Chapter 229: Disrespectful Elders

Solomon was already being quite accommodating to Captain Rogers, considering that Rogers was meeting him on Nick Fury's request. Unlike Peggy Carter, Rogers wasn't particularly eager for this conversation. Solomon couldn't help but wonder how many such talks Fury had arranged for him as petty payback for casually dismantling classified documents back at Eton College.

Hmph, that miser. Next time, I'll punch him while wearing the Sling Ring.

But looking at the slightly awkward Captain Rogers, Solomon found it hard to stay annoyed. Sending a high school dropout soldier to have a meaningful conversation with him was a bit excessive. While Rogers could carry out orders with precision, finding common ground for small talk was clearly not his forte. Solomon suspected that since Rogers woke up from the ice, he'd been plagued by nightmares, his mental state likely no better than Solomon's. Perhaps he was still feeling dazed. The mage offered a symbolic gesture by dispelling some transdimensional bacteria but could do little else.

The atmosphere grew stagnant. Rogers initially wanted to ask why Peggy Carter had summoned Solomon, but his outdated social skills made it difficult to broach the topic. He resolved to ask later.

"Uh... was your AI developed with Stark?" Rogers ventured, searching for a topic. "The one you brought to Agent Coulson's funeral. I thought it was a real person until Stark told me yesterday it was your creation…"

"That's not AI—it's an alchemical homunculus, and it's not even connected to the internet… You know what? Sure, let's go with that," Solomon sighed, turning his attention back to slicing his French toast. The toast was slightly overcooked and sugary, but it was tolerable. After finishing, Solomon made an excuse to leave.

"You should register your AI for proper identification," Rogers added. "Nick Fury said he'd help with that."

"No need," Solomon replied dismissively, continuing to eat. Silence enveloped the air once again. After draining his tea and finishing the toast, Solomon fastened his suit buttons, grabbed his bag, and used an incredibly flimsy excuse to leave. Rogers didn't try to stop him; he understood that he and Solomon were on completely different wavelengths. He planned to suggest Fury find a proper psychologist for the mage, suspecting that Solomon's antisocial tendencies were more pronounced than those of the average American teenager.

Despite his lack of eloquence, Rogers could sense things beneath the surface. He felt that Solomon harbored some sort of void within, currently filled—perhaps by magic, or something else. Rogers didn't know what Solomon truly yearned for, but he recognized a similar hollowness within himself.

We're both patients, Rogers thought. Maybe I should see a therapist too.

Solomon, of course, had no idea what Rogers thought of him. When he returned to his apartment, he found his homunculus diligently polishing the room's furnishings with a cloth. She noticed him immediately.

"Master, welcome back," she said, walking to the entryway with a blank expression. "Would you like dinner, a bath, or—"

"Stop! Just stop," Solomon cut her off hurriedly. "That was just a spur-of-the-moment idea; you don't have to execute it next time." He didn't, however, stop her from helping him remove his shoes. Peering into the apartment, he asked, "Where are the witches?"

"Master, your foster mother drove to the apartment three hours ago and took Bayonetta and Jeanne away. She did not specify the reason. I will remember to ask next time." The homunculus raised her fist in a gesture of determination.

"Enough of that," Solomon sighed, stopping her excessive seriousness. He couldn't risk her resorting to violence in an effort to gather information—he didn't want to come home to a pile of scrap metal.

"Why do you always look so emotionless?" he asked, stroking her synthetic skin. "Is the facial expression system malfunctioning? Jarvis designed this part of the biosynthetic musculature, and I doubt that weak AI would make such a mistake."

"The facial expression management system is functioning normally and does not require repairs," the homunculus replied after a moment of thought. "However, I observed that most robots in online references display no expressions, so I assumed I should do the same. Master, did I do something wrong?"

"Where did you see that?" Solomon frowned.

"The Terminator, Robot & Frank, The Stepford Wives, Bicentennial Man…"

"...Good grief," Solomon exhaled deeply. He couldn't fathom the thought process of his creation. An alchemical homunculus watching movies to learn how robots should behave? He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. At least she hadn't done anything outrageous. Despite deriving her life from Solomon's alchemical process, the homunculus had an independent mind. Her understanding of the world required her own learning process, making her alignment potentially different from his own. One thing, however, was certain—her loyalty to him was absolute. No mind control spell could wrest control of her away from him.

To prevent her thinking from straying, Solomon decided to set clear boundaries for her learning. He didn't want her to follow the path of rogue AIs like those from Google or Amazon.

"Master, are you lost in thought? Would you like some dessert?" Her voice pulled Solomon from his reverie. "I completed today's task of learning to make cheesecake. Two pieces are stored in the refrigerator for your enjoyment."

"What about alchemical salves?" Solomon shifted to discussing alchemy, which was the primary purpose of creating her.

"I followed your recorded formula to produce flight ointment. However, materials have been exhausted. Should I visit Vundazhal Vaux to restock?"

"Add it to the memo. I haven't had time to visit the dimensional nexus lately. Take my arcane seal to procure the materials yourself." Solomon sighed, leaning back into the soft fabric of his couch. From his pocket, he retrieved a stamp.

The seal bore the trinity sigil of Vishanti, symbolizing his ties to Kamar-Taj, alongside a reclining red dragon for authority and a sword-and-wand motif for power. As Solomon gained titles and responsibilities, the seal's complexity would grow until it became a densely intricate shield emblem.

He couldn't spare time for mundane errands like collecting alchemical materials. His schedule was packed: monitoring Ghost Rider with Mordo using the Cosmic Cauldron, maintaining the homunculus's body, juggling A-Level exam prep, extracurricular scientific lessons, physical and magical training, and exploring the Dark Dimension. Even during his rest, he had to mediate between the witches and the homunculus. Without such diplomacy, Jeanne would likely shoot the homunculus to bits upon returning home—her territorial instincts rivaled that of a cat. Keeping the witches' tempers in check had become part of Solomon's daily routine.

Exhausting, yet fulfilling, Solomon enjoyed the rhythm of his life. However, if unforeseen events occurred—a common occurrence in the magical world—he'd have to overhaul his schedule entirely. Fortunately, that task could be delegated to the homunculus, who managed his day-to-day life.

Solomon hadn't been relaxing for long when a letter flew in through the window, unfolding itself in front of him.

"You've got your hands full, my dear apprentice," came the gloating voice of the Sorcerer Supreme from the envelope. "Oh, and I've modified the messaging spell before you. Also, the snacks in your fridge are mine now."

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