Warlocks were notoriously difficult to kill.
Fel magic granted them unnaturally long lives, preserving both youth and vitality. Through Drain Life, wounds that should have been fatal could be repaired in moments. And with a properly prepared Soulstone, even death itself wasn’t always permanent.
But what happened when a warlock truly died?
If another warlock struck the killing blow, your soul might become fuel for their next spell.
If a champion of the Holy Light destroyed you instead, your spirit could simply be purified into oblivion beneath cleansing radiance.
And even if your soul somehow escaped both fates...
...your nightmare was only beginning.
Long exposure to fel left an indelible mark upon the soul. Sooner or later, that corruption would drag it back to its birthplace.
The Twisting Nether.
A dead warlock’s soul wandering into the home of demons...
There were few endings more horrifying.
Perhaps a thousand demons would tear it apart and consume it.
Perhaps a pit lord would keep it as a toy for eternity.
Or perhaps it would simply drift through the endless chaos of the Nether until time itself wore it away into nothing.
Compared to that...
Hell almost sounded merciful.
That was one of the reasons Evenson lived by a simple rule.
If there was a way to survive without risking his life...
He took it.
Every time.
Claire didn’t know the details of warlock magic.
But she knew enough history to understand that practitioners of dark magic rarely met peaceful ends.
Their souls seldom found rest.
And what Evenson wielded had long since surpassed ordinary dark sorcery.
The thought worried her.
She quietly tightened her grip around his hand.
Evenson squeezed back and smiled reassuringly.
Don’t worry.
As long as I keep running away from suicidal situations, I’ll be fine.
Comforting Claire was easy.
Looking at Melinda May...
...wasn’t.
He hesitated before finally saying,
"I’m sorry."
"There’s nothing I can do about this."
"It’s all right."
May surprised him with a calm smile.
When she looked up again, her eyes held unwavering conviction.
"I shouldn’t have been struggling with it in the first place."
"Agents aren’t supposed to expect clean endings."
"If Hell is where I belong..."
"...then so be it."
She drew a slow breath.
"Coulson and I have always believed the same thing."
"Our cause is just."
"If believing that means we save more lives..."
"If we preserve peace..."
"If fewer innocent people die..."
"...then whatever price we pay..."
"...even damnation..."
"...is worth it."
Evenson suddenly had a headache.
Why are the people around me so... decent?
You’re making it harder to manipulate you without feeling guilty.
The thought surfaced only briefly before he buried it.
Nick Fury’s words returned to him.
Necessary.
Some choices simply had to be made.
Their cause wasn’t evil.
Neither was his.
If they were willing to accept Hell itself in pursuit of their mission...
...then perhaps he didn’t need to agonize over every small deception along the way.
After a long silence, he nodded.
"I hope you never lose that conviction."
"No matter what happens."
"No matter what it costs."
"I won’t."
The warmth vanished from May’s expression.
In an instant she was once again the composed, intimidating operative everyone knew.
She gave a slight nod before leaving the room.
Evenson noticed Claire staring after her.
"What’s wrong?"
Claire hesitated.
"I think..."
"...I owe her an apology."
He blinked.
"For what?"
"As soon as they offered a thousand souls to a devil..."
"I judged them."
She lowered her eyes.
"I thought they weren’t much better than the monsters they were negotiating with."
She shook her head.
"But I was wrong."
"They may not be perfect people."
"But they’re trying to do the right thing."
"They really are protecting the world."
Evenson wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
"You don’t need to apologize for a misunderstanding that never left your own head."
"If everyone apologized for every mistaken first impression..."
"...life would get exhausting."
Claire let out a quiet sigh.
"I suppose."
"And honestly..."
"If you want to make it up to them..."
"...help them."
"Keep the peace."
"Save humanity every now and then."
"I’m pretty sure they’d appreciate that more than hearing ’sorry.’"
Claire laughed.
"You make world-saving sound like a weekend hobby."
"It kind of is."
Dinner was served not long afterward.
Evenson had expected military rations.
Instead...
The dining table groaned beneath platters of roast beef, sausages, fresh vegetables, warm bread, and enough food to embarrass many restaurants.
He stared.
This is better than what I eat at home.
Maybe once Coulson’s team is officially formed...
...I should drop by around dinner time.
He was still debating whether free food outweighed personal dignity when the tactical team entered carrying armfuls of beer.
Evenson frowned immediately.
Seriously?
A major operation starts in a few hours and everyone’s drinking?
Discipline has completely collapsed.
Outraged, he calmly poured himself a glass of vodka and emptied it in one swallow.
There.
Much better.
Besides, he wasn’t relying on these men to fight devils anyway.
If anything, this might be their last peaceful meal.
No sense ruining it.
Unfortunately, they weren’t content to drink alone.
Rumlow stood, raising his bottle.
"To the Hero of the Battle of New York!"
"To the mighty Lord of the Black Scythe!"
The entire squad erupted into cheers.
Evenson paused.
Then sighed and accepted another shot of vodka.
Alcohol no longer frightened him.
After drinking with Sif often enough, he’d built up a tolerance that would’ve horrified his former self.
A bottle of vodka wasn’t enough to put him under anymore.
Still...
He couldn’t quite figure out what Rumlow was playing at.
Most people saw only an elite S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.
Evenson knew better.
The man standing before him was Brock Rumlow.
Hydra’s future Crossbones.
Judging by the familiar faces standing nearby, several of his trusted subordinates were present as well.
So why this sudden enthusiasm?
Simple networking?
Or something more?
The flattery only escalated.
They praised him as the strongest Avenger.
The true leader of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.
One particularly enthusiastic agent claimed Thor looked like a domesticated Akita standing beside Evenson.
Evenson cleared his throat modestly.
"...Those are the kinds of truths people should quietly keep to themselves."
"There really isn’t any need to announce them."
Another chorus of laughter followed.
Then one young agent made the mistake of declaring that Natasha Romanoff had secretly admired Evenson for ages.
Evenson nearly launched himself across the table.
He clamped both hands over the man’s mouth.
"Don’t."
"Say."
"Another."
"Word."
Maybe that joke had been harmless once.
Now?
Claire was sitting right there.
He valued his continued survival.
As the laughter gradually died down, Evenson studied Rumlow over the rim of his glass.
You’re being far too obvious.
Hydra wants to recruit me?
No chance.
If someone at my level were worth recruiting, Alexander Pierce himself would be here with a suitcase full of cash.
Not a handful of foot soldiers armed with beer and compliments.
Something else was going on.
He just hadn’t figured out what yet.
...
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