There was only one question left.
For perhaps the first time in years, Phil Coulson genuinely wanted an interview to end.
As a senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, he’d witnessed plenty of impossible things. Strange technology. Classified experiments. Missions that defied common sense.
Today still ranked among the most memorable days of his career.
The mission briefing had described Evenson Richter as a low-risk enhanced individual.
Instead, they’d discovered someone who insisted he wasn’t enhanced at all, but a practitioner of magic.
Even more absurd...
Coulson believed him.
He had watched Melinda react to a mysterious book that could distort perception itself, while he remained incapable of remembering it. Whatever that tome truly was, it clearly wasn’t a parlor trick. May had trained under S.H.I.E.L.D. since childhood. She was one of the most disciplined agents in the organization. If even she had nearly lost herself before it...
The book was dangerous beyond question.
Then there was Evenson himself.
A single spoken word had completely incapacitated two veteran agents.
Their sidearms had proven utterly useless.
Since earning Level Seven clearance, Coulson had grown accustomed to controlling situations, always keeping the initiative in his hands.
Today, he’d never possessed it for even a second.
He suspected that if he’d walked into this shop representing anyone other than S.H.I.E.L.D., he and May might already be ash swirling through New York’s sewer system.
It was time to finish.
"Mr. Richter," Coulson said, "you possess extraordinary abilities. Yet your life is... modest, to say the least."
He glanced around the little curiosity shop.
"You’ve never considered using your abilities to improve your circumstances?"
Evenson smiled faintly.
"Agent Coulson, you’re making the same mistake again."
"You keep comparing me to enhanced individuals."
"I’m not one of them."
"I’m not someone who woke up one morning with incredible power and suddenly decided the world revolved around me."
"I’m not chasing attention, fame, or the thrill of showing everyone how special I am."
"I’m a Warlock."
"My power wasn’t handed to me."
"I studied for it."
Systematically.
Painfully.
Every spell represented years of learning, practice, failure, and persistence.
"You see people who suddenly obtain power and have no idea what to do with it."
"I’ve spent my entire life learning how dangerous power really is."
"The deeper my understanding of magic became, the more I realized how little I actually knew."
"The closer I came to truth..."
"...the smaller I felt."
"The universe is vast."
"Our lives are frighteningly fragile."
May nodded thoughtfully.
"So that’s why you avoid abusing your abilities."
"You understand how precious life is."
Evenson blinked.
"...That’s actually a much nobler explanation than the one I was about to give."
Both agents looked at him.
"I was going to say that getting hit by a .50 caliber sniper round from half a mile away sounds incredibly painful."
Silence.
"I’m not bloodthirsty," he continued with a shrug.
"Killing people doesn’t make me happy."
"It doesn’t earn me much, but it does create an impressive amount of paperwork."
"So I generally avoid it."
"That said..."
"If someone insists on breaking into my home and trying to murder me..."
"...I’m perfectly willing to help them fail permanently."
Coulson exchanged a glance with May.
They understood.
Evenson’s explanation wasn’t idealistic.
It was practical.
He respected the consequences of violence.
He wasn’t interested in killing for pleasure.
But neither was he interested in martyrdom.
For Coulson, that was far more believable than lofty speeches about universal compassion.
Idealism inspired people.
Reality predicted them.
A genuine monster who admitted what he was could often be managed.
A false saint was infinitely more dangerous.
"I understand," Coulson said at last.
"I believe we’ve learned what we needed."
He rose to his feet.
"So this concludes our visit."
"Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Richter."
"Hopefully," May added, "the next time we meet will involve fewer firearms."
"No promises," Evenson replied with a grin.
"I do seem to attract interesting customers."
He escorted them toward the entrance like any ordinary shopkeeper seeing patrons out.
Just before they reached the door, he handed each of them a business card.
"I owe S.H.I.E.L.D. one."
"You overlooked the Dead End Gang disappearing after they decided my store looked profitable."
"I appreciate that."
"If you ever run into something... unusual..."
"Call me."
"Especially if it involves curses, ghosts, demons, or anything else that keeps your science division awake at night."
Coulson glanced at the card.
The corners of his mouth twitched.
Evenson Richter
Traditional Exorcist
Exorcisms • Fortune Telling • Palm Reading • Feng Shui Consultation • Spiritual Cleansing • Paranormal Investigation
He quietly slipped the card into his pocket.
Commenting on it would only encourage the man.
Both agents hurried toward the exit.
Behind them, Evenson spoke again.
"By the way..."
"You weren’t the first people to come looking for me because of my abilities."
May stopped instantly.
"Who?"
"One of the Dead End Gang’s mid-level members."
"But I don’t think that was his real employer."
"He was blond."
"Blue-eyed."
"German."
"I almost let him live because of that."
"Then he opened his mouth."
"So I changed my mind."
Coulson’s expression sharpened.
"What did he say before he died?"
Evenson’s smile disappeared.
"He told me..."
"’I’m only the vanguard.’"
"’Cut off one head...’"
"’...and two more shall take its place.’"
Silence crashed over the room.
Coulson’s face went pale.
May’s hand instinctively moved toward the pistol she no longer carried.
There was only one organization in the world that used those words.
Hydra.
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