"What does life mean to you, Solomon? What benefit do you gain from playing with it?"
Agent Coulson posed a question brimming with philosophical and religious weight. Yet the target of his inquiry, Solomon, didn't answer directly. Instead, he started the car and locked the doors. For a seasoned agent like Coulson, who thrived on mystique and control, this reversal of expectations was unsettling. Most targets wanted agents to leave their vehicles as quickly as possible. Solomon, however, clearly had no intention of letting him out.
As the engine roared to life, the car's Bluetooth stereo automatically turned on, filling the space with the rough, haunting harmony of male voices singing a sea shanty.
Coulson, surprised, realized that Solomon's peculiar taste in music hadn't been documented in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files. This oversight, while minor, was a glaring error in intelligence work. Music was often a direct reflection of a person's character, and the playlist in a car was especially telling.
Not that Coulson planned to report this. He had come alone, leaving his car parked discreetly around the corner.
This meeting violated almost every operational protocol in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s manual. Agents were supposed to operate in pairs to ensure that if one encountered trouble, the other could call for backup or respond appropriately. Recklessness was unacceptable—except, apparently, for Coulson's team.
Coulson had no backup, an unusual situation for a veteran agent. By coming here, he had accepted the risk. He was ready to do whatever it took to uncover the truth. As for Director Maria Hill's suggestion to evaluate Solomon's psychological state, that conversation could wait—it would be recorded and filed later. For now, Coulson wanted answers that wouldn't leave a paper trail.
"You're not a zombie or a skeleton, so what's there to complain about?" Solomon quipped, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at Coulson through the rearview mirror. "Anything else on your mind?"
"What do you mean?"
"For Vishanti's sake, Coulson!" Solomon shook his head, his exasperation clear. He regarded the agent as though he were a clueless rookie. The kind who missed the obvious problem right in front of their face. Tapping the steering wheel for emphasis, Solomon continued, "I don't think knowing the answer to that question will help you. You know I value my privacy, yet here you are. What do you think I should do?"
"Are you serious? Are we doing this again?" Coulson arched an eyebrow. He was already aware of the memory erasure incidents involving his team and Solomon. To Coulson, Solomon seemed overly sensitive—this was standard communication for S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, no need to make a fuss.
Still, Coulson chose to tread carefully. Solomon's value was too significant to risk upsetting him. Keeping the magician calm meant ensuring cooperation.
"Don't worry. Very few people know about this meeting. Within S.H.I.E.L.D., only the Director, Hill, and Romanoff are privy to information about you. We've honored our agreement to keep your details air-gapped and inaccessible to unauthorized personnel. If you don't want to answer, we can discuss something else."
Solomon stared at Coulson through the rearview mirror, his expression icy. "I can bring someone back to life—but only if they've been dead for less than a minute. Any longer, and their soul moves on to wherever it's meant to go. Do you think your soul would go to heaven? No. You'd go to hell, Coulson. And do you realize the cost of dragging your soul out of hell?"
"Then why pay such a cost? Why do you think I could save the world in the future? Can you foresee the future?" Coulson asked bluntly, cutting to the heart of the matter. Based on his analysis of Solomon's personality, he knew this was a question the magician couldn't avoid answering.
"Don't act like a victim, Coulson!" Solomon snapped, his voice carrying a biting edge. "Kings and emperors have dreamed of resurrection for centuries, and yet it happened to you. You're alive. That's enough. You have no right to whine about your resurrection. If you're dissatisfied, pull out your gun and end it now. Don't want to? Then stop being so dramatic about your doubts. You're alive because you're useful. In this world, being alive is the greatest reward."
"As for what you call foresight, it's not quite that. It's sight—not prediction."
As Coulson had expected, Solomon transitioned from chastising him to explaining the concept of prophecy.
"Prophecy is simply sight. Seeing the future, the past, and hidden truths. From ancient times, people have prayed to gods for visions and sought answers through tools like the stars or divination. All of these are extensions of 'sight.' Kamar-Taj foresaw that you would save the world, which is why they ensured your survival. In fact, causality can be reversed—in the realm of time, cause and effect aren't always clear."
Coulson frowned. He hadn't realized the complexities surrounding his resurrection. Though he didn't know much about Solomon's organization, this information confirmed that meeting Solomon had been the right move. The magician clearly knew a great deal. Coulson decided not to share this revelation with anyone, including Nick Fury. He didn't want the Director to know he had regained his memories.
"Do you know of anyone else who can see the future?" Coulson asked, avoiding any further provocation.
"No." Solomon shook his head, his tone dripping with disdain for Coulson's ignorance. "Foreseeing the future isn't simple. It's extraordinarily difficult. Even with Kamar-Taj's most powerful artifact, the Cosmic Cauldron, you'd only glimpse fragmented possibilities of the future. The only one who can fully see the past and future is my teacher."
"As far as I know, there's more than one person who can predict the future," Coulson said provocatively, handing Solomon a file. The manila envelope bore S.H.I.E.L.D.'s black emblem and a red "Classified" stamp, underscoring its importance. "This contains information about someone who can see the future," Coulson said confidently. "I don't know if it falls under the realm of magic, but I thought you'd want to know about 'The Clairvoyant.'"
Solomon didn't take the file. He gave Coulson an icy look before silently unlocking the car doors. It was clear he didn't care about The Clairvoyant. Coulson had chosen the wrong person to approach.
Without pressing further, Coulson placed the file on the passenger seat, opened the door, and stepped out. "You know how to reach me," he said. Whether out of pride or curiosity, Coulson believed Solomon would eventually read the file and take an interest in this mysterious seer.
"I recommend this song, Agent Coulson. It's my only advice to you." Solomon pointed at the stereo as the sea shanty continued to play. Sailors' voices rang out, accompanied by the imagery of moonlit waves and the roar of the sea.
"Oh, the wind was foul and the sea ran high, leave her, Johnny, leave her!"
"She shipped it green and none went by, and it's time for us to leave her!"
"I'll listen to it the next time I have a beer. Call me," Coulson said.
"No need. You won't even remember this."
"What?"
When Coulson regained awareness, he was sitting in his car, grinning at cat videos on YouTube. He couldn't recall why he was there. He vaguely remembered visiting the doctor who had overseen his resurrection, a car passing by, and snippets of a sea shanty. The horrifying memories of the Tahiti Project were growing increasingly blurry.
He suddenly craved a beer.
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