Chapter 417: Lifelong Learning

"Mr. Damonet, you shouldn't be here." Harold Finch, clutching a cup of green tea, was startled upon finding Solomon standing at the iron gate of the abandoned library. The small bear guarding the entrance was now lying by Solomon's feet, playfully seeking attention—an ominous sign. This meant that not only had Solomon discovered Finch's hideout, but also that he and Reese would be powerless to stop him if Solomon truly wished to act.

Caught in the act, Solomon casually greeted Finch. He appeared relaxed, even sharing some candy with ROOT, who was confined behind a metal-reinforced barrier. Finch, however, had no idea what conversation had just transpired between the two. Knowing Solomon's previous collaboration with the AI, it was likely that ROOT had received new instructions from the Machine during their meeting.

"Where's Sameen Shaw?" Solomon crouched and gently tapped the bear's head, avoiding any direct reference to his true purpose. Instead, he chose a more mundane topic to break the tension.

"Don't worry. This is just a friendly visit," Solomon said with a smile, retrieving several glass jars from his bag and handing them to Finch, who was both confused and wary. "These are gifts for you. My household recently prepared a batch of beef sauce that simmered for four days. The flavor is incredibly rich—something you'd normally only find in a Michelin-starred restaurant. This jar is red wine beef sauce, this one is black pepper, and the last one is the original recipe. You can pair them with a tomahawk steak or a carefully cooked filet mignon."

After passing Finch the jars, Solomon produced a bottle of red wine.

"I apologize for not notifying you in advance. Dropping by unannounced is indeed rude," Solomon said, bowing slightly in apology. His politeness was so disarming that Finch found himself returning the gesture almost reflexively, momentarily forgetting to dwell on what might have transpired between Solomon and ROOT.

"Romanée-Conti," Finch murmured, examining the label and vintage. He immediately recognized the wine's extraordinary value. "This is a very generous gift, Mr. Damonet."

"But for people like us, it's not that significant." Six thousand dollars for a bottle of wine was neither exorbitant nor trivial for Solomon. To him, the monetary value was irrelevant—just another piece of paper currency. Outside of scientific equipment, he rarely found opportunities to spend U.S. dollars.

To streamline things, he had arranged a long-term contract with a wine supplier to provide a steady flow of high-quality wines as part of the Eternal City's employee benefits. Italian Romanée-Conti was among the primary brands included in the deal. The supplier had even gifted Solomon a 2012 vintage worth $4,600. The bottle in Finch's hands, however, was from 1995—a prized collectible for any connoisseur.

ROOT stood behind the metal gate, watching Solomon and Finch engage in increasingly bookish conversation. Chuckling softly, she popped rainbow candies into her mouth and playfully offered a few to the bear.

Indeed, Solomon had shared some information with ROOT and given her a particular item—part of a deal between him and the Machine. As the Machine's top operative and loyal executor, ROOT shared Solomon's interests. She followed the Machine's commands without question, unconcerned with reasons or outcomes.

Such a reliable "tool" warranted additional protection. The round charm now hanging around ROOT's neck was crafted by Solomon himself from the copper casing of an explosive bullet. Inscribed with shamrock designs and prayers to the Vishanti, the charm granted ROOT a +5 boost to luck during gunfights—essentially increasing her chances of dodging bullets within a ten-meter range.

"Oh, by the way," Solomon finally got to the point after a lengthy exchange of pleasantries. "If you see Sameen Shaw, could you pass along a message for me? My girlfriend wants to host a small wine-tasting event—private, with only a few guests. Shaw is one of Bayonetta's few friends, and I'd really like her to attend."

Of course, this was just an excuse. Solomon had already accomplished what he came for. As he bid farewell, ROOT cheerfully waved from behind the gate. By the time Finch snapped out of his thoughts, Solomon had already disappeared through a shimmering portal.

"I feel like having a New York strip steak tonight, Harold," ROOT grinned. "With that delicious sauce our kind neighbor brought us."

"Of course," Finch replied, though he couldn't help but press for answers. "But could you please tell me what Solomon said to you?"

"Peeking into a lady's secrets isn't very gentlemanly," ROOT teased, referencing the earlier conversation between Solomon and Finch.

"You're no lady, ROOT. Ladies don't kill people."

"But you are a gentleman." ROOT's sly grin left Finch momentarily speechless. "Now hurry up—I'm starving."

"Woof!" The bear stood up, agreeing wholeheartedly with ROOT.

"You're not Solomon! He'd never be this polite! What did you do to him?" Nick Fury exclaimed dramatically, pounding the desk in frustration. Across from him, Solomon rolled his eyes and made a show of getting up to leave.

He had come to deliver a farewell gift—a bottle of Romanée-Conti on par with the one he had given Finch. The moment Fury learned the wine's value, Solomon could tell the man wasn't above dipping into public funds. A six-thousand-dollar bottle was neither outrageously expensive nor particularly cheap—perfectly positioned between upper-middle-class extravagance and true wealth. There was no way a government employee like Fury could afford it without some "creative accounting."

"Wait, wait!" Fury called out, stopping Solomon from leaving. He had no intention of discussing Asgardians or Solomon's super-soldier project. Those investigations were already underway, with reports soon to reach his desk. "You must want something from me," Fury said as he discreetly stashed the wine in a drawer. "This doesn't count as bribery—it's just a friendly gift between pals."

"Actually, yes," Solomon replied, sitting back down. "I need a spot—a position, you might say."

With S.H.I.E.L.D. nearing its collapse, Solomon saw no harm in leveraging the organization's remaining influence before its inevitable downfall.

"You see, I'll soon be managing a large organization, and while I have expertise in physics..."

Fury nodded, catching on. "You want to learn how to run a large organization, don't you?"

"Not entirely." Solomon shook his head. "I'll have plenty of personnel to handle day-to-day operations, but I'm unfamiliar with the inner workings of a rigid bureaucratic system."

"In other words, you want administrative training," Fury clarified. "Are you asking for a government job?"

"Not exactly. The U.S. government is a chaotic mess—like a house of cards built by barbarians," Solomon scoffed. "Elected officials lack proper vetting and training. They're ignorant, corrupt, and prone to spouting nonsense after taking bribes. Working under them would be like wading into a pigsty full of filthy swine."

Fury narrowed his eye, sensing trouble as he examined Solomon's impeccable black pinstripe suit, neatly pressed shirt, and pocketed blue handkerchief.

"I want you to secure me a position as a civil servant intern in Whitehall," Solomon declared with a grin. "I intend to learn the fine arts of manipulation, bureaucratic evasion, scapegoating, embezzlement, and rallying the rabble."

"You want to control the British government!?" Fury gasped.

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