Notice of Employment

Interrogations are about information. It's truer than it sounds, especially in the spy game. Any interrogation is a constant power play, centered around pretending to either have more or less information than you have. Generally, the interrogator wants to make you think he knows more than he does, while the prisoner wants to act like they know less than they actually do.

Michael glanced around the room. It wasn't your usual interrogation chamber—which was to say, there was a reassuring lack of torture implements, but also a strange lack of the familiar two-sided mirror. Actually, apart from the table and chair, it wasn't your usual room, period. The walls, floor and ceiling were all composed of odd hexagonal tiles, and the door was nearly invisible. In short, it looked on the weird side of professional.

When being interrogated, it's important to keep in mind what your opponent probably knows based on their resources, their observations, and their apparent intelligence. For instance, if you've just been pulled off the street by talented operators who clearly knew what they're doing, and stored in a well-equipped, high-tech room, it's a safe bet that they have something to do with your past in the CIA.

"Mr. Conhobchair." The balding man smiled as he shut the door to the room. "You're a surprising man."

A common interrogation technique is to lull the subject into a sense of complacency by making him think you have completely bought his story or cover identity. Give a person just enough rope, and there's a good chance he'll hang himself.

However, this is only useful if you want something else from the subject, like a confession or associate. It's important to stay alert and try to figure out what they want, all while keeping in mind that your cover is probably already blown.

"That's a bit o'a statement, comin' from a man with a fancy jet like this." Michael raised his eyebrows. "May I call me wife?"

But that's no reason to admit to that past straightaway.

"Believe it or not, the whole point of the plane is to deal with surprising men." The man, still smiling, took a seat across from him. "That's why we decided to talk with you here, as opposed to, say, your house, where you probably have guns hidden under every surface." The smile wavered slightly. "And a young boy who doesn't need to see more violence than he has already."

Any sort of personal touch to an interrogation is either a threat, an attempt to gain rapport with the subject, or both. The problem is, knowing that doesn't make it any less effective.

"Ye wanted to talk with me?" Michael's face was a study in confusion. "Surely a phonecall would ha'been easier."

"Definitely would have been for my agents." The man mused. "The doctor's nursing one's jaw in the med-bay right now. My men are some of the most well-trained professionals in the world, it takes a bit to do that to one of them."

"Ah may have gotten a bit lucky." Michael allowed. "I really need to call me wife, ye ken She'll be frettin', and she's a powerful firebrand when she frets. I get one phone call, do I nae?"

"'Lucky' isn't the word Tripp would have chosen." The interrogator arched an eyebrow. "In fact, he had some very specific observations. He said your first few jabs were fairly amateurish, then suddenly you notched it up to eleven and started fighting like a commando. Like you were testing us at first and really pulled out the stops once you realized we were professionals."

The problem with the whole spy-vs-spy game is that you tend to be playing with the same deck, and you know each other's tricks a little too well.

"Well, ah have been takin' a few kickboxin' lessons, so there's that." Michael admitted.

"Funny." The man smiled. "You want to try again?"

Michael made a calculated sigh. "Ah... used to run wit the IRA back in the day." He confessed, shrugging and looking away as if embarrassed. "Stopped when the boy came along, but I learned a few tricks."

"There's also the fact that our doctor heard your accent on the way in, and tells me it's a trifle on the leprecaunish side." The man added. He raised a hand to stop Michael's reply. "I wouldn't have noticed it myself, but she's English and says it sounds like you're compensating for something." He leaned forward in his chair. "Mr. Westen, we both know who you are, so let me just introduce myself." He held out his hand. "Phil Coulson, Agent of SHIELD."

The room rocked suddenly as a dull boom shook the airplane.

Michael winced. "I told you to let me call my wife." He reminded him.

Fiona was mad. No, Fiona was beyond mad. No faceless government conspiracy was going to take Michael from her. Not again.

She hadn't used a lot of explosive... Michael was probably inside that plane, after all, and the last thing she wanted to do was set off the gas tank. The charge she'd chucked into the left jet engine would keep this thing from taking off, sure, but mostly, it was supposed to rattle the agents inside and send them running out.

Like they were doing now. The cargo door in the back was swinging open. Fiona shouldered her assault rifle and prepared to fire.

The black SUV that came squealing out wasn't quite what she had planned on, but Fiona was nothing if not adaptable. Instantly she opened up on the car with a hail of gunfire. She might as well have been shooting at a tank—bullets ricocheted off the windows and doors alike. Even the tires seemed to shrug off a steady volley.

The car roared toward her. Fiona could see the person in the front seat—a dour-looking asian woman. As it barrelled toward her position, Fiona leapt clear just in time to avoid the crates and boxes that went flying as the car smashed into her cover.

