Many parts of London still rely on the Victorian-era sewer system, and the network designed by Sir Joseph Bazalgette has even been hailed as one of the Seven Wonders of Engineering. But it's easy to imagine just how much manpower and resources are needed to maintain such a massive public infrastructure. For both the London city government and Parliament, it's enough that the sewers simply function. Naturally, a vast, dark, and damp space like that becomes a breeding ground for all kinds of evils. Thugs, junkies, and the homeless swarm in like fleas and lice on fur, while gangs and murderers stuff trash, corpses, and all manner of unspeakable things into the lightless corners of concrete tunnels.
Solomon had seen this vagrant twice now. The first time he had been alive. Not so much this time.
Wanda unhesitatingly drew her pistol and fired several rounds into the back of the vagrant's head.
Clearly, she had thoroughly reviewed the training materials issued by the Immortal City. She didn't lower her weapon until she had reduced the poor wretch's skull to pulp. She wasn't using one of the small-caliber explosive handguns common among Immortal City personnel—those were notoriously difficult to handle for anyone not physically robust. Instead, she was using a customized Beretta M92F, equipped with an extended magazine and capable of both three-round bursts and full-auto fire. The firepower was more than sufficient for Wanda, and if it wasn't, she still had magic to fall back on. Though not particularly powerful—her practical grades in Introduction to Elemental Theory were mediocre—her most powerful evocation spell barely matched the explosive force of a grenade.
A thin air bubble enveloped their heads, isolating and filtering the fetid sewer air, which would otherwise be enough to knock someone unconscious deep within the London system. Two blinding white light sources hovered above them, illuminating the mold-blackened bricks and the brown-yellow water that barely cleared their boots. But even this was arguably redundant, as both Solomon and Wanda were wearing prototype cross-spectrum combat goggles. These were still in the testing phase, but once finalized, they would be distributed to special operations units in intelligence services, with a simultaneous update for all power armor HUDs.
"I know he was still moving," Solomon grumbled. "But the last time I saw him, he wasn't walking around with bite marks on his neck. Looks like they discovered the traces I left during my previous recon." Wanda's decisiveness genuinely impressed him—it was hard to believe she'd made such rapid progress in such a short time.
Perhaps leftist intellectuals in the West would scorn such brutality, but Solomon considered decisiveness a virtue. Those who show sympathy to vampires, drug dealers, human traffickers, or armed robbers probably deserve to be bitten. Wanda hadn't been swayed by Pietro's influence, nor had she adopted the West's human rights-centric discourse. That alone proved she had fully embraced the operating style of Kamar-Taj and the Immortal City.
Wanda was clearly aware that the rift between her and her brother was about more than just differing views on the future—it was a fundamental difference in how they approached the world. But she had no intention of changing. She had personally witnessed this world teeter on the brink of destruction. The Avengers' philosophy of "even in defeat, give it your all" didn't resonate with her. The Immortal City's "win by any means necessary" ethos suited her better—just as Solomon had taught her back in Sokovia.
"Well done, Wanda. I'm glad to see your progress," Solomon said. He suspected that their last mission—tracking the burrowing worm beast—had had a significant impact on her. "Let's move on. Last time I gave that vagrant a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Hopefully, that vampire's drunk off its ass by now."
According to the archives, the vampire leader in London had once fled into the sewers in desperation, and it had taken the mages of Kamar-Taj several days to hunt it down and kill it. But no one knew how many progeny it had spawned before its demise. Over the next hundred-plus years, these unsupervised fledglings proliferated like vermin. The vampire population in the sewers had degenerated to the point that they were little better than rats. The one Solomon captured wasn't as badly degraded—it merely had thinning hair and lacked sclera—otherwise, the victim might not have fallen for its lure in such dim lighting.
Wanda shrugged. She was already familiar with Solomon's brand of humor and didn't believe vampires could get drunk.
"Let's keep moving," the mage said. "Our objective is to confirm the number of vampire clans here in preparation for the next purge. So if we run into something we can't handle, we retreat. I trust that won't be difficult for you."
"I brought the scrolls you wrote," Wanda said with a smile. "You told me I could use them freely. I don't think any of these vampires can survive a blast comparable to a small nuke."
"Our mission is reconnaissance, not razing London."
"So you really left a girl in the filthy sewers?" Bayonetta asked incredulously, watching the mage peel off his waterproof boots. "I told you to invite Wanda over as a guest."
"She'll knock on the door in about an hour," Solomon said as he accepted a hot towel from Dana to wipe his hands and face, carefully casting a spell to purge the stench of the sewers from his body. He stayed at the entrance while doing this, as he was far too dirty to be allowed onto the pristine oak flooring. Bayonetta brandished her spatula, blocking him from leaving footprints. "She said she wanted to take a shower," he added. Only after a full cleanup was he finally allowed to step inside. Bayonetta, pinching her nose, delicately lifted a corner of his coat between two fingers.
"I really don't get it," Solomon muttered. "She can execute a vampire without batting an eye, but she runs screaming from a swarm of cockroaches!"
"Stupid man!" Bayonetta snapped, waving her hand. "Go shower. I don't want to smell your sewer stench one second longer! And if you still stink afterward, you're not sleeping in the bed tonight! Dana, go help him—otherwise he'll just rinse off and call it done."
"You'll really let me do that?" Dana's eyes lit up.
"Of course, but make it quick!" Bayonetta huffed. "I don't want him still in the bathroom when our guest arrives."
When Wanda walked into the witches' apartment, her hair was still damp.
Bayonetta welcomed her warmly, immediately offering her a place to stay. The guest room she had used last time was untouched, and her spare clothes had been washed. The fact that Solomon had dragged her into the sewers to face swarms of cockroaches and rats struck Bayonetta as highly inappropriate. When the three witches gathered around the dinner table, Solomon strolled out wearing nothing but a towel—completely unbothered. Wanda was his apprentice, the witches were his lovers, and there were no outsiders here. Jeanne gave his chest and abs an approving glance and cheerfully declared dinner ready. Only Bayonetta, scowling, picked up a soup spoon and smacked him on the head, ordering him to get dressed and drag Dana out of the bathroom.
(End of Chapter)
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