Phil Coulson didn't turn down Ronan's oh-so-friendly deal.
Not like he had a good excuse to say no.
Just minutes ago, Ronan had flexed his unreal power again—banishing a demon straight out of myth back to Hell.
The permanent, no-take-backs kind of Hell.
America might not have the "stick-then-carrot" saying, but they've got something close enough.
Ronan's moves reminded Coulson of that vibe.
The strong call the shots.
What choice did Coulson have?
He couldn't exactly nose-dive the plane into the ocean.
Would Ronan die? No clue. But everyone else on board? Toast.
Gambling his life against Ronan wasn't an option either.
So, he cheerfully took Ronan's "suggestion."
"This magic you're slapping on—how's it work?"
Coulson skipped over Ronan's parting threats.
Fail and turn into ghosts? Best avoid that fate.
Weapons first, then.
Ronan glanced around, flicking a finger at the sealed pod nearby.
The door started rattling.
Leo Fitz opened his mouth to brag about his pod's defense—prove his genius.
Before he could, the door he'd planned to hype up popped off and hit the floor.
It floated to Ronan. With a wave of his hands, the rectangular slab broke into chunks.
Those chunks, under invisible hands, molded into dagger after dagger.
Everyone gulped in sync.
They'd seen that pod shrug off knives, bullets, hammers—no dents.
Now, in Ronan's grip, it turned into metal daggers like it was playdough.
Slicing tofu, not a thick pod door.
If that was their bodies instead…
Nope—couldn't even picture it!
Next, Ronan eyed the plane's interior and beckoned again.
A table from the lab's center got the memo and flew to him.
The crew sucked in a collective breath.
Coulson just twitched a smirk—no shock.
He wasn't unshaken—just used to it.
The table landed smooth, and the floating daggers dropped onto it.
Neat rows, perfect lineup—
Yeah, right!
The daggers sat tidy—three per row, four rows total.
But the fourth row? One lone dagger.
OCD nightmare fuel.
Then you count—ten total—and the itch chills out.
"These the magic weapons you meant?"
Mack stepped up, bold as hell, grabbing the solo fourth-row dagger.
No fear of poison or tricks.
Maybe he figured he'd dodged death enough times already.
Back in Coulson's car, he'd mouthed off to Ronan.
Still breathing? Ancestral luck, probably.
Mack studied the dagger, flipping it over—nothing weird.
"Doesn't seem like much—"
He swung it twice mid-sentence.
Weight, grip, size—standard dagger stuff—
Buzz!
A flash of cold light streaked out. A parts rack nearby split clean in half.
Classic crack.
Crash.
The rack crumpled like an old man giving up, tools and bits clattering down.
Sound and vibration hit everyone's ears.
Mack's swinging arm froze midair.
No way he saw that coming!
His mood matched the rack—split wide open.
"Now you see the difference?"
Ronan grinned at Mack.
Mack nodded stiffly, swallowing hard.
Right then, he was damn glad he'd swung at the rack—not his teammates.
Otherwise, he'd be staring at a bisected buddy—or two—instead.
"Cool. Now, good news and bad news."
"Which first?"
Ronan turned to the rest.
Coulson, the captain, stayed quiet, glancing at Melinda May—his most trusted.
"Bad news?"
May locked eyes with Ronan.
"Pessimist, huh?"
"Bad news: that dagger's magic is spent. Still sharper and tougher than normal, though."
Ronan dropped the downside.
Coulson shot him a look—message clear.
"Good news?"
Fitz chimed in.
"Good news: you've got nine more like it."
"Pretty sweet, right?"
Ronan pointed at the table's stash, still beaming.
The cabin crew wasn't as pumped—eyes swung to Mack in unison.
Mack wanted to crawl into a hole.
His stunt was straight out of a sitcom—the clown teammate who screws everything up.
Pig-tier ally.
"Use as many as you want—the rest are yours."
"Like I said, these daggers are way stronger than regular ones."
Ronan glanced at Mack.
Mack jolted, handing the dagger over fast.
Ronan's nod of approval said it all—smart move.
At least he read the room.
Ronan spun the dagger midair, snagging it smooth, and gave the table a light tap.
The square, pristine metal table lost a corner—clean cut.
