A/N: Hello everyone! I am not having a great week (and it's barely begun!), so I've decided to channel some anger at chemistry into something that someone might enjoy. Feel free to leave constructive criticism. :)
Cold, wet, and tired, five of the Bus's occupants make their way up the cargo-bay ramp, leaving wet footprints and little puddles of water as they walk. Ward and May carry a dark plastic box between them, steps heavy under its weight.
They carry it to the lab and place it on a table, promptly spraying tiny clouds of dust and dirt into the air. Simmons sighs and makes a move towards the mess before thinking better of it. She follows the rest of them up the stairs, eyes watching the trail of damp prints on the dark metal.
They separate, each turning to their bunks, every one of them intent on putting on dry clothes. Within minutes, they've regrouped in the conference room, still disheveled but feeling somewhat better. Coulson waves a hand over the glass screens and they spring to life.
Instead of observing the usual colorful display of information, they see a misshapen static screen; black and white lines jump and dance across each other before their eyes.
Coulson frowns. "Someone get Skye. This isn't right."
Their resident hacker had been left behind. She wasn't needed for the mission. The remote swamps of the Amazon had technology in short supply, and there was no point in having one more person to protect.
Fitz, closest to the door, turns out and walks to her room. He knocks rapidly, rapping against the door with his knuckles.
When she doesn't answer, he turns the knob and looks inside. Her bunk is empty.
At that moment, what had been static snaps into focus. A dark room with a muted color palette appears on the screen. It's dirty and small, the perfect hiding place for their enemies.
Sitting directly in their line of sight is a tall, muscular man with a jagged scar running across his cheek and through his corner of his lips. When he sees them, he flashes a terrifying grin - that of a madman. His eyes dance with fiendish joy as he turns a gleaming silver knife over and over in his hands. The blade catches on a spare ray of sunlight, filtered into the room by chance, and blinds the camera temporarily.
"Hello, SHIELD operatives." His beady little orbs swivel to focus on them. "I believe you have something of mine."
They stare at him in shock.
"How on earth did you manage to link this feed?" Coulson finally said, trying to regain some control of the situation.
That unearthly grin reappears. "Oh, I'm good with my hands."
He pauses to place the knife on a nearby table.
"Now. As I said, you have something of mine. I knew when you entered our base that we stood next to no chance of fending off your team. I decided to stoop to your level."
His grin widens, and the scar stretches. "I took something of yours as well."
He gestures sharply to his left, and suddenly a dim bulb illuminates the dark room. It throws shadows over everything, including the unconscious figure tied to a chair.
The team freezes. They watch as the madman begins to circle like a predatory beast trying to decide the best way to take down its prey. Their hearts leap to their throats when they realized that the figure tied to the chair is one of their own.
Skye.
Her head is tilted back, her dark purple shirt stained darker in places by what they genuinely hope is not blood. She is blissfully unaware of her predicament.
The man, still circling his prize, lunges forward. A sharp blow to the cheek throws her head against her shoulder, startling her out of temporary oblivion.
She coughs and blinks rapidly, adjusting to the dim lighting and confusing surroundings. She looks up at her captor, and across the room to a tiny computer screen. She sees the terrified looks of her team reflected on the glass, and feels her courage attempt to plunge deep, deep into the recesses of her mind.
Ignoring her bravery's desire to flee, she steels her nerves and addresses the man. "Who are you, what do you want, and where am I?"
Her eyes reflect a kind of furious fire that the team had never seen before. Her gaze is boring into him; he has to be uncomfortable under that heat.
Despite the fervor emanating from her every pore, he seems unperturbed. "Well, my dear, that would be giving stuff away, now wouldn't it?" That grin is haunting. The tips of one's mouth should not humanly turn up so much, not by any standard.
She looks again to her team and feels terror stir up in her very bones. "I suppose it would. I'd still like to know." Her tone is flat, emotionless. Determined not to give away the mounting fear.
And suddenly, with a silver whirl of metal and a flash of pearly white teeth, there's a knife at her throat. It's sharp and bright and silver until it turns crimson with her life dripping along its edge. She swallows hard, feels her skin pull against the harsh line that's slowly draining her courage.
All she can see is his teeth. Long and pearly and glistening, they're all she can focus on. She keeps thinking about how strangely white they are until another color sparks her attention – a flicker of orange.
She turns to meet the murky brown depths of his eyes instead of his smile and finds that they're much less hypnotic. There's something animalistic there, something wild and untamed that makes her want to tread softly.
He's holding a lighter to her face, tickling the heat along her chin. He chuckles sadistically, and bends his lips to her ear.
"You have exactly two minutes to decide whether or not you'll cooperate with me. You can have your little moment alone. And after that, if you make the wrong decision, we'll play a little game. I call it…fire and ice."
His little moniker for his favorite type of torture isn't what bothers her. What bothers her is those eyes – they are devoid of any hint of playfulness. He fully intends to get his information, no matter what it takes.
Eyes trained to the ground, she jumps slightly at the slam of the door. She whirls desperately for the little screen, seeking her only hope of survival. Every face is etched with worry and desperation, unsure of what to do. Her mouth pressed in a hard line, she tells them her plan.
"I'm not giving up anything. I'm never betraying you, not again." She meets the gaze of her boss, whose eyes reflect nothing but fear. "I'd love a way out, though."
The fear transforms into determination. "FitzSimmons, get on it. I don't care how primitive their systems are, there must be a way to understand them."
They nod, and begin murmuring to each other, speech blending together without their notice.
Her gaze drifts to Ward, who's standing ram-rod straight against the doorframe, eyes echoing a terrible event of the past. He remembers her recount of Quinn's mansion – her first ever solo mission.
Even being held at gunpoint cannot compare to this.
May's eyes are fixed on the ground, trained on the repetitive pattern adorning the carpet. Skye can't blame her – after all, she has enough demons to banish and ghosts to fend off without adding another.
Simmons looks at her, and her heart stops. Fitz is peeking at her too, and the hopelessness in his eyes matches the insane optimism reflected in his partner's.
Skye traces the line of crimson across her neck with her eyes.
That optimism won't go far in this hellhole.