Melinda didn’t hesitate.
Left hook.
Right hook.
Two perfectly delivered punches cracked across the room.
Wham. Wham.
Coulson and Agent Silvert hit the floor almost in unison.
She looked down at the unconscious pair, then turned toward Evenson with an expression somewhere between skepticism and concern.
"You’re absolutely sure this works?"
"You’ve already committed," Evenson replied with a shrug. "No point doubting it now."
"...M... Mel?"
A groan came from the floor.
Coulson, tougher than expected, hadn’t completely blacked out. Whether it was because Melinda had subconsciously pulled the punch with her left hand or because S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were simply built differently, he managed to raise his head, dazed and thoroughly confused.
He stared at his longtime partner.
"Why... did you punch me?"
"It only works if you’re unconscious," Evenson said, sounding far more disappointed than concerned.
Melinda sighed.
"Sorry."
Coulson’s eyes widened.
She shifted into a solid stance, twisted at the waist, and drove a single straight punch forward with enough force to make the air crack.
THOOM.
Coulson’s head snapped back.
He collapsed like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.
A thin curl of smoke rose from his hair.
Evenson winced.
"I said knock him out," he said. "Not launch him into the afterlife. You don’t think he’ll wake up as a vegetable, do you?"
"I know exactly how hard I hit."
Melinda rolled her wrist.
"...Although..."
She frowned thoughtfully.
"For some reason, I suddenly pictured a guy playing the cello."
"And I really wanted to punch him."
Evenson opened his mouth.
Then wisely closed it again.
Whatever story was behind that, it was almost certainly none of his business.
Three hours later, the two senior agents finally regained consciousness.
They looked at each other’s spectacular bruises.
Thousands of words rose to their lips.
Neither said a single one.
Instead...
Both sighed.
Evenson, having enjoyed a perfectly refreshing nap during their recovery, wandered over while yawning.
"So," he asked, "how do you feel?"
Silvert answered immediately.
"My face hurts."
Coulson nodded.
"My face hurts even more."
Evenson chuckled.
"Besides that?"
Coulson rubbed his temples.
"...It’s difficult to explain."
"Yesterday, after answering that phone call... all kinds of ridiculous decisions suddenly felt perfectly reasonable. Like they were the obvious thing to do."
Silvert’s expression darkened.
"I hate that feeling."
"I’ve manipulated other people’s minds before. Watching someone else’s judgment unravel is useful."
"But realizing someone did the same thing to me..."
He shivered.
"It makes me sick."
Coulson pressed an ice pack against his swollen cheek.
"Would you mind explaining what actually happened?"
"I remember pieces of it, but none of it makes sense."
This time Evenson didn’t hide anything.
There was no point.
He recounted everything from beginning to end.
The hammer.
Thor’s assault on the compound.
Loki’s infiltration.
The illusion magic.
The mental manipulation.
Everything.
When he finished, silence settled over the room.
Coulson slowly lowered the ice pack.
"So..."
"That hammer really is the legendary Mjolnir."
"And the man who fought his way into the facility..."
"...was actually Thor."
"The Thor."
Silvert added dryly,
"And his brother, Loki, quietly slipped into a S.H.I.E.L.D. installation, scrambled our minds, and convinced experienced agents to make catastrophically stupid decisions."
"I wouldn’t call them stupid."
Evenson waved dismissively.
"Embarrassing, maybe."
"But remember who you’re dealing with."
"He’s the God of Mischief."
"He has thousands of years of experience manipulating people."
He glanced around the room.
"He’s older than the entire history of this country."
"By about ten times."
"...Maybe fifteen."
Neither agent looked comforted.
"There is one upside," Evenson continued.
"If someone repeatedly attacks your mind and you manage to recover each time..."
"...you gradually build resistance."
"It’s the same principle behind fear magic."
"Expose someone too many times, and eventually the spell loses its bite."
Coulson frowned.
"You keep saying if they recover."
"What happens if they don’t?"
Evenson answered without hesitation.
"Their mind breaks."
"They go insane."
Silence.
"...Good to know," Coulson muttered.
He stood, straightened his rumpled suit, and adjusted his tie.
"I still don’t care whether they’re called gods."
"As far as I’m concerned..."
"They’re just exceptionally powerful extraterrestrials."
Evenson shrugged.
"That’s certainly the most S.H.I.E.L.D. way to interpret it."
Ignoring the jab, Coulson asked,
"What do you think Loki wanted?"
"You think I haven’t been asking myself the same question?"
Evenson folded his arms.
"Thor is the crown prince of Asgard."
"He arrived on Earth stripped of his power and carrying enough political implications to give Nick Fury a migraine."
"There’s a reason Fury appointed me as his special envoy."
"So what’s your plan?"
"I’m going to meet Thor."
"No assumptions."
"No guessing."
"I’ll hear his side of the story."
"Whatever happens after that, it’ll be better than sitting here inventing theories."
The previous night, after securing Thor’s release, Dr. Erik Selvig hadn’t taken the Asgardian home.
Instead, he’d brought him straight to a local bar.
Frankly, Selvig didn’t trust him.
Thor’s identity was a mystery.
He’d somehow managed to completely captivate his brilliant student, Jane Foster, within a matter of hours.
Selvig had never seen her act like this over anyone.
So his plan had been simple.
Buy the enormous stranger enough drinks to soften the goodbye.
Then politely send him out of town.
Unfortunately...
Trying to outdrink an Asgardian ranked somewhere between wrestling a bear and challenging the ocean to an arm-wrestling contest.
Selvig lost.
Badly.
Thor carried the thoroughly unconscious scientist home.
The next morning, Selvig awoke with a pounding headache.
The first thing he saw was the man he’d intended to send away...
Standing in the kitchen beside Jane.
Cooking breakfast.
He blinked.
Something had changed.
The arrogant warrior who had barked orders at everyone yesterday was gone.
In his place stood someone calmer.
Quieter.
More thoughtful.
Thor had lived for over a thousand years, but emotionally he’d often behaved like an overgrown child.
Lately, he’d been a particularly rebellious one.
Then Loki had delivered devastating news.
Odin was dead.
Frigga stood alone.
Thor’s exile would never be lifted.
Whether those claims were true or not, Thor believed them.
The grief of losing his father, combined with what he thought was permanent banishment, had shaken something loose inside him.
For the first time in centuries, the weight of his pride cracked.
Without the crown he had always chased...
Without the future he believed had been stolen...
He was forced to ask himself who he really was.
And perhaps...
That was the first real step toward becoming worthy.
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