An Agent of Chaos: A Shield Codex
"There's terrible evil in the world." ~ Watership Down
. . .
1. Training Days
. . .
The last bell of the week was going to start chiming in about fifteen minutes, and every single child squirming at their desk knew it. Mr. Stutgart gave them all his best rubbery, long-suffering smile, knowing from long experience that anything he tried to teach now was going to trickle into one ear and drizzle right out the other. They giggled at his cartoonish expression, wide in a pale and early-balding face. They were third graders and he was the 'cool teacher,' the one that let them use comic books for literature assignments so long as they could pick apart the story themes just as good as what their parents called 'real stories.' So they mostly considered him their big grown up ally, and he gave them as much courtesy in return.
"Okay, kids," he said, his voice clipping just a bit in the clunky remains of a Germanic accent that the kids believed he could never quite get rid of. "We all know what time it is."
More delighted shifting around. Summer was coming, just never fast enough as kid-time reckoned such things. If he couldn't tell by the rising temperature, he would know just by the jittery, uncontainable energy his class filled itself with after lunch every day. "For our last few minutes today, I would like you to take just a moment and note down your assignments for the weekend." He waved to indicate the four-point list behind him on the board.
Dramatic groans met his order. "Now, relax." He pointed at the kids in the front row with the piece of stubbly blue chalk in his hand. "Two of them will be quick; just read the brief overviews. The fourth one, yes..." More moaning. One dramatic little kid in the back row clutched at his throat and made a creaky gagging noise. Mr. Stutgart couldn't help but spare him a grin. "It's right up your alley, Stephen. Grim and creepy history." Now big eyes were on him. "You kids are doing way better than a lot in your age group, so we're going to keep walking you through some interesting stuff you might not have learned about till later. Big kings, big queens, and big doings."
He pointed at the name on the chalkboard. "Anyone want to give pronouncing that a shot?"
A hand flew into the air, the dark, marker-stained palm of one of his favorite students. Stutgart picked her out with a smile and a sharp point of his chalky hand. "Aimee."
Her mouth worked. "Ivan... Vasee... vaseline-vitch?"
Laughter met the attempt and she flushed, annoyed but not embarrassed. Stutgart shushed the class with a look. "Very good try, Aimee. These names can be tough, but it's worth it to learn them. Vasilyevich." He pitched his voice into a whisper and sounded out the individual syllables for them a few more times. "We sometimes call him 'Ivan the Terrible,' but it's pretty complicated, kids. Through him we're going to do a rough overview on Russian history, back and forth through time and we're going to hit some tough topics on the way. You can do it. I believe in the power of your little, growing brains." That got him some giggles.
He was going to get a few calls from parents over the weekend, but that was all right. He was used to it. By hitting their interest with some of the more gruesome bits of history – sanitized somewhat for the age group – he could drag them along through a lot of stuff other teachers in the district were having trouble with. And he was lucky. The superintendent had his back. Not a lot of teachers out there could say that. He grinned at his class, proud of them. "Write 'em down and you can start packing up."
"Yes, Mr. Stutgart."
He put his hands together and gave them that weird little European bow that was his trademark, a man content in the genuine love of his job and knowing how rare a thing that was. He ignored the still-sealed envelope laying on his desk and reminded himself to destroy it thoroughly before leaving the school. That was a relic of the past. He wanted nothing more to do with what the envelope's contents might portend. This was his life now.
Aimee, a cute little girl with brown eyes and tautly-braided black cornrows beamed at him as she tugged her Dora the Explorer backpack out from under the desk. "See you Monday!" she chirped, the words almost lost in the sudden racket of the final bell. He gave her a tiny, polite wave of farewell, never suspecting that she would be the last person to talk to him.
When the school spread the news on Monday to the stunned, suddenly hollow-feeling classroom, she was also the first to burst into hard and bitter tears.
. . .
Mr. Stutgart resettled the plain brown satchel under his arm, the combined visual of the old-school carryall bloated with scrawled pages of homework and his neutral toned sweater-vest outfit making him look like a man out of time. Or at least like an extra in an Indiana Jones movie, during the parts where the schools were dusty and filled with equally dusty academics. He sniffed his fingers once, a little annoyed that there was simply no way of dealing with the smallish trash incinerator in the old school building without coming away with a smell of grease and ash on the hands. But anyways, it was done. The unwanted reminder of old pasts was gone. Hopefully that would be the end of it. They would let him go.
He passed under the gently fluttering leaves of a sycamore tree, spring smells filling his nose and under them was the creeping warmth of summer. The heart of South Carolina in the middle of May. He loved everything about his home.
