Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 235 Daily Life in a Three-Person Apartment (First Update)

"Don't tell Stark, you know what I mean," Salomon said to Agent Romanov as they were about to part ways. "If that guy lets me mess around, he'll take me to a noisy bar, order me non-alcoholic drinks and drink me to death, then I'll get drunk and throw up in my pants. Or worse, he'll take me to see fat Hawaiian dancers, party, drink, smoke, then get drunk and throw up in my pants. The worst of all, he'll take me to Las Vegas, lose millions of dollars in one night, buy everyone drinks, then get drunk and throw up in my pants."

"Why are all the outcomes you predict so similar?" Natasha asked with a laugh. "Why do you always assume Stark will throw up in his pants?"

"Because I'd let him do it. Come to think of it, I don't know if Nick Fury's lost his mind; he actually thinks I have serious psychological problems. So he got Steve Rogers to counsel me, but Steve couldn't communicate with me, so he got Tony instead." Salomon sighed. "Actually, Stark's behavior isn't so bad. Captain Rogers would probably sign me up for Boy Scouts, some weird Catholic group, or some kind of organization that messes with little boys' private parts, or maybe watch some local church TV programs. What else could he do? Teach me boxing? He might not even be able to beat me! Or does everything I do need God's permission?"

"Actually, Captain Rogers isn't as rigid as you think. He just hasn't found his way of life in this era. It's peacetime now, so he won't recover so easily." Agent Romanov chuckled. "In his time, these organizations weren't this bad. And he wasn't as harsh on infidels as you think; he didn't care about religious beliefs."

"Priests have been fond of little boys for hundreds of years, right? Are American priests any better? I don't think Protestants are any better than the Roman Catholic Church. Besides, I'm an unbeliever, screw God, I still have a score to settle with God! I don't even know if my biological father is that guy! Sometimes I think, even if my biological father were some guy in prison, it would be better than it is now. F*uck! Everyone's life is torture, sometimes I wish I had never been born!" After saying this long speech, the sorcerer downed his hot tea in one gulp. He gazed into the female spy's beautiful pale green eyes and slowly relaxed.

She was also looking into Salomon's eyes, as if trying to find out something.

"And you, Natasha? Have you recovered? Has Nick Fury arranged for a therapist for you?"

"No." Agent Romanov's smile vanished. She glanced at her teacup casually, shrugged, and said, "But I'm an agent; I can handle these little problems."

"Hmm, it seems that I am more dangerous than you, otherwise that idiot wouldn't be so restless. As for you, poor thing, you still haven't pieced your mind back together. At this rate, you'll have a mental breakdown sooner or later."

Agent Romanov shrugged again, indicating she didn't care. She might care, but she wouldn't show it, and Salomon had no way of knowing her thoughts. He was a polite man and wouldn't use magic to probe someone's mind over something like this.

"Okay, that's enough." Seeing that she didn't want to say more, the sorcerer gave up on the topic. "Screw the Boy Scouts, screw the bars, I've never been, and I don't want to. I don't like the American lifestyle—party, party, endless parties, drinking, masturbation, tattoos, the noisy lifestyle is annoying. I always thought Americans had a button on their backs; if you pressed it, they'd laugh nonstop, then press it again, and they'd become hysterical, and if you pressed it too many times, they'd develop some strange psychological illness. Strange environment phobia? Have you heard of that?"

Ha, I bet those stupid Americans' brains aren't even as good as a difference engine! And Nick Fury, I even doubt his brain can do basic arithmetic! If I were really causing trouble, he'd be dead already! And that Alexander Pierce, I'll strangle him with his guts sooner or later! Remember to tell that damn Nick Fury that if he lets anyone disturb my peace again, I'll crack his skull. It won't kill him, but it'll give him some peace and quiet until S.H.I.E.L.D. fixes it.”

Talking badly about one's boss always brings joy, and this lighthearted topic helped Agent Romanov relax again. Of course, the delicious food also played a role. "Are you ready?" Agent Romanov cut a small piece of the fruit syrup pie from Salomon's plate, put it in her mouth, and then winked playfully. Her emotions shifted rapidly, just like when she was on a mission; this was the result of a fragmented mind—everything she said was true in her mind, and the lie detector was useless against Natasha.

"You came to ask for my help, so you couldn't have come without a gift. I know you, Salomon, you're always ready for anything." Agent Romanov extended his hand. "A gift, young gentleman."

"Of course." The sorcerer took a shoebox from the android. He opened the box, revealing a pair of suede high heels decorated with simple bows. "Salvatore Ferragamo high heels, made of silk and viscose fabric, with tubular piping and watersnake skin. These are your shoes, Natasha."

How much did you spend?

"Not much, just fourteen hundred dollars, bought on the street," the sorcerer said. "Dollars are just pieces of paper to me, and I'm glad those scraps of paper came in handy."

"You have such a sweet tongue."

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"You spent fourteen hundred dollars." Jeanne sat in a dining chair, wearing glasses, holding an account book and pencil, sketching away. The Cheshire Cat lay sprawled on her lap, motionless, seemingly enjoying a nap. The silly cat had become obsessed with the spa treatment ever since, and Salomon didn't know if the Cheshire Cat liked the soft music, the pleasant aromatherapy, or simply the feeling of having cucumber slices over its eyes. In any case, after the treatment, its fur was much shinier, and it was increasingly fond of sticking close to Jeanne; it seemed to have forgotten who had taken it to the vet.

"What did you buy?" Joan of Arc pointed her pencil at Salomon as if holding a rapier, her question as sharp as the rapier itself. Only Bayonetta remained seated on the sofa, watching the drama unfold—a common occurrence in this apartment, a family affair among three, where one person would always be there to observe.

"Gifts," the sorcerer replied with a smile, "gift expenditure."

"What gift costs fourteen hundred dollars? I know you don't care about dollars, but that's my salary, the money I put into our living fund!" Joan seemed a little annoyed. Her anger made the Cheshire Cat lying on her lap raise its head in confusion and then lick her fingers.

"I pay all the water and electricity bills for this apartment; neither you nor Ceresa would bother with these trivial matters!"

"My dear Joan, why don't you use my bank card? I can't even be bothered to count the numbers. You know the PIN; Bayonetta and I entrusted our bank account to you. Also, I attended the community meeting. No offense, just mentioning it."

"That's your money!"

"It's your money too. It's money used to cover my expenses in the secular world, but do you think I care? We're a family, that's what you said, that's what Bayonetta said, and that's what I think too. A family should share the burden, so you can enjoy the US dollars in my account as much as you want and spend them however you like."

"That's right," Bayonetta chimed in, fanning the flames. "The little guy is so generous, why are you so ungrateful?"

"You're not married to him yet, Ceresia!"

"It'll be soon, my dear Joan of Arc, it's just a matter of these next ten years anyway. But we'd also like to hear Athena's thoughts, what did she say to you?"

"I……"

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(End of this chapter)