A car door opened and slammed. Fiona was already back up, gun at the ready, but the asian woman was too fast, and kicked away the gun with barely a flinch. Fiona leapt back, away from the follow-up jab, and then charged forward, aiming a flurry of blows at the woman's midsection. But not one got through. The woman's arms were a blur of motion, blocking every single attack. She grabbed Fiona's fist in midswipe and whipped her over her back and onto the ground with a painful thud. The breath was knocked clean out of her, and for a moment Fiona saw stars, but she fought her way back to coherence just in time to roll away from the knee crashing down on her. She gathered her legs under her and leapt up, drawing her knife.

But the asian woman was standing a little ways back, looking curiously annoyed at something over her left shoulder.

There was suddenly a sharp pain in the back of her neck, and everything faded to black.

"We call it an icer. It's nothing serious." Coulson assured a very angry-looking Michael, as the two of them stood over Fiona's unconscious form in the cell. "She'll be up in little bit, feeling a little loopy and with a killer headache, but otherwise she'll be fine."

Michael shook his head. "She's gonna be pissed."

"Yeah." Coulson gave a little nod. "We get that a lot." He turned back toward the table. "Anyway. So, back to what we were talking about. You, Michael Westen, CIA. Me, Phil Coulson, SHIELD. Everything clear?"

"Not exactly." Michael retorted, making no move from Fiona's side. "For starters, what does a pack of Neo-Fascists want with me?"

Coulson winced. "Ah, this again. See, the thing is... we're not Nazis."

"I didn't say Nazis, I said fascists." Michael retorted, finally turning. "I get that remarkably few people on this plane would qualify for the Aryan brotherhood. The 'Nazi' label the news networks are throwing around never made much sense to me, given SHIELD was led by Nick Fury for so long."

"'Nazi' sounds better on the newsreels, I gather." Coulson shrugged.

"Fascist is still more accurate." Michael answered. "Explain to me why I should listen to single word you have to say."

"Because we're not fascists either." Coulson answered. "You're talking about Hydra. We're the folks fighting them, and we need your help."

"Well. Never heard that one before." Michael grunted.

Coulson smiled. He seemed to do that a lot. "It's not the most original line, I'll grant you. Probably heard it from... what were those people who burned you, again?"

"They... didn't really have a name." Michael answered, throwing the man an odd look. "They just called themselves 'the Organization.'"

"Really? Wow. That's... kind of a lame title."

"Well I gathered they were more interested in private wars than in flashy slogans." Michael smiled.

"Everyone is always interested in flashy slogans." Coulson smirked. "If they aren't, it's because they already have a much cooler one." He picked up one of the files on the desk and handed it over to Michael. "Ever notice something odd about them? Like, just when you thought you'd finally taken down the big dog, another one would pop up?"

"Nothing new about corruption being hard to stamp out." Michael countered. "Organizations like this are naturally secretive, they compartmentalize and keep their real leaders secret. We're lucky we got as many as we did."

"You were." Coulson nodded. "And it turns out, SHIELD should have been playing closer attention." He gestured to the file.

Michael, reluctantly, started to flip through the pictures, at first slowly, then at an increasing rate. Operatives across the world. Widespread corruption. Private armies. It was the Organization all over again, only...

"Hydra." Coulson said quietly, tapping a picture. It showed Ansom, Secretary of Defense DIA psychiatrist and founding member of 'The Organization,' shaking hands with his boss, Secretary of Defense Alexander Pierce. "Cut off one head..."

"...two more will take its place." Michael finished.

"In this case, Decima Technologies and McQuaid Security." At Michael's glance, Coulson shrugged. "We think. They might be completely unrelated baddies. For now, let's just say they're two private security firms that have rather conveniently stepped into the void left by SHIELD and..." gesturing at the folder, "...the Organization."

Michael returned his gaze to the folder. "You're sure about this?"

Coulson shrugged. "Like you say, they're secretive and they compartmentalized. Ansom is the only concrete link, and he was never questioned. He might have been manipulating the Organization on Hydra's behalf, or he might have been doing his own thing. Though... really, what're the odds of the Secretary AND the secretary's DIA both leading massive internal conspiracies and being completely unaware of each other?"

"Not good." Michael concluded grimly.

"No." Coulson nodded. "It's not. You see why we need your help?"

Michael sat down heavily on the chair. "I lost my job and my family to these people." He muttered. "What does it take to make them go away?"

Coulson said nothing for a minute. "Perhaps they never do." He answered finally. "SHIELD thought it had destroyed Hydra back in the 1950's, but they still came back. As long as there have been governments or people, there have been those seeking to control them. But for equally long..." A gentle smile curved his face. "...there have been men like us, trying to stop them."

Michael glanced up sharply. "No." He said. "No, no. I'm out. I'm out, everyone in the business thinks I'm dead. That's both the best state to be in and the hardest one to obtain in this line of work. I have a wife and family, I'm not putting them through more of this by getting back into a life I had such difficulty getting out of."

"Oh, for pity's sake, Michael," interrupted a new voice. "You know this peaceful life is driving me crazy."

Coulson and Michael turned to behold Fiona, sitting up groggily from the bench. She fixed Michael with a glare. "Maybe you're happy in this peaceful glen life, but I'm going slowly nuts. I haven't shot anyone in so long."

