Chapter 898

The following morning, Evenson lay propped against the headboard, lazily smoking a cigarette while Clare slept soundly beside him, wrapped in the blankets.

He sighed contentedly.

Explaining everything to Clare had been exhausting. There was simply too much to tell her, and getting through it all had taken considerable time and effort. Fortunately, after several rounds of thorough, hands-on explanations, he had finally managed to convince her.

His efforts had clearly paid off.

Just as Evenson was basking in his success, however, he suddenly felt a heavy weight settle over his head.

It was an odd sensation, almost as though someone had dropped an enormous cooking pot onto him.

He rubbed his head and glanced around. Seeing nothing unusual, he decided it was probably his imagination.

And even if it wasn’t, so what?

A warlock who refused to take the blame for things wasn’t much of a warlock at all. He might as well be a soulless fish drifting through life without a dream.

"Mmnh..."

Clare stirred beside him.

The morning sunlight fell across her face, illuminating her delicate features and making her look almost angelic. She opened her eyes, smiled sleepily, and reached over to stroke Evenson’s cheek with a languid hand.

He smiled back, leaned down, and kissed her forehead before climbing out of bed to prepare breakfast.

Evenson had long maintained that breakfast was an unnecessary institution. On particularly lazy days, he even subscribed to the philosophy that one meal a day was sufficient for anyone who aspired to greatness.

Living with Clare had forced him to reconsider.

Three meals a day were practically mandatory when one had a partner with such demanding expectations.

Besides, some activities burned more calories than others.

Still, life was good.

The Deadwind Rift business was finally behind them. Plenty of other emergencies remained, but at least nothing appeared likely to demand their attention today.

A quiet day at home. A decent breakfast. No supernatural disasters.

Evenson hummed as he made his way toward the kitchen.

Behind him, he heard the rustling of clothes as Clare got out of bed. By the time breakfast was ready, she had washed up and changed into a simple white sweater. She wore no makeup, and her golden hair was tied loosely behind her head.

Barefoot, she joined him at the table.

They enjoyed a peaceful breakfast together.

Since neither had any intention of leaving the house, they decided to spend the day relaxing. After eating and recovering their strength, they could get back to the things they enjoyed most.

For example, video games.

That brought Evenson to one of his favorite complaints.

Games were supposed to be entertaining. That was the entire point. Yet developers sometimes forced players through plots so nonsensical that even the most patient fans wanted to throw their monitors out the window.

That was bad enough.

What made it worse was the behavior of the players themselves. Some people became astonishingly hostile over a game, directing their anger at anyone who disagreed with them.

Online harassment was unacceptable regardless of the circumstances. Unfortunately, anonymity made it difficult to hold people accountable.

And some players weren’t content with keeping their aggression online. They wanted to settle their disagreements in person.

Evenson had received more than a few messages challenging him to real-world fights.

Naturally, he took these threats to heart.

He would arrange to meet the challenger on a pedestrian overpass with excellent ventilation, leave the poor fool waiting for two hours, and then call the police.

Seriously, what did these people expect?

Win the fight, and you went to jail. Lose it, and you ended up in the hospital. Either way, someone had to pay for the transportation.

Besides, Evenson was an Avenger. He had a reputation to maintain.

People like him didn’t settle arguments over video games by arranging playground brawls.

He had believed that principle was perfectly sound.

Then his phone rang.

A deep, thunderous voice erupted from the speaker.

"You lucky bastard! Listen carefully! I’m Thor, the God of Thunder! If you were standing next to me while I opened my loot boxes, I’d fly straight to whatever basement you’re hiding in, beat you senseless, and shove your own arm up your ass!"

Evenson pulled the phone away from his ear and rubbed it, wincing at the ringing.

"Thor," he said with a weary smile. "It’s been a while."

The caller had identified himself, but Evenson would have recognized that voice anywhere. Only one person in the Nine Realms could sound like a three-thousand-year-old toddler throwing a tantrum.

Thor.

They hadn’t spoken since the Dark Elf incident. Evenson certainly hadn’t expected their reunion to begin with a death threat over a video game.

There was a long silence on the other end.

Then Thor spoke again, sounding much less certain.

"Evenson? Is that really you?"

He muttered something under his breath.

"That explains it. Whenever that lucky bastard is nearby, I never get anything good from my loot boxes. Not even half as much gold as everyone else. If you’re playing the same game, maybe I should just quit."

