Phil Coulson had a headache, and it wasn't the mild, paperwork-induced kind he could usually ignore. It was the deep, pulsing pressure that came from knowing too much and still not having enough firepower to handle it. On the surface, SHIELD sounded impressive, a multinational intelligence and defense organization backed by the world's major powers. In reality, the deeper you looked, the thinner the ice became.
If the Sentinel Special Service was designed to act as a firewall between ordinary civilians and the growing mutant population, then SHIELD's responsibility was far broader and far more dangerous. SHIELD stood at the edge of the entire extraordinary world. That didn't just mean mutants with flashy abilities or inconvenient genetics.
It meant witches who whispered to forces older than civilization. It meant demons that clawed at reality's seams, magicians who bent physics like cheap metal, and creatures that only came out when the sun went down. Werewolves, vampires, and things that didn't even have names in human languages. SHIELD's mandate was simple on paper: prevent contact, contain threats, and keep the public unaware.
In practice, it was impossible.
Yes, SHIELD had global branches and thousands of trained agents. It had satellites, helicarriers, black-budget laboratories, and technology that most governments would kill to reverse-engineer. What it didn't have was enough high-end combat power. When something truly supernatural decided to move, bullets and badges stopped being persuasive.
Things had been different when Peggy Carter was in charge. Back then, she could still call in favors from the long-disbanded Howling Commandos. More importantly, some of the Commandos weren't entirely human, and the rest had earned the respect of beings who weren't.
They had followed Captain Steve Rogers, and that loyalty carried weight.
After Carter stepped down, the cooperation never fully recovered. The Commandos still answered the occasional call, but the warmth had faded. And once the new director took over, whatever fragile goodwill remained finally snapped.
Supernatural beings tended to live long lives, and long lives bred long memories. Many of them came from eras where certain skin tones meant chains and ownership. Now the world had shifted, and the balance of power had reversed. To them, it looked like history mocking itself.
Former slaves giving orders.
For some of those ancient beings, that wasn't just uncomfortable. It was offensive.
When the relationship between SHIELD and the Howling Commandos collapsed entirely, so did SHIELD's illusion that it could mediate between the ordinary and extraordinary worlds. By 2011, SHIELD had effectively retreated. They hadn't reestablished any meaningful foothold.
Yesterday had only reinforced that failure.
Their carefully cultivated vampire informant had been dragged out of her apartment and executed. They hadn't even managed to retrieve her ashes.
That part stung.
But the death itself wasn't the worst of it. The informant—Lindsay—had warned them before she died. The vampires in New York were planning something significant. Movements were happening in secret, alliances shifting beneath the city's skin.
That was why the SHIELD helicarrier Trident had positioned itself over New York with barely concealed purpose. It wasn't subtle, but subtlety had stopped being useful.
And still, they had been too late.
Coulson exhaled slowly and rubbed his temples before glancing at the man seated beside him.
Blade.
The first extraordinary individual SHIELD had successfully integrated into its operational network. He hadn't been recruited in the traditional sense. He had simply shown up, proven useful, and refused to disappear.
Over the years, Blade had assisted SHIELD in multiple vampire-related cases. In exchange, SHIELD provided funding, logistical support, and technological cover. They erased digital footprints, obscured surveillance trails, and made sure he could hunt without bureaucratic interference.
Under SHIELD's black tech umbrella, making a person vanish was trivial.
That was why Locke had spent nearly a year and a half trying to track Blade and failed every time.
Coulson studied Blade's expressionless face and felt the weight of reliance settle in his chest. "The vampires in New York are restless," he said evenly. "We need to be prepared. Right now, we're counting on you."
Blade's gaze shifted toward him. There was no arrogance there, only certainty.
"I'm going to Satan's Bar tonight," Blade said.
Satan's Bar was a vampire nest buried in Brooklyn's nightlife, masked as an exclusive underground club. Every night, vampires gathered there to drink, celebrate, and exchange information.
Blade had known about it for a long time. When he first discovered its existence, his instinct had been simple: walk in and kill everything that moved.
SHIELD had stopped him.
They had argued that the location was valuable. A central hub meant intelligence, and intelligence meant leverage. That was when Lindsay had been turned and trained. She had entered Satan's Bar night after night, listening, watching, feeding information back to SHIELD.
Now Lindsay was dead.
There was no longer a reason for Satan's Bar to exist.
"I'm shutting it down," Blade continued. "And if they're planning something big, this should draw them out."
Coulson considered objecting, but he knew better. Blade was not an agent who required supervision. He was a weapon pointed at a specific problem.
"Do you need backup?" Coulson asked anyway.
"No."
Blade's answer was immediate. He tilted his head slightly and flashed a brief grin that showed two rows of perfect white teeth. "I'm a professional."
Coulson didn't argue with that assessment.
"Just in case," he said after a moment, "I'll have Natasha remain in New York. If something escalates beyond the obvious, she can provide support."
Blade thought about it and nodded once. "Fine."
From the driver's seat, Natasha spoke without turning around. "Works for me."
The car rolled to a stop on a Brooklyn side street. Blade stepped out without looking back, coat shifting around him like a shadow peeling away from the vehicle.
The car pulled off immediately.
Fortieth floor.
Information Command Center, Sentinel Special Service.
A massive screen filled one wall, linked directly to orbital surveillance. Under satellite imaging, Blade's solitary figure was sharply visible as he moved down the dimly lit sidewalk.
Locke stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the feed. From above, Blade had nowhere to hide.
Locke narrowed his eyes slightly.
Blade was curious about him.
The feeling was mutual.
Blade was the protagonist of his own story, and wherever he went, vampires followed. That pattern was reliable. In a city this large, following Blade was the most efficient method of locating targets.
Vampires meant extraordinary points.
And extraordinary points meant growth.
Locke let out a quiet breath.
"If I'd known I was going to transmigrate," he muttered under his breath, "I would've forced myself to watch the entire Blade trilogy."
He shook his head faintly.
He had gone through almost every major Marvel film and comic before his arrival. Avengers, X-Men, cosmic arcs, multiverse disasters—he had absorbed them all. But Blade had never appealed to him aesthetically. The tone had felt too niche, the protagonist too detached.
He had stopped halfway through the first film.
He didn't even remember Blade's civilian name.
If he had, he wouldn't have wasted eighteen months searching blindly.
Locke frowned slightly as he tried to recall anything useful about the storyline. Was there an ancient vampire? Some ritual? A blood god? The details blurred at the edges of his memory.
The command center doors slid open.
Brown and Jack entered, barely containing their excitement. Brown approached Locke directly, tablet in hand.
"We found Satan's Bar," Brown said.
Locke raised an eyebrow. "Already? I thought the registered company was a shell."
"It is," Brown replied. "Debbie spent half a month tracking Lindsay's movement after she left her apartment. Frame by frame. She reconstructed her route every night and triangulated the location."
Locke nodded slowly. That level of persistence deserved acknowledgment.
"Good work," he said. "Send the coordinates to my console."
Brown hesitated for half a second before speaking again. "There's something else."
Locke glanced at him.
"Financial anomalies. Significant transfers routed through three different offshore accounts. The timing lines up with Lindsay's death."
Locke's eyes sharpened.
"So someone paid for the cleanup."
"Looks that way."
Jack leaned against a console. "And not small money either. Whoever's behind this has resources."
Locke's thoughts shifted rapidly.
A coordinated move. An information hub. A silenced informant. Money flowing quietly beneath it all.
He clicked his tongue softly.
...
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