Michael looked at her. "Fiona, you were the one who wanted me to quit the life."

"Not the life, just the CIA." Fiona rolled her eyes. "For crying out loud, Michael, I'm a gun-runner and ex-IRA member. The way you shoot people is one of the best parts about you. I just... didn't like the CIA always having you on a leash."

"Wow. You're a lot calmer about being shot than I thought you'd be." Coulson observed, eyeing her with puzzlement.

"Still a little groggy." Fiona answered. "Give me a few more minutes, and then that asian bitch is gonna PAY."

"I'm still a little fuzzy as to why I should help you." Michael countered, turning on Coulson. "You never did exactly make a case for you being SHIELD and not Hydra."

Coulson tilted his head as if puzzled. "If I was Hydra—the people who recruited and were destroyed by you—do you honestly think I'd try to hire you again?"

"Ansom did."

"Yeah. And look how that worked out for him."

Michael considered that for a moment. "That's actually a good point." He admitted.

"Personally, sweetie, it would make better sense just to kill you before you could tear down the organization again." Fiona agreed.

"That does sound like the sort of thing Hydra would do." Coulson nodded.

There was an unpleasant pause as all three spies considered the logical implications of that. Hydra was back. They might do that.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Michael broke the uncomfortable silence.

Coulson sat down across from him. "Administration." He answered. "I want you to run a SHIELD cell here, in Ireland."

"Why Ireland?" Michael asked.

"There are a lot of Celtic artifacts in Ireland, and plenty of other things from Scandinavia left behind by Viking raiders. Such things have... gained a great deal of importance in recent years." Coulson smiled. "SHIELD needs someone here to find, collect, and protect any artifacts of interest before they fall into the wrong hands."

"So what, you want him to be a glorified museum curator?" Fiona scoffed. "That sounds dull."

"It'll... probably get... really interesting before too long." Coulson had a funny look on his face. "Hydra's after the artifacts too. But the position has other responsibilities. Transfer, obviously—maintaining safe houses and supply routes for agents. We may ask you to handle local missions—hunting up information or investigating threats. Obviously you wouldn't be required to handle such wetwork personally, but if you have associates who would..." Coulson grinned at Fiona, "...that would work just as well. Operational security, also... SHIELD is still devoted to world peace. Occasionally we'll get tips about threats to various nations. We'll want you to handle those."

"This is Ireland." Again that was Fiona. "National threats are fairly commonplace, and not all of them are cut-and-dry."

"Not necessarily the sort of threats I had in mind." Coulson shook his head. "The IRA isn't likely to be what you're dealing with. In any case, how you handle them will be up to you. Also..." a peculiar look spread over his face, "...there is the acquisition of assets."

"Acquisition?" Michael looked suspicious.

"Assets?" Fiona looked interested.

"The term we use is 'gifted.'" Coulson explained. "Various people who have... unusual abilities or powers." He thumbed through Michael's file and picked out a picture. "Like this man. Sean Cassidy. Fairly normal Irish teenager, until he started flying and breaking plexiglass with his voice."

Michael took the picture. Orange hair and a thin freckled face looked back at him. "What did you do to him?" He asked.

"Flew up in a helicopter, brought him back down to earth, found him a throat doctor." Coulson shrugged. "Without us, he could have destroyed half the village, or been killed by an angry mob. Or been 'recruited' by someone."

"I think I'm missing something here." Fiona cut in. "You say you want him to work for you, that he has all these responsibilities. But what does he get out of it?"

"Fiona..."

"No." Fiona stopped him. "I saw you be a boy scout for over four years, Michael, and it's noble as hell, but it is no way to live. Or raise Charlie on." She shook her head. "Honestly, I have no idea how you kept us stocked in yogurt all those years."

Coulson was still smiling. "We have agents, houses, equipment stashes, and oh yes." He pulled a check out from the file. "A payroll."

Michael raised his eyebrows. Fiona stood up, looked over his shoulder, and started back. "How can you guys afford that?" She asked. "Aren't you like a vigilante organization now?"

A shrug. "We still have resources." He turned his gaze back onto Michael. "And with those resources, we can still do a lot of good. With the right help."

Michael said nothing for a long time. Fiona touched his arm but said nothing either. Coulson sat across from them, waiting.

Finally Michael looked up "When do we start?" He asked.

A/N: Actually I'd written the first part of this a while ago... I was working on a plot where Charlie turns out to have mutant powers and Centipede kidnaps him and so forth. I updated it to fit with current events and the "Recruitment Drive" series.

I feel a little conflicted about bringing Michael out of his richly deserved retirement, and I didn't want to turn this into another "you can't hide your true nature, you're secretly miserable in a normal life" comeback story. But Fiona, at least, strikes me as the sort of person who DEFINITELY would find civilian life difficult, and would welcome a change.

Next chapter will feature Jesse, Sam, and another SHIELD agent.