Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

Benjamin Pollock and Claire Vess were an ordinary engaged couple living in New York.

They also happened to run a private laboratory.

Don’t let the phrase private laboratory fool you into imagining some gleaming research facility packed with cutting-edge equipment. New York had thousands of places like theirs.

Possibly tens of thousands.

There was a predictable pattern among ambitious college graduates.

Young, arrogant, and full of dreams, they didn’t want to spend their lives working ordinary jobs while taking orders from someone else. They believed they were different. They believed they were destined to accomplish something extraordinary.

And there was always some inspirational slogan floating around to encourage them.

If you didn’t want to be a general, you weren’t a worthy soldier.

So they started businesses.

They rented a room.

Bought some scientific equipment.

Put a sign on the door calling it a laboratory.

Then they dreamed of inventing something that would change the world, patenting it, founding a company, going public, attracting investors, and riding all the way to the top.

To be fair, some of them actually succeeded.

A few young entrepreneurs really did create useful inventions and make fortunes.

Most didn’t.

Their savings disappeared into equipment, rent, and failed experiments until the money was gone and the dream died with it.

Then they found ordinary jobs.

Benjamin and Claire belonged to that army of failed-but-stubborn young entrepreneurs.

Their situation was slightly different.

They’d started with enough money to keep going.

Five or six years after graduating, they still hadn’t burned through all of it.

They also hadn’t produced a single meaningful research result.

But they had accomplished something else.

They’d started as ordinary friends pooling their resources to build a business.

Then they became boyfriend and girlfriend.

Then fiancés.

So while their scientific careers had gone absolutely nowhere, they’d somehow found their life partners.

By that measure, they were doing pretty well.

Unfortunately, their remaining startup capital was now almost gone.

Their laboratory had gradually moved from a respectable rented facility to a decrepit warehouse, and finally into the basement of a residential building.

They lived there too.

And ironically, that was exactly what saved their lives during the Chitauri invasion.

Evenson had once said that being poor wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Sometimes poverty kept you out of trouble.

The successful people working in skyscraper offices had been sitting directly in the path of the first wave of the invasion. Some were slaughtered by Chitauri soldiers. Others were caught by the fins of those strange flying machines.

And then there were the people who had watched a giant green man smash through their offices before leaping straight out the window.

The casualties among New York’s upper floors had been horrific.

Benjamin and Claire, meanwhile, were sitting safely underground.

Their basement barely suffered any damage.

Once again, Evenson’s philosophy had proven itself.

Poverty could keep you safe.

Poverty could spare you countless headaches.

Poverty could even save your life.

Of course, if Evenson were ever given the chance to choose his own lifestyle again, he’d probably have one small amendment to that philosophy.

Please let me get rich.

Fortunately, fortune had finally come knocking.

Quite literally.

During the Battle of New York, a Chitauri rifle had been thrown through the window of their basement.

It landed in their hands.

Unfortunately, when the portal over New York was shut down, all the remaining Chitauri technology stopped functioning.

The rifle was no exception.

But perhaps talent really did matter more than endless hard work.

The couple had spent years accomplishing almost nothing with human technology.

Give them alien technology, however?

Suddenly, they were geniuses.

Within a few days, Benjamin and Claire had managed to restore the weapon’s functionality.

If they’d reported their discovery, major research institutions and government agencies would have fought over them.

They could have landed prestigious jobs, collected comfortable salaries, and lived the good life.

Instead, perhaps because they’d spent years struggling to survive, they decided they were tired of playing by the rules.

They didn’t want to spend the rest of their lives collecting paychecks.

They wanted to get rich.

Fast.

So they reached a mutual conclusion.

Working for someone else was out.

This life was going to be different.

They were going to rob banks.

And so they did.

The couple traveled across the country, robbing several banks with their restored alien weapon.

After making several million dollars, they decided they’d had enough.

They would disappear, enjoy their fortune, and spend the rest of their lives relaxing.

Unfortunately, there was an old rule about arrogance.

Don’t get cocky.

It never ends well.

If they’d merely robbed banks with ordinary weapons, there was a chance they could have escaped.

Robbing banks with an extraterrestrial weapon was another matter entirely.

Their spree immediately attracted S.H.I.E.L.D.’s attention.

Level Seven Agent Sitwell was personally dispatched to recover the weapon and arrest the criminals.

Of course, Sitwell wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy man in S.H.I.E.L.D.

Whether he intended to bring the couple into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody...

Or into the considerably more secretive custody of Hydra...

That was another question entirely.

Either way, Sitwell found their motel hideout in less than half a day.

The couple had an alien weapon.

Sitwell was an experienced senior agent.

And whatever else could be said about him, S.H.I.E.L.D. had trained him well.

He didn’t need much time to take both criminals into custody.

Sitwell was feeling rather pleased with himself.

Two scientists recovered.

Alien weapon secured.

Mission accomplished.

Maybe his performance would even earn him a better year-end bonus.

Then the motel room door opened.

Sitwell immediately straightened.

A bald man walked inside.

He was roughly the same height as Sitwell.

At least they had that in common.

The newcomer was dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie, with a black wool coat draped over his shoulders.

His expression was cold.

His eyes were colder.

"Who are you?"

Sitwell was absolutely certain this man wasn’t room service.

"Forty-Seven."

The man’s answer was flat.

Sitwell’s eyes narrowed.

Forty-Seven?

Obviously not a real name.

And judging from his appearance, he certainly wasn’t another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent sent to provide backup.

Sitwell attacked.

He intended to knock the man down first and ask questions afterward.

He never got the chance.

Forty-Seven’s combat skills were several levels above Sitwell’s own.

He slipped past the attack with almost effortless precision.

A thin steel wire snapped from his sleeve.

By the time Sitwell realized what had happened, Forty-Seven was already behind him.

The wire tightened around his throat.

Sitwell immediately grabbed it with both hands and fought desperately to loosen it.

He twisted his head as far as he could.

Just a little.

His eyes flicked backward.

For an instant, he caught sight of the back of Forty-Seven’s head.

There was a barcode tattooed across his skin.

Sitwell’s vision began to blur.

His strength was fading.

I’m dead.

Everything about this man’s movements screamed professional assassin.

The stance.

The technique.

The complete lack of hesitation.

Once he’d gotten the wire around Sitwell’s neck, there was no way out.

"Ugh!"

Forty-Seven suddenly shifted his weight.

Sitwell was thrown over his shoulder and slammed hard onto the floor.

Forty-Seven crouched down and checked his pulse.

Then he pulled out a phone.

He glanced at the bound couple lying nearby.

A moment later, he made a call.

"Sir."

His voice remained emotionless.

"The mission is complete."

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