"Hey, hey, hey. That’s a little harsh."

Evenson rubbed his forehead.

"You can’t blame your terrible luck on me. Clare’s sitting right next to me, and she’s never had trouble getting good drops. This is clearly a you problem."

He paused.

"Wait. Clare, why are you setting up a full-length mirror between us?"

Clare had somehow dragged a mirror nearly as tall as a person into the room. She positioned it between herself and Evenson, completely separating their gaming stations.

Hearing his question, she peeked around the mirror with an innocent expression.

"Obviously, I’m reflecting certain auras back where they belong. Now be quiet. I’m opening a box."

A brilliant golden flash filled her screen.

LEGENDARY!

"Perfect."

Clare swept an arm through the air and pushed the mirror aside, looking thoroughly satisfied.

Evenson turned stiffly toward his phone.

"Did you hear that, Thor? My girlfriend just pulled a legendary. That proves your terrible drops have absolutely nothing to do with my character being nearby."

Clare glanced at him.

"Your turn. Open yours."

Evenson froze.

He had long since learned to accept whatever the game decided to give him. Years of disappointment had taught him a sort of spiritual detachment: he neither rejoiced at good fortune nor grieved over bad.

But this was different.

Thor was listening.

His pride was at stake.

Before he could decide how to proceed, two soft but substantial weights settled against his shoulders, gently trapping his head between them. Clare rested her chin on top of his head and reached down to cover his hand with hers.

"Here," she said. "I’ll lend you some of my luck. Go ahead and open it."

She guided his hand to the mouse and clicked for him.

A purple glow filled the screen.

EPIC!

"Did you hear that, Thor?" Evenson practically shouted into the phone. "Epic loot! And if you don’t believe me, I’ll send you a screenshot!"

"I heard it," Thor replied slowly. "But, Evenson..."

"What?"

"Why do you sound like you’re crying?"

"I’m not crying. I’ve just got a cold. My nose is blocked."

Evenson discreetly wiped a tear of joy from the corner of his eye.

Then he changed the subject.

"Anyway, where are you these days?"

"Australia!" Thor answered enthusiastically.

"The scenery here is magnificent. The beer is excellent, and there are all sorts of interesting things to do. Yesterday, I beat up a group of kangaroos that knew how to box. Today, I’m planning to have a friendly conversation with a crocodile in a nearby pond."

Evenson glanced at Clare.

She stared back at him.

Neither said anything.

"And do you know what happened this morning?" Thor continued. "When I woke up, there was a snake lying on my stomach! I like snakes, you know, so we played together for quite a while. It’s just..."

His voice suddenly grew somber.

"The snake couldn’t transform. It startled me terribly."

Evenson pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Let’s move on."

Thor took a deep breath before asking, "Would you like to come visit me in Australia? I’m working on a new delicacy. If you come, I’ll make some for you."

"Delicacy?" Evenson perked up. "Since when are you a gourmet? What are you making?"

"Sun-dried roast chicken!"

Thor sounded immensely proud of himself.

"You take a chicken, slaughter it, clean it, put it on a plate, and leave it out in the sun for three days. Then it’s ready to eat."

Evenson and Clare exchanged a look of profound horror.

That wasn’t cooking.

That was a waste of perfectly good food.

"You know, I’ve even built a little nest for my little hammer," Thor continued cheerfully. "Life here is wonderful. I’m considering settling down permanently. You can’t win a house through a duel here, unfortunately, but you can buy one. And the most surprising thing is that Asgardian coins work perfectly well!"

Of course they do. They’re made of metal.

Evenson rolled his eyes.

"But you’ve told me all about the kangaroos, the crocodiles, and your questionable culinary experiments. What about Jane? Isn’t she with you?"

"Jane has work."

Thor answered as though this were the most obvious thing in the world.

"She has an important project to finish. Apparently, she might even win one of those Nobel Prizes when she’s done."

Evenson waited.

Thor continued, completely unprompted.

"Of course, we’re still very close. We talk all the time. I call her every two months or so."

He hesitated.

"Give or take."

Every two months?

And that counted as frequent contact?

Did immortals have a completely different understanding of what it meant to keep in touch?

"Does she ever call you first?" Evenson asked.

"Of course!"

Thor sounded offended that anyone would question it.

"At the beginning, she called me twice a day."

"And then?"

"Nothing happened. I figured that since she was going to call me anyway, there was no reason for me to call her first."

