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"I have some special abilities," Marcus said, meeting Coulson's eyes without flinching. "What's your point?"
Coulson paused, clearly not expecting such a direct response. He regrouped quickly—years of field experience showing through—and settled more comfortably into his chair.
"Mr. Reed, you possess extraordinary power. Have you ever considered using it for... a greater purpose?"
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Define 'greater purpose.'"
"I know you're not a criminal," Coulson continued, his voice earnest. "You're a good person. You helped Tony escape Afghanistan. You helped Ethan save his hometown of Gulmira. Those actions show character."
He leaned forward slightly, hands clasped. "There are people suffering all over the world. People who need help that only someone with your abilities can provide. SHIELD exists to protect those people, to maintain peace and stability. With your power, you could make a real difference."
Marcus listened patiently as Coulson made his pitch. The agent was good—spoke with genuine conviction, appealed to morality and duty, painted a picture of heroism and purpose. It was a well-rehearsed speech, probably tailored to Marcus's known actions.
When Coulson finally finished, Marcus leaned back and crossed his arms.
"So basically," he said, "what you're saying is: with great power comes great responsibility?"
Coulson blinked, then smiled slightly. "Yes. Exactly that."
Marcus shook his head. "That's bullshit."
The smile faded. "Excuse me?"
"No law requires people with greater ability to assume greater obligations. That's not how the world works, Coulson, and you know it."
Marcus stood up, pacing toward the window. "Look at the billionaires, the CEOs, the politicians. They have resources, wealth, power—real, tangible power that affects millions of lives. What do they do with it? Make themselves richer. Consolidate control. Build walls to keep others out of their exclusive club."
He turned back to face Coulson. "The guys at the top of the pyramid? They got there by being ruthless, by hoarding power, not by sharing it. Nobody's lecturing them about responsibility."
"That's different—"
"Is it? Throughout history, the people who did take on that responsibility—the actual heroes—they usually ended up dead, betrayed, or forgotten. Self-sacrifice doesn't get rewarded, Coulson. It gets exploited."
Coulson absorbed this quietly. His expression suggested he'd heard variations of this argument before, but Marcus's cynicism was clearly more developed than he'd anticipated.
"Besides," Marcus continued, sitting back down, "I haven't broken any laws. I'm not planning to. As long as I'm living my life, not hurting anyone, staying out of trouble... what's the problem?"
"There's no problem," Coulson said carefully. "I'm not suggesting there is. SHIELD doesn't force recruitment. We're simply... extending an invitation. One you're free to decline."
"Then I decline."
Coulson nodded slowly. "I understand. For what it's worth, I respect your position, even if I disagree with it."
"Appreciate the honesty."
An awkward silence settled between them. Coulson seemed to be searching for a new angle, but Marcus had clearly shut down the recruitment pitch. After a moment, Coulson shifted gears.
"Well, regardless of your decision, I should mention that SHIELD has been working to contain the fallout from the Harlem incident. Your... altercation with Abomination has been kept relatively quiet. We've managed the narrative, attributed most of the damage to Hulk. Gas leak explosions, structural failures—the usual cover stories."
Marcus shrugged. "Okay."
"Most civilians don't know about your involvement. It'll stay that way, assuming you keep a low profile going forward."
"I always keep a low profile," Marcus said. "Kind of my thing."
Coulson looked like he wanted to argue that point—given Marcus had punched a monster into a crater in the middle of New York—but wisely let it go.
The conversation dwindled after that. Small talk about the weather, a few polite questions about Marcus's company, nothing substantial. Coulson was clearly stalling, hoping for an opening that never came.
Finally, he stood to leave.
At the door, he paused. "Mr. Reed, one last question."
"Yeah?"
"If the world were in danger—real, existential danger—would you help defend it?"
Marcus considered the question seriously. Coulson's expression was grave, like he already knew something Marcus didn't. Like he was preparing for a future threat.
"Depends," Marcus said finally. "Depends on the situation, depends on what's at stake."
"But you might?"
"Probably. I live on this planet too, after all. If it goes down, I go down with it." He met Coulson's eyes. "So yeah, if it comes to that, I'd help. Self-preservation is a hell of a motivator."