Not some flimsy wood—this was solid metal.
Why they'd gasped when it flew earlier—not jet fumes, just sheer weight.
"That's magic?"
Fitz grabbed a dagger, inspecting it cautious-like.
Like Mack, he saw no difference—look, feel, weight, same as any dagger.
Even the material? Straight from the pod—he'd watched it.
But the effect? Night and day.
Sure, the pod's stuff was tougher than dagger-grade metal.
But even with that, they couldn't craft anything this sharp.
Forget that light slash—basic cutting wouldn't hit this level.
"Yup, that's magic!"
Ronan nodded, grinning, and set the dagger back.
Coulson flicked a look at May. She got it, grabbing a black weapons case and plopping it on the table.
May slotted the daggers into the case's grooves—leaving the used one out.
Yup, even snatched the one Fitz was studying.
"To help your mission, I threw in a little magic bonus."
"Anyone holding these daggers can see invisible souls."
"Extra perk, on me."
"Long as the magic trigger's intact, grip it and spot those spirits."
Ronan tossed another carrot.
PUA vibes—he's PUA-ing us!
Coulson's brain screamed it on loop.
But he couldn't say no to the "perk."
Their job? Bound to hit more soul crap later.
Keeping a dagger meant seeing the bastards.
At least they'd know what hit 'em, right?
"Trigger?"
"How's it work?"
May zeroed in on the key question.
No way it was like Mack's flail—swing twice and burn the magic?
Too steep a loss!
"Glad you're sharp."
"I tweaked the trigger to 'attack.'"
"Yell 'attack,' aim the dagger, and the magic hits the target."
"Quick note—not just souls, regular stuff takes damage too."
Ronan grinned, dropping the hint.
The crew blanked the last bit.
Use these on normal folks?
Waste!
Total waste!
Regular punks got regular gear—pistols, rifles, RPGs.
Worst case, call in an airstrike.
Burning these daggers on that? Insane.
Mack's face lit up.
His screw-up wasn't all bad—added a switch, took one for the team.
"Alright, you've got the daggers—means you're in on my deal."
"Don't try weaseling through word gaps."
"Like, 'I said find it, not when.'"
"My eyes see the future, you know."
Ronan tapped his eyes—another stick.
Stick, carrot, carrot, stick.
Easy peasy, right?
Coulson nodded, silent. He'd toyed with that loophole—then trashed it.
Not that he didn't want to—he couldn't.
Power gap, plain and simple.
Equal footing? He'd exploit it—opponent couldn't touch him.
Ronan, though? Different league.
From these tricks and past reads on his vibe, Coulson knew.
Pull that stunt, Ronan'd send 'em to meet God.
Then they'd find out if He was real.
"OK, I'll leave you to it."
"Hoping for good news soon."
Ronan nodded, satisfied, waving like he was parting with pals.
He stepped into that familiar golden circle.
His "friend" bailing? The crew wasn't exactly bummed.
They all exhaled together.
No helping it—Ronan's aura was heavy.
That "death's door" buzz? Not fun.
"Alright, cool off, everyone."
"Don't overthink—just finish our work."
Coulson, team dad, stepped up to ease the tension.
His duty, his must-do.
"Right, he's not our kind. Finish the deal, and we're clear, yeah?"
Fitz took a deep breath—no pressure overload for him.
He was more hooked on those daggers.
"Phil, can I borrow 'em to study?"
"I wanna know how he did it."
Fitz eyed Coulson.
"Sure, but after the mission."
"Start with this one—its insides should differ from normal."
Coulson pointed at the leftover dagger, voice low.
Fitz didn't sulk over the delay.
He knew the priority—seal Ronan's deal first.
Otherwise, forget research—figure out where you go when you're dead.
"May, guard these daggers."
"When we land, we're stashing 'em somewhere safe."
Coulson glanced at the case—May already had it in hand.
She nodded, no questions.
These weapons? Beyond their wildest dreams.
Sure, they had nastier firepower, but nothing that hit spirits.
These daggers? First magic gear for the squad—hell, for S.H.I.E.L.D.
Gotta lock 'em up tight!
Research? Sure, later.
But how far they'd dig—or if they'd trip Ronan's taboos?
That's the next headache.