A cherry-red vintage convertible sped through the streets of New York.
Behind the wheel, a clean-cut man glanced sideways at his passenger.
"May?"
No response.
"Melinda?"
The woman in the passenger seat blinked, pulled from her thoughts.
"...What?"
Phil Coulson sighed.
"You’ve been somewhere else for the last five minutes. That’s not exactly ideal when we’re on assignment."
Melinda May leaned against the window, her expression distant.
"I’ve lost my taste for field work."
Coulson’s smile faded.
He knew exactly why.
"May... I know Bahrain changed things." His voice softened. "But you can’t stay trapped there forever."
She stared out the windshield for several seconds before answering.
"I know."
A pause.
"I’ll get there."
"It just takes time."
Coulson nodded.
"Fair enough. But let’s get through this mission first. It’s your last field assignment before your leave."
May gave him a sidelong look.
"Don’t say things like that."
"Hm?"
"’One last mission before vacation.’" She shook her head. "That’s exactly the kind of line people say right before they die."
Coulson blinked.
"...According to who?"
"Movies."
"And novels."
"They love killing characters after that line."
For the first time all morning, Coulson laughed.
"I’ll take that as progress."
"What?"
"You’re making jokes again."
May rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.
"You spend too much time reading fiction," Coulson said. "S.H.I.E.L.D. agents aren’t supposed to believe movie clichés."
They were both senior S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives.
Phil Coulson was one of Director Nick Fury’s most trusted agents, a veteran investigator known for his calm judgment, organizational talent, and ability to pilot almost anything with an engine.
Beside him sat Melinda May.
One of the agency’s finest combat specialists.
A master pilot.
A spy.
A hand-to-hand combat expert.
After the tragedy in Bahrain, she’d earned the nickname The Cavalry.
It was also the quickest way to get punched unconscious if you called her that to her face.
May crossed one leg over the other.
"So what’s today’s crisis?"
She counted possibilities on her fingers.
"Terrorists smuggling a nuclear warhead into Manhattan?"
"A bioweapon?"
"International assassin?"
She shrugged.
"Just tell me there aren’t any hostages."
"None of the above."
Coulson sounded almost cheerful.
"No terrorists."
"No nuclear weapon."
"No biological attack."
"No hostages."
May frowned.
"...Then why are two Level Seven agents involved?"
"If it’s not world-ending, couldn’t an operations team handle it?"
Coulson chuckled.
"I never said it wasn’t important."
He reached into the back seat and handed her a red classified folder.
"It just happens to be... unusual."
May glanced at the security marking.
LEVEL SIX CLEARANCE
One eyebrow rose.
"Interesting."
She opened the file.
"...Seriously?"
She flipped another page.
Then another.
"Richter Curio Shop."
"The owner sells lucky charms."
She slowly looked up.
"Did S.H.I.E.L.D. suddenly decide to wage war on superstition?"
The file described a tiny storefront that sold protective talismans and assorted curios.
Hardly the sort of thing that usually required classified intelligence.
Unless...
May’s imagination began supplying alternatives.
Hidden dirty bomb beneath the basement.
Biological agents concealed inside the charms.
A terrorist financier hiding behind a harmless business.
Something.
Anything.
Instead she kept reading.
Nothing.
No criminal record.
No suspicious associates.
No unexplained financial activity.
No history of violence.
Not even a bar fight.
The owner looked almost painfully ordinary.
She shut the folder.
"I don’t get it."
"Exactly."
Coulson smiled.
"Keep going."
May reopened the file with growing skepticism.
The subject had spent his childhood in an orphanage.
At fourteen, he’d unexpectedly left after inheriting property from a distant relative.
Since then, he’d legally opened a small shop.
Every permit was genuine.
Every tax record checked out.
Every insurance document was in order.
Everything about his identity had been verified.
The deeper she dug...
The more normal he became.
May looked up again.
"Either we’re missing something..."
"...or Fury has finally lost his mind."
Coulson laughed.
"I promise it’s the first one."
May narrowed her eyes.
"You know more than you’re telling me."
"I do."
"And if you keep dragging this out, I’m going to break your arm."
Coulson surrendered immediately.
"Fair."
He cleared his throat.
"Let’s start with the obvious."
"He supposedly inherited everything from a distant relative."
"That’s what the paperwork says."
"It also says he left the orphanage at fourteen because of it."
May nodded.
"So?"
"So does that sound remotely plausible to you?"
She considered it.
Not really.
Stories like that belonged in fairy tales.
An orphan unexpectedly inheriting a fortune from a long-lost relative?
Possible.
Technically.
Just unlikely.
"It could happen," she admitted.
"Sure."
Coulson nodded.
"It could."
He tapped the folder.
"The inheritance consisted of eight hundred gold coins."
"Gold coins?"
"Not dollars."
"Not bonds."
"Actual gold coins."
May blinked.
"...That’s eccentric."
"Very."
"He donated three hundred of them to the orphanage before leaving."
"So at least he’s generous."
"Apparently."
She still wasn’t seeing the problem.
Eight hundred gold coins sounded unusual, but hardly worthy of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s attention.
Collectors existed.
Wealthy eccentrics existed.
Neither required Level Six clearance.
Coulson waited until she reached the end of the file.
Then he delivered the final piece.
"We investigated the inheritance."
"And?"
"We never found the relative."
May frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean..."
Coulson’s expression grew serious.
"The inheritance exists."
"The money exists."
"The legal paperwork exists."
"But the person who supposedly left him everything..."
"...doesn’t."
Silence settled over the car as New York rushed past outside.
For the first time since opening the file, Melinda May understood why S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken an interest in the owner of a little curiosity shop.
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