Coulson's face relaxed into something resembling satisfaction. "That's all I needed to hear."
"Was that a test?"
"More like... confirmation." Coulson offered his hand. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Reed. We'll be in touch."
Marcus shook it. "No offense, but I hope you won't."
"None taken." Coulson smiled that trademark pleasant smile and walked out.
Marcus watched through the window as Coulson climbed into a black SUV and drove off. Only when the vehicle disappeared around the corner did Marcus finally relax.
"Well," he muttered, "that went better than expected."
SHIELD knew about him now. Officially. That had been inevitable after Harlem, but having it confirmed—having Coulson show up at his door with photos and recruitment pitches—made it real.
At least they weren't hostile. Coulson seemed content to let Marcus be, as long as he didn't become a problem. That was workable.
Marcus spent the next hour making arrangements for his company. He sent emails delegating responsibilities, set up automated processes, and ensured everything would run smoothly in his absence. His staff was competent; they could handle a few weeks without him micromanaging.
When everything was settled, he headed down to his basement—the most private part of his apartment, away from windows and prying eyes.
Time to go.
Marcus pulled up the system interface, the familiar translucent display appearing in his vision.
"Start world travel," he said aloud. "Destination: Resident Evil."
The system responded with text scrolling across his field of view:
[DESTINATION: RESIDENT EVIL UNIVERSE]
[Select arrival parameters]
"Time: Beginning of the first film's plot. Right when Alice wakes up in the mansion."
[TIME CONFIRMED: T-VIRUS OUTBREAK - INITIAL SEQUENCE]
"Location: Outside the mansion. Near the entrance."
[LOCATION CONFIRMED: ARKLAY MOUNTAINS - SPENCER MANSION EXTERIOR]
The system calculated for a moment, then displayed the cost:
[CROSS-DIMENSIONAL TRAVEL REQUIRES 4 ORIGIN POINTS]
[CURRENT BALANCE: 5 POINTS]
[CONFIRM TRAVEL? YES/NO]
Marcus took a deep breath. This was it. A world overrun by zombies, controlled by a psychotic AI, and home to a corporation that had literally ended human civilization. All for advanced technology and origin points.
He'd prepped as much as he could. His telekinetic shield would filter air—he'd studied gas mask designs and replicated their function with compressed force fields. As long as he wasn't bitten or injected directly, he should be safe from the T-virus.
And if something went catastrophically wrong? He'd have the system yank him back immediately. Emergency extraction was always an option.
"Yes," Marcus said. "Confirm travel."
[INITIATING CROSS-DIMENSIONAL TRANSFER]
[ORIGIN POINTS: 5 → 1]
[STANDBY]
Reality twisted.
It wasn't painful, exactly—more disorienting. Like stepping through a door and finding yourself somewhere completely different. One moment Marcus was in his basement, surrounded by concrete walls and dim lighting.
The next moment, he was standing in an open field.
Grass stretched out in every direction, wild and overgrown. The sky above was painted in evening colors—orange and purple, the sun just beginning to set. In the distance, maybe two hundred yards away, stood a large mansion. Victorian architecture, imposing and isolated.
The Spencer Mansion. Ground zero for the T-virus outbreak in Raccoon City.
Marcus took a slow breath—filtered through his telekinetic barrier—and confirmed the air was clean. No viral particles, no contamination. Good.
He extended his awareness outward, scanning the area with his powers. The radius pushed out to several hundred yards, giving him a mental map of the surroundings.
Two figures inside the mansion. One unconscious, one moving around cautiously.
Alice and... probably the fake husband from the opening scene. What was his name? Spence? Something like that.
Marcus checked his watch—well, he didn't have a watch anymore. Time zones didn't transfer between dimensions. But judging by the light, it was early evening.
That meant he had maybe an hour before the Red Queen's security protocols kicked in and the mansion became a death trap.
"Alright," Marcus said to himself, surveying the landscape. "Welcome to Raccoon City. Let's not get eaten by zombies."
He started walking toward the mansion, telekinetic senses on high alert, ready for anything.
This was going to be interesting.
(End of Chapter)