It was far too late to still be in the lab. One o'clock in the morning, to be exact. She should have gone home hours ago, but Dr. Simmons was not one to walk away from an investigation unfinished. The investigation had lasted all day—the victim's body far too mangled for a quick case.
It was nothing that Dr. Jemma Simmons couldn't handle, but she couldn't help but think of her warm, cozy bed. She had one more analysis to run, testing some blood residue of the victim for interactions with an unknown pathological agent.
"All right, sir," she said, narrating her actions to keep her mind alert, "let's see how this mystery agent affected you…"
She began filling a vile with drying blood from an artery in the victim's neck, when she noticed a metal glint in the wound on his chest.
"Well, now. What are you?" she asked to the air, placing the vile of blood to the side and picking up a clean set of tweezers and a scalpel. It seemed odd that she had missed something like this—she was the Chief Medical Examiner for god's sake. After a little digging in the victim's chest cavity, she found it.
It was a simple metal disk, similar to an old flattened penny she had gotten at the fair once a few years back, except the edges weren't intricate, lace-like designs in the metal, but razor sharp ridges. Jemma flipped it over, and found an inscription, which she could barely make out.
Taking the disk to the cleaning solution across the room, she gently scrubbed the disk. Finally she could read the inscription, etched into the metal:
"Courtesy of Dr. Whitehall"
"Dr. Whitehall…" she wondered aloud, scanning her brain for any recognition of the name. She had never heard of a Dr. Whitehall before.
Something clicked behind Jemma. She turned, and saw the door to the lab opening. Instinct told her to hide, and hide she did, behind an adjacent examination table.
Peeking over her shoulder, she saw two men walk through the door: a man with grey hair and another man, taller and larger, with brown hair. Jemma's heart rate quickened at the sight of a gun in the hands of the second man. This isn't right, she thought. Who are these people?
"It really is a shame the police department found this one," said the first man with the grey hair. His fingers lightly traced over one of the particularly nasty wounds of the victim. "Over 75 jobs and this is the first one they found. I hate to have a broken record."
Suddenly Jemma heard a crunch, catching a glimpse of the grey-haired man digging his hand out of the chest of the victim. She felt her stomach turn—not from the blood or human tissue, but from what she gathered from his few words: this was the victim's killer.
She tried to control her breathing. She was sitting in the room of a killer. A killer who had killed at least 75 others. She had to get out. She had to get out now. But how?
"Mr. Ward," started the older man, "please secure the premises. I can't seem to find my calling card."
"Certainly, Doctor," answered the younger man, as he left the room.
Jemma glanced at the emergency exit to her right. If she was quick enough, she could make it, especially with the armed man heading in the opposite direction.
Come on, Jemma, she thought to herself. You can do this. It's just a murderer—you can escape a murderer, right? As she was overcome with the need to vomit, she made a break for it through the exit door.
An alarm rang through the building as her feet hit the pavement. She ran like a fool, trying to think of any place that might make a decent hiding place. She had the advantage of knowing this building like the back of her hand, and knew of a side entrance to a storage room. The door was almost always covered by shadow—without knowing it was there, this Ward and Dr. Whitehall were not likely to notice it.
Rounding the corner and closing herself inside as quickly and as quietly as possible, Jemma pulled out her phone, and called 9-1-1.
…
"All right everybody," the chief said, walking into the room with a stack of papers and a cup of coffee. "We've got a new case. Seems all those missing persons may have been victims of experimentation with new weapons, made by a man who we now know has a lot of street cred."
"Someone we heard of, Chief?" asked May.
"Possibly," answered Coulson. "We've heard some rumors about a particularly violent dealer, and this may be the story he tells to avoid attention."
"How would that help him avoid attention?" asked Skye. "Almost all of our federal dollars are reserved for drug busts."
"Well, to start, he's not really that kind of dealer," responded Coulson, as he began passing out files of images.
Skye gasped as she looked at the image of a mangled body, with a deep chest wound and innumerable scratches and boils.
"Sir," said Trip over his file, "how is this helping him avoid attention?"
