Goddess of Banquets

Agent Hill had never expected Killian, the man responsible for Happy’s injuries, to show up at Stark Tower at a time like this. Before this, the news of the terrorist Mandarin hijacking the television signal to deliver a speech to the president had already caused an uproar. If the military had not refused S.H.I.E.L.D.’s assistance to save face—a move that suited Nick Fury perfectly—then Nick Fury should have been at the White House rather than Triskelion Headquarters.

However, S.H.I.E.L.D. could not possibly allow this to continue. Although S.H.I.E.L.D. possessed evidence linking Killian to the Extremis Virus, that proved nothing, because the project had military funding. Investigating it meant opposing the military. That was something S.H.I.E.L.D. could never do. Nick Fury was not stupid enough to make trouble for himself. He had other matters to handle and no time to attend hearings.

Agent Maria Hill did not tell Miss Potts much either. After all, some matters were inconvenient to disclose, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had no way to explain how it had learned of the Extremis Virus—those were acts of espionage, not something that could be brought into the open. Miss Potts dearly wanted to accept S.H.I.E.L.D.’s offer of protection, but Tony Stark still seemed to be putting on a brave front. Though he sought help in private, he always believed he could solve these matters with his own intelligence. As a psychologically fragile modern man, the Battle of New York had affected Stark far more deeply than it seemed. That blow beyond comprehension had cast a shadow over many people’s minds, and even billionaire Stark was no exception.

According to NYPD statistics, after the Battle of New York, the city’s crime rate had risen even faster than its unemployment rate. The black market for alien weapons had only just emerged, yet every gang in New York had already joined in. Drug sales had surged, and New York had become the largest drug market—one in every five Americans had come into contact with marijuana, while other types of drugs were spreading rapidly as well.

They had also found a Homeless Man. He had once been a typical urban white-collar worker: married, with children, car loans, and a mortgage. He worked diligently every day and put in overtime. After the Battle of New York, he had abandoned his job and made his family believe he was dead. By the time the NYPD found him, he had not shaved for months. He had been holding a marijuana cigarette between his lips, drinking with a group of homeless people, and refusing to go back no matter what anyone said.

"What’s the point of working anyway!" he said. "When the aliens come, we’ll all die anyway. As for those Avengers… if you ask me, they shouldn’t have saved the world. How much worse could this world get? Look at me. If I were still alive, I’d have to drag my burdens around and work until I died. The moment I lost my job, that family would be finished… hic… so… hic… death benefits are better, at least. My wife can collect them for years."

The police also found a copy of The Legend of King Arthur on him. The book was battered and tattered, and no one knew where he had found it. "This is more reliable, more reliable than the National Guard. I saw what King Arthur looked like. I was in the office building back then," the Homeless Man said drunkenly. "I always feel like I can’t keep up with the times, but at least this era has something familiar. My daughter likes this story, and so do I… My grandmother told it to me. She was an immigrant from the United Kingdom, and I told the story to my daughter too… I know some other things as well, like the Lady of the Lake, like leprechauns from Ireland… This world is changing too fast. People need nostalgia, need jazz music, need Coca-Cola with cocaine in it, need to return to the colonial conditions of the seventeenth century, using religion to fill the emptiness inside…"

This was the common anxiety lurking in the hearts of Americans after the Battle of New York. Stark’s way of fighting that anxiety was neither drugs nor endless parties, but researching his Iron Armor. Only stronger armor could combat that inescapable fear. That was why he refused to admit defeat. The moment he did, it would mean he had lost to the terrorists, that his Iron Armor could not defend against aliens, and that anxiety would come rushing back.

So he refused any help that came looking for him. Even after Salomon returned to the Prime Material Plane, Stark became unwilling to tell the Arcanist about it.

"Salomon, wake up!" The Arcanist’s eyes suddenly widened. This was an art salon hosted by Athena, and though the surroundings were somewhat noisy, nothing had stopped him from dozing off since the event began. Only when Athena quietly twisted his ear did he finally wake up.

Seeing tears welling in Salomon’s eyes, Athena finally released him. "Today is the day we celebrate Vanessa’s successful exhibition," Athena said in a low voice, holding a champagne glass. "Whether those paintings sell or not, you need to look as though the future is bright. Do you understand what I’m saying?"

"Why me?" Salomon rubbed his ear with a mournful expression, then secretly yawned again. "Couldn’t Lorna do it too?" he said. "Little Lorna is so adorable, and she looks dazzling in formal wear. I still have classes to attend. I only sleep three hours a day now."

"Because I am your mother, you are my son, and you are my pride." Athena avoided the subject of Lorna. For some reason, little Lorna had suddenly entered a rebellious phase and become obsessively infatuated with popular culture. Though she did not stay out all night like the girls at school, her complete refusal to listen to anyone was headache-inducing. Bringing Lorna to such a pretentious occasion would have been no different from dropping a bomb into the room.

Salomon yawned again. He let Athena reach out and straighten his clothes and bow tie, then accepted a kiss from his adoptive mother. "Honestly, I don’t like occasions like this either." He narrowed his eyes like a lazy cat. "I prefer the way you look in armor, holding a spear. I think that suits you better. Formal gowns cannot add to your radiance, but armor can—the most beautiful goddess on Mount Olympus."

"No amount of sweet talk will reduce your martial training time. Now get up, go greet those artists, and let them see your new work." Though the wise War Goddess acted as though she did not care about the praise, her expression betrayed her thoughts.

"Do you still have any of Circe’s potion? I want to put it in the drinks—dealing with a bunch of pigs is always pleasant for the body and mind, but dealing with vain pigs wearing human faces is not so simple. Those pigs even insist that the salmon must have listened to jazz music while being smoked." The Arcanist said, "I’ve never seen people this stupid. My sculptures are all very classical statues of gods. Do you think they’ll understand?"

"I’m not stupid enough to provoke a heartbroken woman just so you can escape a social occasion."

"Circe still hasn’t recovered from her heartbreak? It’s been over two thousand years! Odysseus really was a terrible man."

"Don’t be jealous. My affection belongs to you now, Salomon." Athena smiled and pulled the Arcanist toward a group of artists. She lowered her voice. "Hecate is on Earth. Next time, go find her beforehand and ask whether she has any Potions that can help you escape a banquet."