Mutants came in every variety imaginable.
Some possessed subtle gifts.
Others had bizarre, almost comical abilities.
And a handful were powerful enough to rival tactical weapons.
The man S.H.I.E.L.D. was investigating clearly didn’t belong in the first category.
The Dead End Gang had sent five separate groups after him.
The smallest consisted of two armed men.
The largest numbered twenty.
None had returned.
Gangsters weren’t elite soldiers, but neither were they harmless. They were grown adults carrying knives, pipes, and handguns. A single person eliminating them repeatedly without leaving a trace suggested an ability far beyond ordinary human limits.
The video only reinforced that conclusion.
The unidentified young man had reduced a full-grown adult to ash in less than a second.
That wasn’t ordinary fire.
Incinerating a human body wasn’t as simple as pouring gasoline over someone and striking a match. Even military flamethrowers couldn’t reduce a corpse to ash instantly. Crematoriums required tremendous heat and considerable time to accomplish the same result.
Whatever green flame the man had wielded...
It was far beyond conventional physics.
Melinda May couldn’t help comparing the situation to Bahrain.
A frightened little girl with uncontrolled abilities had left dozens of people as mindless husks before May had been forced to kill her.
Now they were dealing with an adult who appeared to have complete mastery over his powers.
That made him far more dangerous.
The shop itself stood in the middle of a residential neighborhood.
If those green flames spread...
The resulting fire could consume entire city blocks.
Civilian casualties would be inevitable.
May’s tactical instincts immediately began assembling a response.
A sniper positioned eight hundred meters away.
Three assault teams with automatic weapons.
Firefighters on standby.
Neutralize the target before he had time to react.
Coulson shook his head.
"That won’t be necessary."
May looked at him.
"You’ve seen the same footage I have."
"I have."
"And Director Fury has seen considerably more."
She paused.
That was true.
A Level Six investigation wasn’t approved lightly.
Nick Fury had almost certainly reviewed every available report before assigning the mission.
Besides...
She’d only ever seriously offended Fury once, back when she’d joked as a child that his bald head looked like a hard-boiled egg.
She doubted he was still holding a decades-old grudge.
"I’ll explain," Coulson said.
"So far, every piece of evidence points in the same direction."
"The target has excellent control over his abilities."
"He doesn’t use them recklessly."
"If this incident with the Dead End Gang hadn’t been recorded, we might never have known he possessed extraordinary powers at all."
He counted off the evidence.
"He’s only acted against people who attacked him."
"There have been no unexplained civilian deaths."
"No mysterious fires."
"No pattern of violence."
May folded her arms impatiently.
"Conclusion."
"He is probably harmless."
She immediately caught the qualifier.
"Probably?"
Coulson nodded.
"That’s the preliminary assessment."
"Our job is to determine whether it’s accurate."
They weren’t being sent to eliminate a target.
They were conducting a field evaluation.
A conversation with an experienced agent could reveal far more than surveillance alone.
"If he really is harmless," May asked, "what happens then?"
Her expertise lay in combat operations.
Peaceful enhanced individuals weren’t usually her department.
Coulson answered matter-of-factly.
"We register him."
"Document the nature of his abilities."
"Advise him to continue acting responsibly."
"Conduct periodic follow-up evaluations."
"And everyone goes home."
May nodded.
Simple enough.
Neither of them mentioned the alternative.
They didn’t need to.
If the evaluation reached the opposite conclusion...
S.H.I.E.L.D. had procedures for dangerous enhanced individuals.
Those procedures were brutally straightforward.
Richter Curio Shop.
For seven years, the modest storefront had occupied a corner of Brooklyn’s Sixth Street.
It specialized in religious icons, charms, talismans, and objects tied to folklore from around the world.
Crosses.
Hexagrams.
Buddha statues.
Bagua mirrors.
Colorful voodoo masks.
Towering tribal totems.
Straw ritual dolls.
Every item came with a fascinating legend.
Every item was fake.
Not philosophically fake.
Literally fake.
The gold crosses were gold-plated lead.
The jade Buddhas were colored glass.
The expensive-looking antiques were clever reproductions.
Fortunately, they were also priced accordingly.
Nobody paying a quarter of an authentic item’s value could honestly claim they’d expected the genuine article.
As a result, the shop had never been sued for fraud.
Occasionally, someone tried to extort money by threatening legal action anyway.
Those attempts rarely lasted long.
A few discreet questions around Sixth Street usually revealed an important fact.
Even the Dead End Gang preferred not to bother Richter Curio Shop.
Once people heard that...
Most wisely decided to take their business elsewhere.
The owner of that peculiar little store was, naturally, Evenson Richter.
He had left the orphanage only a month after recovering the memories of Ryan Mercer.
The decision hadn’t come from indifference.
Quite the opposite.
He fully expected that one day his life would become inseparable from magic, demons, and dangers beyond ordinary comprehension.
The fewer emotional ties he left behind...
The fewer innocent people could be dragged into whatever disasters awaited him.
A clean break now seemed kinder than risking tragedy later.
Then he’d made a spectacular mistake.
He’d trusted a real estate agent.
The salesman had praised the property as an "up-and-coming commercial opportunity."
Evenson, having almost no understanding of New York’s neighborhoods, believed every word.
Only after signing the paperwork did he discover he’d purchased a shop in one of Brooklyn’s most gang-infested districts.
The welcoming committee had arrived shortly afterward.
In fairness to Coulson’s report, the Dead End Gang really had targeted him five times.
The report simply omitted everyone else.
Burglars.
Robbers.
Petty criminals.
Desperate addicts climbing through his windows after midnight.
They’d all contributed to his education.
Quite generously.
Warlock magic demanded practice.
Practice required test subjects.
His unexpected visitors had provided plenty.
Even better, every soul he harvested became valuable currency when bargaining with demons across the Twisting Nether.
Thanks to those repeated encounters, his studies had progressed far beyond theory.
He’d even managed to summon companions no respectable Warlock traveled without.
Evenson looked at the figures lined up before him.
From tallest to shortest, they stood in neat formation inside the shop.
A towering Voidwalker.
A seductive Succubus.
A bloated Felhunter.
A chattering Imp.
And, bringing up the rear...
A Frostwolf pup wagging its tail enthusiastically.
Evenson pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You know..."
"When I first summoned all of you, I was thrilled."
He sighed.
"Now?"
"I’m starting to think I committed some truly spectacular sins in my last life."
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