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"I know nothing about wine, MODOK. I’m sure it will be fine." My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run, even though I have been asked to refrain from sudden movements to avoid provoking the blade-sentries. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-top Tony Stark-style wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re doing here, my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in MODOK’s bed. Or whatever he sleeps in. Perhaps some kind of hyperbaric chamber.
“Of course it will be fine! MODOK does not debase himself with the kiwi-mango swill that passes for wine amongst your undergraduate peers, you cow. Here.” He extends a claw-tipped limb, from which dangles a glass. Even the glasses are rich…heavy, glowing slightly but hopefully not in a way that indicates radioactivity, crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious. I’m pretty sure it hasn’t been poisoned.
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