And then he stopped cold in his ambling walk down the sidewalk towards his nearby house, looking curiously behind him while the neatly trimmed hair prickled sharp at the nape of his neck. Not all the old lessons were gone, but his instincts were maybe rusty now. They sprung at the wrong things sometimes. All he heard was some distant giggle, and the clap of a ball against the dirt of the school's playground on the other side of the treeline. "Must be nothing," he muttered to himself. Who cared to creep after harmless Mr. Stutgart? He turned to start walking again, and then a minute later jerked to see if anything had appeared behind him.
There was nothing. A car idled up past him as he searched for anything out of place, and he examined that, too. No, just a woman on her way with her groceries. His usual route was a slow one. Not many lived down his lane and he liked the privacy.
Now completely convinced he'd heard nothing at all, he resumed his slow walk home.
He never heard the footstep when it finally came right up behind him, and his last sensation was the tiny pinch of the slender needle driving deep into his neck. It was quick and painless and in the end there was nothing but the spreading dark.
If he knew what was to be done with his body after, he would have been grateful to know this much.
. . .
Director Coulson shuffled the files in his hands, getting the thin digital tablet back to the top so he could hold it in place with his thumb. He wasn't actually taking in the scene he was walking into until he was about halfway through the common room his team liked to commandeer for general down time, and when he did, he paused for a long time to observe without saying anything.
In the rear of the room, May was silently reading a travel magazine and jotting down scratchy, detailed notes. Even odds whether she was planning a vacation or prepping for a possible future infiltration scenario. Close to her, Agent Simmons was fussing around with a digital tablet of her own. He knew she was still fretting over various readings from the old underground city, not to mention a few newer oddities that had since been laid on her desk. Mack and Fitz were visible down the hall, having some sort of amiable discussion meant for themselves.
And then there was the dozy-looking Skye, sitting at a small table with a jar of mixed nuts in front of her while she stared at what was visible - from her perspective - of the mostly prone Loki on the couch. He was clearly off in his own world with a book balanced in one hand. His other arm rested atop his head, the fingers flexing now and then as the alien man read silently.
Skye visibly calculated the short arc she was going to need to chuck an unshelled peanut at the back of Loki's skull. By the carefulness of her motion, Coulson realized with a lift of his brow that this was not the first nut to take flight today. She was only readjusting based on prior avionics testing. Without a word, he watched the legume leave her hand and whip through the air in a gentle trajectory – only to be caught deftly in a pale hand by the once-too-proud demigod. He never glanced back, just instinctively seemed to know it was coming.
As Coulson arched an eyebrow, Loki proceeded to eat the peanut without complaint. He turned a page in his book, then dropped one arm lightly atop his head again. Phil felt he should probably at least make a token effort to be the adult in the room. He tried to pitch for a chiding tone. "You know, Agent Skye, you could just pass him the jar like a normal person."
"Where's the fun in that?" Skye popped a couple hazelnuts into her own mouth, glancing irreverently up at him while she chewed. She covered her mouth when she yawned.
He shook his head and let it go, waving his thin stack of paperwork. "Okay. Well, we've got a little investigative side job on our plates. What they call in the homicide business a 'red ball.' At least it'll be a change from the usual. May, want to come with me now? I'll want you as field lead on this one."
May flipped the magazine shut at the sound of her name and slid away from the nook she'd been seated at, nodding once and then pausing almost imperceptibly as he followed it up. He only noticed because he'd been watching for it. "Agent Simmons. Agent Loki, you're on. Join us in the office in twenty."
Skye reached forward and nudged at Loki's shoulder with a finger when the pair was gone. "Congratulations. It's graduation day, dude." Then she leaned back and dug around in the jar for one of the prized, too-rare brazil nuts. "You want another peanut?"
"I think that news rates at least a pecan." An arm, clad in a plain black SHIELD issue hoodie, flung over the back of the couch. Long fingers waggled at her in a request.
"Maybe it does, just maybe it does." She rattled around in the snackjar, determined to at least find him a whole one and not one of those sad little slivers. She looked up to meet Jemma's wide eyes. "You want any?"
Jemma tugged at the lacy collar of her pale pink shirt by way of first response. "Ah, no, thank you. What's a 'red ball,' do you know?"
"Nothing you're not used to. Just a police nickname for what's usually a major league crime scene. Either a big personality involved or a serial killer, something like that. I used to watch a lot of cop shows when I lived in my van." With a mutter of victory Skye dropped not one, but two whole pecan halves into the waiting palm. "Gonna be maybe some Hannibal Lecter style stuff for the new guy's first official outing, by the way Phil sounded."
"Delightful, if indeed familiar," murmured Simmons. "Well, I suppose I'll start getting my kit ready." She stood up and nodded to Loki. "I'll meet you in the hall here in fifteen, we'll go up together. If that's alright."
Loki didn't look up, sliding a bookmark into the pages of a dry if concise overview of early Nordic religions, his idea of vaguely humorous reading. "Of course," he said, already contemplating what those hints might mean for the new life he'd willingly chosen. "That will be fine."
