In the end, Coulson didn't get much out of the scene.
The footprints left in the melted asphalt couldn't be traced. The shoes were a dead end, custom-made, with properties that suggested low-level protective enchantments. Not something you'd find in any database.
All he could really confirm was the temperature.
And that only made things worse.
Whoever had caused this… wasn't just dangerous. They were on a completely different scale.
Forensics did recover a few strands of red fiber near the center of the blast zone, but there was no way to confirm whether they were actually connected to the incident.
Coulson exhaled slowly.
His respect for Director Nick Fury ticked up another notch.
The man had assessed the threat level without even stepping on-site and assigned the case accordingly. That kind of instinct wasn't something you learned overnight.
Not that Coulson could write that in his report.
Still.
Results mattered more than admiration.
And he did have something.
Based on the physical estimates, the person who robbed Senator Ricky White and the one who left the footprints were the same individual.
Which led to a working theory.
Two subjects.
One capable of producing extreme heat and intense light.
The other… possibly manipulating air or some similar force.
And the destruction hadn't been limited to the outskirts. The trail of damage stretched all the way from the town hall to the blast site.
Coulson didn't believe in coincidences.
Two unrelated enhanced individuals crossing paths on the same day?
No.
This was coordinated.
A team.
He sighed.
People didn't always handle power well.
Some snapped the moment they got it.
A disgruntled employee might walk into their boss's office and settle scores permanently. Someone else might take to the streets, building their own little empire through fear and violence.
Even the ones who tried to stay normal… didn't always stay that way.
Which was why S.H.I.E.L.D. monitored them.
Closely.
Too closely, some would argue.
Surveillance. Listening devices. Background checks that never really stopped. Privacy became a luxury they couldn't afford. Jobs disappeared. Relationships cracked under pressure.
And eventually—
Some of them broke.
But the system worked.
Most incidents were stopped before they escalated.
Targets were neutralized early.
Quietly.
Efficiently.
Coulson rubbed his temple.
The two he was tracking… didn't feel like that.
Not yet.
Their choice of target said something.
They had gone after someone powerful. Someone with status.
Ricky White wasn't just a senator. His family had roots stretching back to the Salem witch trials.
History had a way of echoing.
And the way the event unfolded suggested inexperience. Uncontrolled output. A move to the outskirts, likely to avoid civilian casualties.
If they'd wanted blood—
The senator and his security detail would be dead.
That mattered.
It meant they weren't lost causes.
People like that could still be reasoned with.
Helped.
If he could find them.
That was the problem.
No cameras in the area. No vehicles recorded. No traffic logs to trace.
They had simply… vanished.
Coulson stared at the data, frustration building like static under his skin.
Then—
"Agent Coulson."
Sitwell stepped in, holding a tablet.
"Got something."
—
The lead came from a café across from city hall.
A waitress. Brown hair. Sharp memory.
She remembered two customers from the previous day.
Not because they caused trouble.
Because one of them ate like a black hole.
And the other…
"Well," she said with a shrug, "he was kind of hard to forget."
Coulson didn't comment.
The café's surveillance footage had already been pulled into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s system.
He arrived on-site and took the tablet.
The footage played.
Grainy.
But usable.
After some enhancement, the proportions became clearer.
Height.
Build.
Facial structure.
Coulson leaned in slightly.
"…A kid?"
The waitress nodded.
"Twelve. Maybe thirteen."
Coulson didn't react outwardly, but something in his chest tightened.
Good thing he hadn't called Melinda May in on this.
Facing enhanced individuals was one thing.
Facing a child?
That was different.
May didn't need that kind of reminder. Not after Bahrain.
"Iron Cavalry" sounded impressive on paper.
In reality, it came with scars that didn't fade.
Coulson shifted his focus back to the screen.
"What about their clothes?"
He pointed.
"The heavier one looks like… some kind of Eastern monk. I've seen similar outfits before."
He paused, then gestured toward the other figure.
"And the kid?"
The waitress shrugged again.
"Tourist town. People dress weird all the time. But yeah… kinda like a wizard, I guess."
A red robe.
That was enough.
Coulson's gaze sharpened slightly.
So the one at the center of the thermal event—
Was the kid.
"Thanks for your help," he said, dismissing her.
Once she was gone, he turned to Sitwell.
"What's next?"
Sitwell blinked, his glasses catching the light.
"You tell me."
Coulson exhaled.
"Pull every camera in town. Let's track their movement."
He didn't like this.
Didn't like where it was heading.
But if his read was right, these two weren't criminals yet.
And he intended to keep it that way, if possible.
—
They found nothing.
Every camera.
Every angle.
Every street.
No sign of the two leaving town.
Not on foot.
Not by vehicle.
Not on any outbound bus.
It was like they'd never existed outside that brief window of footage.
For a moment, S.H.I.E.L.D. even considered the possibility that they were locals.
Or tourists with private transportation.
But nothing fit.
Sitwell leaned back slightly.
"We're out of leads. Time to run facial recognition."
Coulson didn't answer right away.
He lifted his cup and took a sip of coffee.
His expression didn't change.
But internally—
Why is this more acidic than instant coffee?
He set it down.
Focus returned.
This wasn't optional anymore.
If that level of power went out of control in a confined space—a bus, an elevator—
It would be a massacre.
He nodded.
"Do it."
—
An hour later, Coulson was seconds away from abandoning his seat just to escape another cup of that aggressively sour coffee when Sitwell called out.
"We've got a match."
Coulson stood up immediately, relief almost visible.
He crossed the room in a few quick steps.
Sitwell pointed at the screen.
"There."
Coulson looked.
The same face from the footage stared back at him.
Clear.
Identified.
Salomon DamonetNationality: BritishResidence: LondonDate of Birth: December 25, 1995
Coulson's eyes lingered on the screen.
"Found you."