Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 983 The Land of Gentle Comforts (First Update)

The Wind-One, serving as the command center, is not known for its firepower; rather, its powerful detection, communication, and personnel dispatch capabilities are what a mobile command center should possess. There was no need for the observer to report any anomalies detected on the radar to Mike; he could hear the roar of engines coming from the ramp hatch, the rapidly approaching noise as noticeable as someone shouting inside the cockpit.

"That's not the Quinjet's engine sound." Mike looked up thoughtfully. He was familiar with the engine sounds of SHIELD aircraft; compared to the noise he was hearing now, the Quinjet's noise was like the squeal of a kitten just opening its eyes. Moreover, the radar images showed that the aircraft was incredibly fast, leading Mike to believe that the passengers on board were not ordinary people.

"Bring your weapons and prepare for defense."

Nearly five minutes later, the engine noise subsided. The agent who had gone out to conduct defensive work returned to the command center with a complicated expression. Another agent followed behind him, half-dragging, half-pulling a dark figure into the room. Everyone could smell the pungent, acidic odor of partially digested matter. "Wanted criminal Daisy Jensen," the agent in front said with a frown. "Should we notify Agent Coulson?"

"No, just put her in her seat." Mike glanced at the 3D map on the screen, temporarily setting aside his task, and went over. Even after resting, Daisy Jensen's face was still as pale as a corpse. She lay limply across the seat, her eyes closed, seemingly indifferent to her impending fate. Mike asked, "What's wrong with her?"

"A black aircraft brought her here. To be precise, she was thrown out." The agent felt he would never forget the farcical scene for the rest of his life—just as the agents pointed their guns at the aircraft, Daisy Jensen stumbled and shuffled down the ramp and landed on top of them like a rag doll. The aircraft then closed the door and took off back into the sky. "As for her… as you can see, she's airsick. The medical staff cleared her airway and gave her an injection. Sir, I suggest handcuffing her."

After watching the surveillance footage from the cabin of the Wind One, Mike shook his head.

He recognized the aircraft. Just as S.H.I.E.L.D. had its own Quinjet, other organizations also had their own specialized aircraft. This heavily armored and powerfully armed aircraft belonged to the Immortal City. S.H.I.E.L.D. had previously encountered threats from these nuclear-armed aircraft, and their limited air defenses were helpless against those that could fly like missiles. It was understandable that this agent, who had never participated in an alien rescue mission before, wouldn't recognize the Immortal City's aircraft, but Mike would never tell him about alien rescue or alien nanobots.

"No need, let her rest," Mike said. "Wake her up when Agent Coulson gets back; she'll definitely have something she wants us to know then."

"In fact, the materials science research in the Immortal City is extremely valuable, and it has all been translated into practical products. All the pilots of the assault transport ships wear very lightweight flight suits, which are more functional than the spacesuits of other countries. However, since those who usually travel on the assault transport ships are either wearing powered armor or have undergone genetic modification, some issues concerning ordinary passengers are overlooked." Salomon, wearing sunglasses, read the document in his hand. "It seems that I've carried over the magical world's mindset of ignoring customer experience into the research department, or perhaps the Immortal City simply doesn't have a place to handle complaints. I think we need to customize a suit for passengers that can be quickly put on and taken off; this is a good way to prevent them from vomiting on the deck. What do you think?"

"I think we need to sunbathe a bit more before enjoying dinner. You've worked five hours, darling, it's time to relax. Don't forget you're here on vacation, not as a slave." Bayonetta emerged from the clear water and walked up the steps to the poolside. She untied her bikini straps, and the wet swimsuit immediately fell to the ground. She nonchalantly tossed her soaking wet hair and walked towards the lounge chairs under the shade of the parasols and the champagne in the ice bucket. Originally, the estate didn't have a pool, but Salomon insisted on building a new one after buying the property, complete with a heating system, so that swimming could be enjoyed even in cold weather.

"Dinah made Texas smoked brisket, but before we enjoy this delicious dish..."

Salomon put a checkmark on the document and then tossed it aside.

It was entirely a spontaneous act of his mind; he only realized what had happened after he had done it. He stared at his hands in surprise, but then his gaze involuntarily shifted to the other side—the wide pool surface reflected the orange-red afterglow of the setting sun, the shimmering waves like rolling molten gold, merging with the silver light from the floodlights to create a dreamlike spectacle. Bayonetta, like a night sky a mixture of light gray, blood red, and deep purple, swept in, her body steaming with moisture, and straddled him. Warm water droplets rolled down the witch's skin, pelting him like raindrops. Her pale gray eyes were fixed on the sorcerer's eyes, filled with power and lust. Salomon felt his throat go dry, his body temperature rise, the witch's allure engulfing him like a tsunami, the burning thighs pressed against his waist becoming a fatal blow across his throat.

The witch's expression was haughty, holding two glasses of champagne bubbling with tiny bubbles, the cold liquid causing a layer of frost to form on the delicate, thin glasses. She knew no one could stand against her, for her opponent had already surrendered. She was the queen of this battlefield, and as countless times before, Bayonetta always won the first round. Although subsequent defeats were inevitable, she would never fear a challenge; sometimes, she simply needed an ally.

Even as Salomon accepted the wine glass from the witch, he felt himself still falling deeper into the dream.

"No praise is too much for you, my dear, just like when we first met." He painted many pictures, and the witch was always his protagonist. However, no matter what kind of brush he used, he could not depict the unparalleled surging tension and attraction within Bayonetta. He tried his best but could not paint the molten love in those pale gray eyes on the canvas.

"Let's enjoy the champagne first." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Dinner might have to be delayed a bit. If Joan wants to complain, let her—we'll try not to tell her."

The witch's hand pressed tightly against his chest, her fingertips tracing a line from bottom to top, almost slicing through his skin. She smiled, her eyes narrowing, thoroughly enjoying this moment of control. "I want to try it in the water… don't you want to?"

After enjoying his perfect life, Salomon felt a brief pang of self-reproach for two seconds before floating out of the warm water with the black-haired witch in his arms. Night had fallen, and the only lighting in the pool was the cold fluorescent lights installed around the perimeter. "I'm on vacation," he repeatedly told himself, lest he pick up a gun and sword and head to the mountains of Latveria after dinner. A sense of responsibility would urge him to bury himself in documents and walk among the poor; Salomon had to constantly remind himself that he would continue working intensely after his vacation ended, thus reminding himself not to become too immersed in this comfortable life.

Bayonetta clearly saw through his thoughts.

The witch forced a smile onto her exhausted face and lazily reached out to pinch his cheek.

"Stop torturing yourself, little boy," she said. "You work every day, don't you?"

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(End of this chapter)