"Mr. Richter."
Coulson’s patience was beginning to wear thin.
"I’d appreciate it if you approached this conversation more seriously. Your current attitude isn’t helping."
Magic?
Warlocks?
The idea was absurd.
Neither he nor May believed a word of it.
This wasn’t the Dark Ages. Humanity no longer explained lightning with angry gods or eclipses with monsters swallowing the sun.
It was the twenty-first century.
Science ruled the world.
To them, magic belonged in fairy tales, fantasy novels, and Hollywood blockbusters.
"From our perspective," Coulson continued evenly, "magic isn’t a scientific explanation. Extraordinary abilities are simply another form of mutation."
"Don’t be so quick to define something."
Evenson shook his head.
"What makes you so certain magic doesn’t exist?"
Coulson answered without hesitation.
"Our civilization is built on science."
"Science creates."
"Science explains."
"Every major achievement of humanity has come through scientific progress."
"Magic, on the other hand, has always been superstition."
"It slows civilization rather than advancing it."
When he finished, Evenson applauded.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
"An excellent speech."
"But I think you’ve misunderstood what magic actually is."
Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose.
A senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent arguing about whether magic existed...
That wasn’t how he’d imagined spending his afternoon.
"Mr. Richter, I don’t think it’s productive to waste our time discussing..."
"Does magic contradict science?"
Evenson’s voice cut cleanly across his.
Before either agent could interrupt, he continued.
"A few centuries ago, telling doctors to wash their hands before delivering babies would have gotten you accused of witchcraft."
"People were executed for ideas we now teach in medical school."
"There was a time when cutting open a patient to save their life would’ve been considered barbaric."
"Today it’s routine surgery."
"There was a time when destroying an entire city was considered the power of the gods."
"Now humanity has enough nuclear weapons to devastate the planet many times over."
"Once, only divine beings were believed capable of reaching the heavens."
"Then humanity landed on the Moon."
"Every one of those achievements would’ve been called magic... or myth... by the people who came before."
He leaned forward.
"So perhaps magic is simply..."
"...science we haven’t learned how to explain yet."
Silence followed.
Finally, Coulson sighed.
"Arthur C. Clarke."
"’Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.’"
"He was a science fiction writer."
"I’d call him a visionary."
Evenson answered immediately.
"Maybe even a pioneer."
He looked from Coulson to May.
"Magic isn’t blind faith."
"It isn’t grinding gemstones into medicine or worshipping idols in hopes they’ll solve your problems."
"It’s another path toward understanding truth."
"Science and magic ask the same questions."
"They simply walk different roads."
The shop fell quiet.
May and Coulson exchanged another weary glance.
The argument was persuasive enough that they almost found themselves nodding along.
Almost.
May finally raised both hands in surrender.
"Fine."
"Let’s say magic is simply another branch of science."
"Then calling your abilities ’enhanced powers’ isn’t exactly wrong."
"It is."
Evenson corrected her instantly.
"First..."
"I’m not a mage."
"I’m a Warlock."
"Second..."
"Mutants awaken abilities through genetic mutation."
"It’s unpredictable."
"Uncontrollable."
"And impossible to reproduce on demand."
"My abilities are different."
"I learned them."
"I trained for them."
The room went completely still.
Neither agent cared about the distinction between mage and warlock anymore.
One sentence had seized all of their attention.
I learned them.
Coulson stared.
"You mean..."
"...your abilities were acquired through study?"
"Exactly."
"And someone besides you could learn... magic?"
His tone had become noticeably more cautious.
"Of course."
Evenson’s answer came without hesitation.
Coulson’s heartbeat quickened.
"So anyone can learn it?"
"...Of course not."
Evenson looked at him as though he’d asked whether everyone could become an Olympic athlete by watching television.
"You people train agents."
"Can every citizen become a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative?"
"No."
"Because talent matters."
"So does magic."
Coulson exhaled.
That made far more sense.
If everyone could master magic, the world would’ve turned upside down centuries ago.
"What kind of talent?"
"What qualifies someone to learn?"
The question carried unmistakable excitement.
S.H.I.E.L.D. possessed extraordinary people.
Elite soldiers.
Brilliant scientists.
Exceptional spies.
If there truly were measurable qualifications, the agency could search every corner of the world until it found suitable candidates.
Evenson considered the question carefully.
"A naturally strong mind."
"Exceptional willpower."
"Flexible thinking."
"Creativity."
"...Things like that."
Coulson frowned.
"Those are rather..."
"...vague."
Strong mind?
According to what standard?
Willpower?
How much?
Flexible thinking?
Did that include geniuses?
Artists?
Madmen?
Where exactly did one draw the line?
Evenson spread his hands apologetically.
"It’s magic."
"Not engineering."
"Some parts simply aren’t that precise."
"Those requirements only qualify someone to become an apprentice."
"They’re enough for basic spells."
"If you want to study higher forms of magic..."
"...the standards become even more abstract."
"There isn’t a checklist."
"It’s experience."
"Instinct."
"Judgment."
He wasn’t making it up.
Years earlier, while still living in the orphanage, he’d begun studying the Warlock Spell Compendium.
At first he’d feared someone would discover the book.
Instead, something stranger happened.
People saw him.
They simply never noticed the book.
It wasn’t invisible.
Their minds unconsciously ignored it.
Only one person had ever consistently perceived it.
The elderly nun who ran the orphanage.
Her faith in God was so sincere that she could actually notice the book resting in Evenson’s hands.
Even then, she never retained the memory.
Distract her with a single sentence...
...and moments later she’d completely forget she’d ever seen it.
That was when Evenson realized what the book truly was.
It distorted perception.
Anyone whose mind lacked sufficient spiritual strength would unconsciously overlook it.
Even if they noticed it for a moment...
...their memories would erase it almost immediately.
It was one of the reasons he’d left the orphanage so young.
Continually exposing ordinary people to something that warped their perception couldn’t possibly be healthy.
So yes.
Talent mattered.
Without it...
You couldn’t even become an apprentice.
Forget mastering advanced magic.
You’d never survive the equivalent of three years of spellcraft homework and five years of practical exams.
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