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One of the reasons Phil Coulson excelled at what he did was he never questioned what he saw. He accepted what his eyes were telling him, without question, and moved from there. This simple fact gave him excellent response time, and combined with a nearly preternatural ability to remain calm, was a reason he was sent to the ‘strange’ cases. The ones that were weird, even by SHIELD standards.
Which he enjoyed, generally. He wanted a front seat to the crazy, even when crazy was trying to kill him. Sometimes the crazy was beautiful. He spent over a decade in the field and rarely got injured in a way he couldn’t walk away from. He was thirty-four when those advantages led to his being forever altered. If he’d reacted like any other agent, he’d probably just have died.
Consistently strange reports sent them to the coast of Louisiana, where ocean and bayou met. There were dead bodies, and grisly murder scenes, and three people missing. The local forces had zero leads and were all too willing to give up jurisdiction. The local civilians had nothing to say, to a point that Coulson was a little on edge about it.
“It might be fear; it might be conspiracy.” He told Fury over the phone. “Everyone is very matter of fact. I did some digging, there’s local legend about this.”
“Are you telling me in your own charming way that we have an ‘IT’ situation?” Fury wanted to know.
“Well, I have no reports or intel about a clown. Cannibalism and weird sea monsters? Yes.” Phil rubbed his eyes. “It isn’t the first time we’ve ran into something that evokes Lovecraft, sir.”
“Lovecraft was a racist, among other things.” He grunted. “Follow your leads and take backup. If any more civilians die, the news might start to catch on, then we would have a clusterfuck on our hands.”
“Understood, sir.” He hung up.
“If we start hearing about a child eating clown, I’m done.” Sitwell looked at him. “I think that’s my limit, sir.”
“I respect that.” He gestured vaguely at the file on the table of his hotel room. “But unless it’s a clown with claws and shark teeth, I think you’re in the clear.”
“That did not make this better for me, in fact I think you made it worse.”
“You’re welcome. Switch to tac gear, we’re going out on a fanboat.”
Coulson didn’t mind the bayou, but the scent of this place seemed to stick in the back of his throat. Sweet rot, brackish water, brine. A strange stillness, an absence of wildlife.
“Is the water here contaminated?” He asked their guide, staring out over an echoing marsh. “Chemical plant perhaps? Oil spill?”
“No sir! Damn good water actually, the surrounding areas are worse for that stuff.”
He could only hum, and listen in vain for a bird, anything other than distant insects, or very occasionally, a gator watching them float by.
There was nothing.
Dilapidated houses seemed par for the course of this operation. A ramshackle house with a firepit recently used, worn footpaths, and what might have been evidence of a dear (or something else) being butchered? Sort of figured.
He pulled a gun when figures came out of the mist-shrouded mossy trees. “I am a federal agent. Stop or I will open fire.” They did stop briefly, dark silhouettes with shining -dark eyes, and they scattered as he blinked.
He couldn’t compensate for their speed in time to aim before he was rushed. He felt and heard the sickening wet snap of his arm breaking, trying and failing to keep a grip on his gun as he was knocked to the ground. He heard gunfire as the agents with him responded to the threat, then ragged screams, but he was too busy to understand the figures leaning over him. Their appearance was hard to get a grip on, like a magic eye picture, but he saw sharp teeth and what might have been fins or frills, and possibly scales. One, however, had a shock of strawberry blonde hair, and he focused on that.
“Your husband is worried about you.” He still sounded steady, and was obscurely proud of that even as he blacked out.
He woke up by a fire, alone. His arm was curiously pain free, and in fact no longer seemed broken. He cradled it close anyway as he slowly sat up, looking around. It was late, the moon was high above, and he could distantly hear the ocean.
His wandering search yielded little. The agents with him was missing, as well as the people (?) that had attacked. He found his gun where he’d dropped it. All his gear seemed intact, so he stayed by the fire and called in. Command seemed relieved to hear from him, and agreed for pickup. According to them, Agent Sitwell had reported him off the radar nearly eight hours ago.
He decided to blame that for the gnawing hunger in his gut.
He already knew that wasn’t the reason.
His report sucked and he knew it.
His arm wasn’t broken, though bruising and weird-textured skin suggested some credence to his story. The agents were MIA, search and rescue found nothing.
But the figures didn’t resurface, and the murders stopped, so it was labeled the clusterfuck that it was, with ‘Lovecraft’ as a key description. Though that was only officially added a week later, when he reported to medical and told them his hunger never went away.
The exam yielded nothing at first and medical was suspecting it was psychosomatic, until he calmly put away two pounds of rare steak and told them it barely took the edge off. Then he got out a journal and showed them what he’d ate in the last week. He was averaging four to six thousand calories a day, and losing weight. He’d lost nearly ten pounds in that week. Nearly raw red meat, or raw fish, took the edge off but he never felt full. He was irritable, needless to say. A more careful exam didn’t find anything (healthy adult male, if just slightly anemic), so he graduated from medical to the labs.
The rough skin on his arm was a point of interest to them. He had no explanation of course. He had felt the arm break, and he had apparently been out for hours after. He was sitting on a lab table when Fury came in carrying a covered tray and stared at him while uncovering it. The scent of cooked meat hit hard, and the snarl that bubbled out of him was unbidden. He was also half off the table before he realized he was moving and stopped, swallowing roughly.
“Your hand, Coulson. Let go of the table.” Fury sounded resigned, watching as he looked down and did, staring at the handprint he’d left in the steel. “I’ve never been so glad for your iron self-control. Now come here and eat.”
