Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

Number 47 was not some mysterious government agent.

He was one of the Eredar Twins’ most trusted men, formerly the bartender at the Void’s Remains nightclub and, on the side, a proud ex-gang enforcer.

The old saying about one man’s rise lifting everyone around him certainly applied here. And when the "one man" in question happened to be two demonesses who had spent tens of thousands of years cultivating their strength, their subordinates had little choice but to rise with them.

After taking full control of the nightclub, the Eredar Twins had deliberately strengthened the surviving gang members. They had plenty of methods at their disposal. Fel infusion was hardly the only way to make an ordinary human stronger.

Salora taught them some basic training techniques, and the results were surprisingly effective. None of the men developed bizarre supernatural abilities, but their physical condition was pushed to the absolute human limit.

Number 47 was one of the best.

In terms of raw combat power, he was roughly eighty percent of Captain America.

As for why the poor bastard was called Number 47, well... that story was a little embarrassing.

For a proper gangster, a shaved head and tattoos were practically part of the uniform.

47 already had the first one covered. He had been born bald and had never managed to grow hair, no matter how much he would have liked to.

The tattoo, however, was where he had chosen to be original.

Instead of getting the usual cartoonish tribal nonsense inked across his chest, he had a barcode tattooed on the back of his head.

He thought it looked cool.

He thought it was symbolic.

He thought it made him look like a mysterious badass.

Then, one day, he learned what the barcode actually meant.

He immediately broke both of the tattoo artist’s hands and started wearing a hood everywhere, making sure nobody ever saw it again.

Unfortunately for him, fate had other plans.

One day, the Twins decided they wanted to see how well their subordinates’ training had progressed. Number 47 was desperate to impress them and went far too hard.

He was also sweating heavily.

His hood slipped.

Then it flew clean off his head.

The barcode was exposed.

The Twins saw it.

Salora, naturally, became curious.

Despite Number 47’s frantic protests, she pulled out her phone, scanned the barcode, and waited for the result.

The answer was...

SpongeBob SquarePants plastic slippers, size 47.

The Twins nearly collapsed laughing.

Number 47’s dignity never recovered.

From that day forward, he gained the nickname "Size 47," and the entire organization took great pleasure in reminding him of it.

But the humiliation also lit a fire under him.

Determined to reclaim his pride, he trained like a madman. He eventually became the strongest of the Twins’ men aside from Luther.

At that point, "47" stopped being a joke.

It became a title reserved for someone strong enough to earn it.

The Twins had taken notice.

Which was why they had sent him on this mission.

And, judging by the results, the man had delivered.

"Wait."

Evenson frowned.

"So you had one of your stronger people get into a fight with agents who were actually investigating a case?"

Recruiting talented personnel was certainly good news. The method used to recruit them, however, was giving Evenson a headache.

"Nothing to worry about," Aureseus said dismissively.

Salora, meanwhile, was practically grinning.

"I just hope those SHIELD idiots don’t completely lose it when they discover that one of their highly trained senior agents was taken down by a gangster."

"Hmm..."

Evenson stroked his chin, clearly amused.

"Nick Fury might actually have a stroke."

He paused.

"Although, if that black man explodes, what do you suppose comes out instead of blood?"

"Chocolate syrup?"

Aureseus held up one finger as she offered the answer.

The three of them burst out laughing.

"Wait, that’s not the point!"

Evenson abruptly stopped himself.

"We’ve drifted pretty far off course. Getting into a direct confrontation with SHIELD right now isn’t exactly smart."

Things were different now.

Back in the beginning, Umbrella had been nothing more than a name Evenson had invented on the spot. A fictional organization was wonderfully convenient that way. No matter how many crimes or disasters you pinned on it, SHIELD could search until the end of time and never find anything.

But now Umbrella was real.

That changed everything.

A real organization left records. Evidence. Paper trails. People.

Most of the time, Umbrella could remain invisible simply by doing nothing that attracted attention. But this time it had crossed directly into SHIELD’s path.

If SHIELD traced the incident carefully enough, they might uncover far more than Evenson wanted them to.

