The room and the Emperor of Latveria looked different to everyone. To Diana List, he was a giant seated upon an alabaster throne; to James Buchanan Barnes, a black-armored warrior seated upon an iron throne; and to T'Challa, a man in a pinstriped suit seated in an office armchair. None of those were the truth. They were merely different scenes pieced together from fragments of reality and illusions that influenced the mind.
The monarch Hammurabi saw was seated on the antique throne of the Duke of Latveria, clad in black battle armor covered in scars. A two-handed greatsword rested against his leg armor, though the cloak stained with blood, gasoline, carbon soot, and gunpowder smoke had been removed and tossed aside. Under standard biological hazard protocols, the armor had been thoroughly washed and disinfected. T'Challa had smelled disinfectant because the liquid caught in the armor's crevices had yet to dry.
"I suppose Ms. Malick has one more thing to worry about. She always liked that chair," Hammurabi said bluntly. The disinfectant was corrosive. Seeing the surface of the valuable wooden throne turn pale, he immediately understood that one of Stephanie Malik's favorite antiques was beyond saving. "But I think the Winter Soldier's testimony will keep her busy for a while. She still has to contact her old friends in the Republican Party. She won't have time to care about a chair."
"I need to make another trip to the laboratory." The Emperor of Latveria rose from his chair and stretched.
Hammurabi understood at once. He caught the falling two-handed greatsword in time and slid it into the scabbard at his waist, their coordination as seamless as a scene from a sitcom. Knocking Hulk into the Mirror Dimension had not settled the matter. Salomon knew Bruce Banner's importance, so he had