"Agent Coulson."
Jeffrey Mace called out to the agent trying to leave. He strode forward, fastening his suit jacket with one hand, while the group of sharply dressed staff behind him followed closely. For some reason, whenever Phil Coulson saw this scene, he always thought of a mother duck leading her ducklings. At times like this, he would try to imagine Jeffrey Mace as a cartoon duck, which often left him with an inscrutable smile in the latter's eyes.
Now, Jeffrey Mace—who perfectly fit the image of a white elite, military man, upright and incorruptible, fair and just law enforcer in the minds of both left- and right-wing voters—was Congress's rising star. He drew attention wherever he went. What was more, he was supposedly "superpowered." Everyone praised the current Democratic Party presidential candidate's discerning eye for finding someone who so perfectly met every requirement, while pushing the process of diversity to an unprecedented level. Jeffrey Mace, at the center of this political whirlpool, might already have realized that he was being used as a tool, but he certainly had no idea what role he might play, because no campaign office would ever tell him the truth.
"General Talbot invited us to dinner."
"I greatly appreciate General Talbot's kind invitation, Director Mace." Agent Coulson raised his wrist and glanced at his watch. "But I'm afraid there's a peach pie baking in my kitchen at home."
Jeffrey Mace looked at him, then waved for the agents behind him to step back, including Agent Bolos, who was constantly carrying a briefcase. "Are you still angry, Agent Coulson?" asked the new Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. "Today, we went to Congress and the Treasury Department. We're sorting out S.H.I.E.L.D.'s losses during the Hydra Rebellion. A presidential pardon isn't so easily obtained. The President has his own