkness. "I'm angry because you're not taking a crown for yourself—you're taking it for everyone. Not everyone is as careful with power as you are. Not everyone shares your wisdom and foresight. Mortals can never quite escape the dark urge coiled inside human nature, and every setback you face will spring from that. Your Praetorians are perfect, but I don't believe everyone can be as rational as they are. You're destroying your own power. I'm angry because you know exactly what you're doing."
"When did you become a sorceress?"
"I always was. I don't need to brew a potion to see the future, Solomon. This road is too hard. Almost everyone will be against you." Bayonetta reached for the long pipe by the bed, lit it, and exhaled the incense of a witches' secret balm. The alchemical salve was intensely restorative—but like nearly all witchcraft products, it worked only on women. "Have you considered stopping?"
"This war is the one I'm fated to fight. If I don't fight it, no one can. I've long since steeled myself to keep going until the moment of victory arrives."
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