DIRECTOR COULSON TOOK a sip of his coffee without even tasting it and set it down on the little café table. He was in the optimal spot for observing the subject—in the corner, his back to the wall. He had a perfect view of the seating area outside, and anyone looking in wouldn't be able to see him, at least, not at first. He was wearing a simple suit and tie, as well as carrying a hard-shelled briefcase. It was the most he could do to blend in, as he couldn't go around without his gear, and the heat and humidity of a San Francisco spring was nearly killing him. Under usual circumstances, he himself would never have gone out into the field—but Daisy had insisted on him, and Coulson seemed to have a gift when it came to "special cases". Plus, he had secretly been itching to get out again. He never took his eyes off of the couple at the table outside, sipping iced lattes under the shade of a café umbrella.

The girl was just like the picture Skye had supplied: curly blonde hair, deeply tanned skin, about five and a half feet tall and surprisingly muscled for a teenager. Her eyes were a clear bluish-gray color, although they might have just appeared bluish because of the sky, which didn't have a single cloud as far as Coulson could see. She was entirely at ease with the boy at the other side of the table, laughing and talking lightheartedly. He was glad to observe her, for now. He hated to have to disturb them.

The girl reached across the table to hit her boyfriend on the shoulder. Coulson nearly laughed himself. The two seemed to go together as much as Fitz and Simmons did. As missions went, this one wasn't so bad. The boy had messy black hair and was wearing a faded orange t-shirt, and the girl's was a deep purple with the letters SPQR. An easy way to spot the two in a crowd, if he were to ever lose them. Both wore colorful clay bead necklaces, perhaps made at a summer camp. Camp counselors? They seemed like they would be the type.

After about ten more minutes, the teens cleared their table and threw out their trash. Coulson hung back for a moment, then got up to follow them at a respectable distance. They walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, talking quietly. He pushed the café door open and walked out into the warm air and sunlight, pulling out a pair of sunglasses and balancing them on his nose. He wished he could sit and enjoy it for a while, as he had never really gotten a tropical island vacation, but he was in the field, of course, and had to detail these teenagers. The girl everyone had been so uptight about seemed normal enough. But then again, they all did. Coulson had too much experience with these types of things to dwell on normality.

They rounded a street corner, and Coulson sped up just a bit, wishing he had Lola with him—a flying red Corvette would be nice right now—but he wanted to remain inconspicuous. By the time he went around the bend in the sidewalk, they could have ducked into a store or something—but no, there they were, walking together just a little ways in front of him. They paused for a moment at the end of the block to purchase candied nuts from a truck vendor, and they were on their way again.

They didn't seem to have much of a purpose for walking around, although, he supposed, that's what a date was all about. He thought about all of those things Skye had said were true—about seven different potential criminal involvement cases, most of which her boyfriend was also a part of in some way. He felt like he was reliving Skye's—no, Daisy's origin story. They seemed like the epitome of well-behaved, if reckless, college kids.

They weaved through the streets on the sidewalks, stopping here and there to look in store windows and to discard their empty napkins in the trash bins, and all the while Coulson followed casually. He made sure to blend in, taking note of everything the two did. He got a little suspicious when they started leaning together and whispering, but he could never have gotten close enough to know what about, so he ignored it. He wasn't going to confront the girl yet, anyways.

The boy tugged on the girl's hand and suggested a new route, and they took a right down another street. Again Coulson sped up so as not to lose them, and rounded the corner, only to stop short, realizing his mistake too late. He was standing in an alley. An alley with a dead end. And the teenagers were glaring at him.

"Oh! Sorry about that," he said smoothly, as if he hadn't just practically plowed into them.

The two shared a look, and Coulson knew that he had some explaining to do, if not the truth yet, then a stretch of it.

"Who are you?" the boy drilled, his ocean-colored eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What do you want?"

"Nothing, really," Coulson admitted, folding his sunglasses and sticking them into his pocket. "Just out for a walk on a nice day. And yourselves?" Their eyes—both of them—were unsettlingly stormy and angry.

The boy glanced at the subject. "Mortal?"

Coulson had a brief thought of a certain someone who insisted on calling him Son of Coul when he heard that, but he shook it off. The blonde nodded and eyed him as if he were something unpleasant she had found on the bottom of her shoe. "Let's try this again. Who are you? Who do you work for?" A hand drifted down towards her belt. "And why the hell are you following me and my boyfriend like a creepy-ass stalker?"

