Chapter 368: We’ve Got Trouble

When Solomon returned to Professor Randolph's office, Elliot Randolph was already visibly intoxicated. Although a bottle of Scotch bourbon whiskey was hardly enough to faze an Asgardian constitution, even a civilian one, downing it like summer cola was another story. No matter how resilient, Asgardians couldn't hold out indefinitely under such circumstances.

Lara Croft felt awkward as Randolph poured himself a third bottle. She still didn't understand why the professor was so upset, but when she realized she couldn't stop him from unscrewing the caps, she gave up on asking. The observant archaeologist noticed Solomon's subtle hints. Though she didn't fully grasp their meaning, she trusted that he would explain eventually, as per their agreement.

"Professor Elliot Randolph." Solomon smiled briefly at Lara, then handed a parchment to the bleary-eyed professor. Randolph blinked at the sorcerer, then at the text on the parchment. Lara, catching a glimpse of the contents, felt her speculations about Randolph's identity grow sharper.

She didn't know why Solomon insisted on these contracts, but she understood from their previous discussions that it was part of his work: binding ordinary people who inadvertently witnessed or participated in magical events. Lara believed her own contract was due to her curiosity about the magical world. However, Solomon seemed to anticipate certain individuals, like her, requiring such agreements and sought them out preemptively.

"Please sign this contract promptly," Solomon said. "Agent Coulson has already agreed to keep this confidential, and Kamar-Taj won't interfere with your life on Earth."

"Professor Randolph isn't an ordinary person, is he?" Lara finally let her curiosity get the better of her as they left the office. "I doubt knowing a bit about runes requires signing a contract." Dressed casually in denim and sturdy boots, her ponytail swayed with each step as her firm heels clattered against the stairs.

Bouncing lightly down the steps, the young archaeologist teased, "Aren't you going to reveal the mystery?"

"It's not as exciting as you'd think," Solomon replied. "You participated in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s artifact identification work, didn't you? You saw how they treat extraterrestrial objects. If it weren't for my ability to resist, they'd have probably packed me up in a sponge-lined box alongside those artifacts. Randolph, however, is a step ahead—he's not just knowledgeable about onions; he's practically a farmer cultivating them."

The quip earned a burst of laughter from Lara.

"This time, the problem stems from Randolph's old hiding spots being uncovered," Solomon continued. "I still don't understand why he left poems as clues to their locations. It's almost comically foolish."

"Hey! Watch your language, Solomon. You're not in college yet!"

"Be thankful I'm not attending some foundation-funded program full of CIA-backed provocateurs," Solomon retorted, his disdain for certain American institutions evident. "Otherwise, my language would be far worse. Money talks everywhere, but funding those rabble-rousing fools to attend school is just absurd."

"Alright, if you're going to rant about politics, why not find a better setting for it?" Lara rubbed her stomach. "Someplace where we can eat. The whiskey in my stomach feels like it's about to ignite. If I don't eat soon, you might need to call the fire department."

"I didn't know you could breathe fire," Solomon teased.

"Wow!" Skye gingerly accepted a few rune-inscribed pebbles from Agent Coulson.

The symbols carved into the stones made her wary. According to Fitz's analysis, the stones were no longer entirely of earthly origin—their spectral properties matched those of Mjölnir. Coulson seemed unfazed, however. He hadn't sealed the stones in sponge-lined cases, as Solomon had assured him of their safety.

"These rune stones won't activate unless we say the trigger word," Fitz explained. "It's almost like they're waiting for a specific event to execute their function. If that's the case, I think I'm starting to understand magic—sort of."

"I think we should take this opportunity to conduct more tests," Simmons suggested excitedly. "Last time Solomon Damonet was here, I scanned his armor and sword. Their spectral properties were completely different from Mjölnir. It seems different… let's call it magic… has unique spectral signatures. Unfortunately, we couldn't run proper experiments then. This time, we're better prepared."

"I'm not doubting Solomon's skills, but I believe we could replace these rune stones with benzodiazepines," Simmons proposed.

"Calming agents—a solid choice," Skye quipped, revealing her growing familiarity with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s pharmacological arsenal.

"Be careful not to damage them, Simmons. And remember your protective measures," Coulson said, letting the science team proceed with their experiments. His casual demeanor contrasted starkly with the stern professionalism of agents like Grant Ward and Melinda May, who exchanged skeptical glances. They believed reckless experimentation could lead to disaster. Coulson, however, countered with Fitz-Simmons' success in creating an antidote to the Chitauri virus, confident in their capabilities.

"Remember, don't say the word," Coulson reminded them before heading off the plane. He needed to speak with Professor Randolph—S.H.I.E.L.D. had to locate the Berserker Staff before any insurgent groups did.

But when Coulson returned to Randolph's office, the professor was nowhere to be found. Only a few empty whiskey bottles bore witness to his earlier presence. A quick glance around the room was all it took for Coulson to deduce Randolph's intentions.

"Team," he said, pressing a finger to his earpiece. "We've got trouble. Professor Randolph is on his way to find the Berserker Staff."

"Think about women a hundred years ago! No voting rights, skirts down to their knees, no access to birth control. If they wanted an abortion, they had to sneak into some alley and risk imprisonment for murder if caught. Now? They can terminate a pregnancy anytime, anywhere—it's no harder than buying a Big Mac. Hell, they could even run for president!" A truck driver raised his beer, eliciting cheers and applause from the daytime drunks.

Solomon filtered the noise as meaningless background chatter, but Lara couldn't let it slide. "Typical vulgar Americans," she muttered.

"Don't let it ruin your fries, Lara," Solomon advised. "You came here to experience American life, didn't you?"

"I'm starting to regret it," Lara grumbled, her expression sour as she chewed. "How do Americans even survive?"

"Frank's the most informed guy around here—and also my brother-in-law," the bartender said, polishing a glass. Renowned for his generosity, he poured beer with a light hand, always skimming off the excess foam. "Frank, you've got some good points there. I look forward to discussing them with my sister at tonight's family dinner."

The comment drew laughter from the bar patrons.

"This is American life, Lara." Solomon smirked. "At least I don't mind the countryside. It's the only place I can drink. Hey, Ben, get me a Depth Charge."

"Sure thing! On the house, since your girlfriend's here!" the bartender replied.

Cheers erupted throughout the bar.

"Well done, kid!"

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