Thor chuckled.

"Besides, she told me how important and stressful her work was, so I was considerate enough to tell her not to waste time calling me anymore. Work comes first, after all. Lately, she hasn’t been calling at all. I assume she’s following my advice."

Evenson stared at the phone.

His brain refused to cooperate.

There were people who were bad at romance, and then there was Thor, who seemed determined to achieve romantic failure through sheer force of personality.

"I’m impressed," Evenson managed.

Clare shook her head in silent disbelief.

Thor wasn’t merely dense. He had achieved a level of romantic incompetence that deserved its own entry in the history books.

"Listen, Thor," Evenson said, scratching his scalp. "Habu isn’t around right now, but I could set aside some of his food for you. Get you stocked up in advance."

"Really?" Thor immediately perked up. "What’s this food?"

"Don’t worry about what it is. You’ll need it soon enough."

"Then save some for me! I have a big appetite, so make sure there’s plenty."

Evenson ended the call.

What a shame.

Even a relationship that seemed destined to last forever could be defeated by a man who considered calling his girlfriend once every two months an act of devotion.

Still, there was no point worrying about Thor’s love life. Evenson and Clare had a pleasant day ahead of them, and they intended to enjoy every minute of it.

While the two of them relaxed at home, however, someone else had plenty of work to do.

Moira, for one.

Clare’s recent trip to SHIELD had been intended as a chance to earn some extra money. Her elaborate theory about the Clairvoyant had ultimately proved wrong, but the mission hadn’t been entirely fruitless.

She had returned with a list of people SHIELD had rejected during its recruitment process.

Moira believed the Black Chapter could make use of some of them.

Unfortunately, a quick review of the candidates revealed that almost all of them were unsuitable.

Only one stood out.

A nineteen-year-old university student named Noriko Sato, who had connections to the Japanese underworld.

Her abilities were more than adequate. Her family background was questionable, and she had declined to join SHIELD.

Those were the reasons she had been rejected.

Moira, however, wasn’t particularly concerned about her background. Compared to some of the people already serving in the Black Chapter, Noriko’s connections were practically respectable.

As for her reluctance to join an organization like SHIELD, that was a matter of approach.

Sending government agents to recruit her openly would probably accomplish very little. But there were other ways to reach someone with ties to the criminal underworld.

The Hand, for instance.

If the Hand approached Noriko, the chances of securing her cooperation would be considerably better.

The estate stood in a quiet location, its spacious grounds enclosed by traditional Japanese architecture.

A stone path wound between moss-covered rocks. Bamboo grew throughout the courtyard, its green stalks swaying gently in the breeze. An old well stood near the center, lending the grounds an understated, rustic beauty.

The main hall’s sliding doors stood open.

Inside, a woman dressed in a red kimono knelt on the tatami mats. Her long black hair was pinned up with an ornamental hairpin, and her delicate features gave her a distinctly East Asian appearance.

Her eyes were closed, as though she were meditating.

But there was little about her that suggested the gentle refinement of a traditional Japanese lady.

The collar of her kimono hung open just enough to reveal a tattoo of flowers and cranes across her shoulder.

This was Noriko Sato.

Though even that name was an invention.

A white-haired elderly man knelt outside the room and bowed his head.

"Miss, Mr. Murakami has arrived."

Noriko’s eyes snapped open.

"Has our distinguished guest from the government arrived? Excellent. Show him in at once!"

She raised her gaze toward the enormous portrait hanging at the front of the hall.

It depicted a warrior in armor from Japan’s Sengoku period, his face concealed behind a great tengu mask. He carried a banner bearing the insignia of Hachiman Daibosatsu, with eight bold characters written across it:

Better to die with honor than live in disgrace.

The elderly attendant withdrew and returned a moment later, leading a middle-aged man with graying hair and a white suit into the hall.

This was presumably Mr. Murakami.

Noriko rose and strode toward him.

She did not approach with the demure, carefully measured steps expected of a traditional Japanese woman, her hands folded before her and her upper body held perfectly still.

Instead, she walked with her head held high, her arms swinging confidently at her sides.

Then, before Murakami, she dropped into a full dogeza, bowing deeply until her forehead nearly touched the floor.

Her voice rang through the hall, forceful and unwavering.

"I am Noriko, Lord of Aizu of the Ashina clan! I humbly pay my respects to Lord Uesugi of the Imperial Court!"