He didn’t argue, making himself walk at a normal pace and even use the silverware even though he really didn’t want to. It was a roast of some kind, he didn’t recognize the meat, and he didn’t care until the plate was empty and he realized his hunger was gone. He was satisfied for the first time in a week. “Sir? What was that?”
Fury looked back before sighing. “Doctors, do me a favor and gene test Coulson.”
“Are we looking for anything specific?” One asked. They had all backed away when Coulson had reacted to the food he’d been brought, but were filtering forward, one looking at security footage, while others looked at the damaged table.
“Check to see if he’s human.”
Coulson blinked. “All due respect but what the fuck? I had gene work years ago, I’m on file as not being X-gene.”
“You’ve changed. Whatever or whoever they were, they left you different instead of killing you.” Nick was studying him. “The team that went in after your pickup found shit in that house, Coulson. Occult texts, unrecognized language.”
“What exactly are you saying?” Unease was filtering in, and the too-satisfying meal in his gut felt like a cold pit.
“I think you already know. You don’t feel different but it’s probably a fundamental change. Maybe you’ll keep the human face, that’d be easier on everybody.” He sighed at the stare he was getting and gestured at the tray. “You’re a maneater. I’d say cannibal, but I’m fairly certain you’ve left the human genome.”
The world wobbled on its axis for Phil, and he leaned on a table before sitting roughly.
“Given nothing else is sating you this is likely supernatural. You found Lovecraft, Coulson, congratulations for proving me wrong.” He sighed and sat down across from him as a lab tech came over to take another blood sample from him. “You physically changed, before you got ahold of yourself.”
“You fed me meat from a human.”
“And it worked, yes. Looks like that may be an exclusive diet now.”
He shut his eyes briefly. “I’d rather be shot than be a lab rat, sir, so please afford me some mercy and dignity.”
“Neither is an option. You’re one of my best field agents. You’re going to stay close until we figure out the scope of your change, but we’re going to work with you.”
He slumped forward, rubbing his face. “I wish I wasn’t okay with this. I should be disgusted. Horrified.”
“It’s your nature. Probably a week is long enough your brain remapped. This might just be your new reality.”
He looked up, narrowing his eyes at Fury. “You’re too calm about this. You’re telling me to accept my new reality as a man eater like you’re telling me it’s raining.”
Fury lifted an eyebrow. “You haven’t been in a room with windows for hours. Is it raining?”
Phil blinked. “Yes.”
He looked back, then turned his gaze to a lab tech, who nodded slowly. “That’s interesting.” He stood. “Let them finish their workup then go to your quarters and pack up. I’m sending you to a coastal safe house for a while. Any preference as to which ocean?”
“Cold water, sir.” He answered automatically, and tried not to linger on that.
“Pacific northwest then.” Fury nodded, and left the room.
Phil looked after him, then hugged his knees to his chest, hiding his face in them so he wouldn’t see how the lab personnel were looking at him.
The lab workup confirmed that Coulson wasn’t exactly human, anymore.
He already knew that, deep down.
It was easier if he didn’t think about it.
Trying to consider it made it harder. If he went with it, it was as easy as breathing. Listen to the ocean and the rumblesong from the deep, let his body shift to accommodate, and accept his inhumanity.
He stayed human in appearance, at least. Human-ish. The rumble from the ocean abyss agreed that was easier. Oh, he could change and become a nightmare, he’d watched his pupils fold flat in the mirror and his skin go silver grey, and seams flare open along his neck that were gills, but all of it was hidden. Tucked away. But some things stayed. His hands were different, a little longer, a little differently jointed, what most would blithely call pianist hands without questioning the weird any further. He had supernumerary teeth, a second row filling in behind the first, more sharp tearing teeth. He learned to be careful how he smiled, how he talked.
He smelled like the sea, and if he was angry or about to start a fight, he stank like brine.
He was also fast, and healed fast, shrugging off conventional weapons and injuries. As occult magic started coming to him, enough he automatically cursed his knives and sent crackles of power after his gunshots, he realized why Fury was so calm.
He was a friendly monster, and a deadly one.
Maybe that made accommodating a maneater worth it.
Being sent in alone became an unmistakable benediction that he could eat the enemy. He started wearing black, tired of his dry-cleaning bill. He was loosely affiliated with the strike teams, though they were a little afraid of him.
But he still had friends, against all odds. He often got meals with Jasper, because human food still tasted good even if it did nothing for him. He was still something of an affable dork, if he wasn’t hungry, the mild-mannered comic reader, and his not changing from that made most set aside the whole ‘Lovecraftian horror show’ thing.
Clint Barton caught him cleaning up after a meal before rejoining the rest of the operation. He only paused in wiping the gore off his face and neck, looking back and waving a little. “Yes?”
Clint hesitated before stepping up and taking the wet wipe, setting about cleaning him up. “You know; the weirdest part is how you sound the same.”
He hummed in inquiry, eyes almost shutting at the simple pleasure of Clint’s touch and actions.
“You can have your monster on the outside, be angrily cussing in… whatever language you go into that hurts all our ears. But you still sound like you always do.” He finished, checking for missed spots. “You’re presentable.”
“Thank you. Why aren’t you freaked out?”
“I was, for a while. But you took out a guy who tried to put a bullet in me. I guess I don’t care that much if he has a closed casket funeral, just don’t offer to share.”
Phil laughed, long and loud, and walked with Clint back to the others.