Coulson raised an eyebrow skeptically. "I'd hardly call it stalking. More like. . .investigating from afar." He took a folded paper from his breast pocket and read from it for a moment. "Are you Miss Chase?"

The girl didn't move. "Annabeth. Yes?"

The boy wasn't so compliant. "What. Do. You. Want?" he repeated, saying each word forcefully.

Coulson smiled and put his sunglasses back on. The sun was in his eyes, and he didn't feel like squinting. "I'll put this plainly. Annabeth, and through her, you too, Mr. Jackson—" the boy's eyebrows shot up for a moment at his name—"are under close surveillance by a government organization known as S.H.I.E.L.D."

He thought they looked relieved for a second, but the boy took a step forward threateningly. Annabeth placed a hand on his shoulder and he relaxed a little, but didn't step down. "Who? Why?" he demanded through clenched teeth.

Coulson ignored him, sort of, and turned to the blonde girl. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has you on the list for potential recruits and stumbled upon some . . . interesting developments," he informed her nonchalantly.

The angry looks immediately slid off of both of their faces and was quickly replaced with confusion. "What? How..." The blonde lowered her defensive stance, bewildered.

The boy's eyes bored into Coulson's. "What exactly are we talking about here?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division," Coulson informed them, skirting their questions again. "We were conducting background checks and have a few questions, if you're willing."

Annabeth and the boy shared a look as if to say, well, this is new. She looked back at Coulson, and in a very convincing tone, replied with "Maybe . . ?"

Coulson smiled. "Excellent!" He offered his hand. "I'm Director Coulson. It is a pleasure to meet you, although somewhat prematurely."

The blonde shook it hesitantly. "If you're the director, why are you here?"

Not quite a question Coulson would expect from someone who had just heard a government organization was looking to recruit them, but he answered her anyways. "If you'll excuse my bragging," he said lightheartedly, "I am usually the best person to handle the stranger situations."

The black-haired boy raised his hand lazily, as if he were in school. "And we're strange how?"

"Strange, as in Googling your names procures more questions than answers. For example, a shotgun fight on a beach, a hole in the St. Louis Arch, a blown-up bus, an obliterated school gym—"

"So let me get this straight," the boy  interrupted, disbelieving. "You're, like, the CEO of a super-spy government organization, and you think we're terrorists? How—"

There was a sudden change in the demeanor of both the young adults. Their eyes widened just a bit, and they held themselves higher, as if there were an immediate threat. Coulson felt a dull ache in his chest as he observed this—right where he'd been hit and killed not too long ago. The boy brought out a pen from his pocket and discarded the cap, and the girl suddenly had—was that a baseball bat? Where had she kept that? A chill ran down his spine. He had hoped this would be a peaceful encounter, and in his annoyance, he very much did not want to turn around.

He did anyway. Behind him stood. . .two somewhat scantily clad women in snakeskin boots. No, not boots. Those were their legs. They kind of looked like Raina had, after her transformation, but that still didn't stop him from recoiling slightly in surprise.

"Leave us alone," the girl called out, unfazed. "Or you'll regret it, you fuckwads."

The snake-women laughed nasally. "Let'sss find out if that'sss true," one of them hissed.

The boy looked at Coulson with a raised eyebrow. "Dude. Get behind us."

Coulson balked for a moment. Their makeshift weapons weren't makeshift anymore—suddenly the both of them were wielding swords. Recovering quickly, he reached into one of his inside pockets, grasping the handle of a specially-made pistol.

"Whatever you got in there isn't going to work, trust me. They won't listen to you, either. You don't know what these things are," the boy said breathlessly.

"Really?" Coulson asked politely. "Because they look like strange women with snakes for legs. Correct me if I'm wrong."

The kids looked a little surprised but said nothing, giving the things in front of them their full attention.

"Percy," Annabeth hissed. The women paced, shifting from foot to foot, preparing for something.

He obediently pressed his shoulder blades against hers so they stood back-to-back, brandishing his bronze-colored blade. "Get out of here," he told the Director. "Now."

At that moment, the women attacked.

★

hey! i'm helena, the author. i'd love to be friends, i almost always reply, and i'm a huge pjo fan. so what do you say? stick around a while?
kisses,
cajoling