"You really think we’d be that careless?" Aureseus curled her lip and gave him an insulted look.

"If we were willing to make a move, we’d obviously have planned for the consequences."

"Relax."

Salora’s eyes narrowed with a cold smile.

"SHIELD will never trace it back to us."

Evenson raised an eyebrow.

"Because?"

"Because we’ve already found someone else to take the blame."

Sylvett slowly regained consciousness in a cheap motel room.

The moment he sat up, a sharp, burning pain shot through his neck.

Then he remembered.

A bald man had strangled him with a wire.

Judging by the fact that Sylvett was still alive, the bastard had gone easy on him and settled for knocking him unconscious instead of killing him.

He looked around.

The Chitauri rifle was still where he had left it. Untouched.

The scientist couple, however, was gone.

Sylvett’s expression hardened.

So they were the real target.

Of course.

Scientists were the high ground. They were the future. They represented long-term returns.

Apparently, whoever had attacked him understood that perfectly well.

Sylvett slammed a fist into the floor, grabbed the rifle, and immediately returned to headquarters.

He would find out who had attacked him.

And he would get those scientists back.

If the scientists were the high ground, how could he possibly let someone else occupy it?

Unfortunately, the moment he got back and finished explaining what had happened, he barely had time to open his mouth before Nick Fury began chewing him out.

The one-eyed director had apparently returned around the same time.

Without missing a beat, Fury pointed directly at Sylvett and unloaded a tirade on him.

Then he casually tossed a bill onto the desk.

The motel had suffered $43,000 in damages.

Sylvett’s mouth twitched.

"You’re telling me I have to pay that?"

Forty-three thousand dollars.

That was two months of his salary.

Damn it. SHIELD is impossible.

Fury could yell all he wanted, but he wasn’t about to let the investigation disappear.

Someone had stolen two targets directly from under SHIELD’s nose and knocked out one of its agents.

That was serious.

Satellites.

Surveillance networks.

Traffic cameras.

Everything SHIELD could access was pulled together.

Once the data went through the computers, a collection of leads emerged almost immediately, including the vehicle Number 47 had used to leave the scene.

Then Fury saw the registration.

He nearly spat out chocolate syrup.

The vehicle was registered to the United States military.

Worse, intelligence showed that it had entered a military base.

Fury’s mind immediately assembled the pieces.

The military had noticed the scientist couple.

They had sent someone to take them.

That was a problem.

A very large problem.

Fury rubbed his forehead.

SHIELD’s relationship with the U.S. government was already strained enough.

The last time Fury had pushed to begin research on the Tesseract, the project had been rushed so badly that SHIELD had borrowed a research facility directly from the government.

The agreement had been simple.

Borrow it.

Return it.

Instead, a project worth tens of billions had ended with the entire facility collapsing.

Then came the Chitauri invasion of New York.

The U.S. government had wasted no time dumping the blame on SHIELD in front of the World Security Council, insisting that SHIELD’s reckless pursuit of results had caused the catastrophe.

Fury knew exactly how unfair that was.

Unfortunately, the blame was difficult to shake.

SHIELD had proposed the Tesseract research project.

SHIELD had been the organization overseeing it.

When everything exploded, who else was supposed to take responsibility?

So negotiating with the military now would be a nightmare.

Going to the World Security Council would be just as useless.

Fury could already hear the excuses.

The couple might be brilliant scientists, but they were also bank robbers.

Therefore, in the interests of justice, the U.S. government would naturally conduct a fair trial and then send them to prison.

How long would the trial take?

Don’t rush them.

Surely there would be a result within a hundred years.

And during that time, the two suspects would need to remain under government supervision to ensure that nothing interfered with the judicial process.

And if SHIELD tried to steal them back?

That would be even better.

For the next week, every newspaper headline would scream about SHIELD protecting bank robbers and interfering with the American justice system.

Fury shook his head.

Forget it.

Some battles simply weren’t worth fighting.

There was no point wasting time on something that was almost guaranteed to end in failure.

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