"We've gathered from a few sources that he's been leaving a calling card," Coulson answered. "People in the area who see that chest wound and the device inside, the calling card, know to stay away, and not mention it."
"Cause he'll do the same to them," finished May.
"Exactly," finished the chief.
"So how did we find out about this?" piped in the newest agent to New York's FBI office, Agent Fitz.
"In the next room over we have a witness. A medical examiner by the name of Dr. Jemma Simmons," continued Coulson. "Police miraculously found one of the dealer's victims, and she was examining the body when the dealer, a weapons dealer who apparently calls himself 'Dr. Whitehall', showed up at her lab. She had found his calling card." He threw an image of the metal disk with sharp edges onto the table.
"Is she okay?" asked Skye.
"A little frazzled, naturally," answered Coulson, "but not physically harmed. She managed to escape and call the police undetected."
Trip let out a low whistle. "She must be fighter, that one."
"Indeed. She's been rather impossible this morning. Doesn't seem to understand that her life is in danger. Keeps going on about having to feed her cat."
"I'm sure we can take care of that if she needs to lie low for the time being," said Skye.
"Already took care of it. Scruffles is in the hands of the State for the indefinite future. As is Dr. Simmons." Coulson drained his coffee before continuing. "I'll need Agents May, Skye, and Trip on the scene ASAP. We've got to find this 'Dr. Whitehall' as soon as possible."
"And me, sir?" asked Fitz.
"Agent Fitz, as you're newer with us, I'd like to wait to put on with the rest of the team. You'll be assigned to Dr. Simmons. You'll basically be her bodyguard while she lies low until we find Whitehall."
Fitz nodded his head, accepting the assignment. "Should I go meet her now?"
"Yes indeed," answered Coulson. "I'll introduce you now."
…
Jemma sat with her arms crossed in what looked like an interrogation room. She couldn't believe the way they were treating her, telling her she couldn't even go home to feed her cat.
"Honestly," she said to herself under her breath, "acting like I'm the criminal. You're probably listening to me now, aren't you? Corrupt American justice system… If we were in Britain this wouldn't be happening!"
Just then the door opened, to reveal Chief Coulson and a smaller man with curly hair.
"Dr. Simmons," started the Chief, "I'd like you to meet Agent Fitz. You'll be spending a lot of time together for the next couple of weeks."
"And why is that?" questioned Jemma, barely noticing the younger agent.
"We've told you, Dr. Simmons," said Coulson through grated teeth. "You aren't safe. That man from the lab will kill you and kill you brutally if he finds you. You yourself examined one of his victims. Please cooperate for your own safety."
Dammit, he has a point, thought Jemma. "Fine," she relented, "I'll take your protection. What has that got to do with you, sir?" She directed this question at Agent Fitz.
Agent Fitz seemed momentarily flustered by her sudden eye contact. "I, um," he started, clearing his throat. "I'm assigned to shadow you, make sure no one is following you or anything like that."
Jemma eyed him skeptically. He was a little small for an agent, in her opinion. She wasn't sure how much good he would do her. But then again, Jemma had no skills with any weaponry or combat, and he would at least have some, being an FBI agent and all. And he was British, so they would at least have something to talk about. The whole situation was absurd, like something out of a Kevin Costner movie.
"What exactly does the term 'shadow' mean in this context?" she asked the two agents.
"He'll be right next to you indefinitely," responded Coulson. "He'll stay in the apartment next to you, follow you on any outings, basically go anywhere that you go outside of your new lodgings."
New lodgings. Great. "Where am I moving to, exactly?" she asked, already dreading the answer.
"Just the other side of town," answered Agent Fitz, smiling pleasantly at her. "There're a couple flats we secured that we'll stay in for the time being. Real close the Park!"
Jemma had to stifle a laugh. He was trying so hard to sell this.
"Well now," said Coulson, after a few moments of silence passed. "Time for you two to head out. Car's waiting downstairs."
The three of them exited the room, with Jemma awkwardly shaking Coulson's hand as he parted ways.
"By the way," Agent Fitz whispered to her, "you were probably right about this not happening in Britain."
"So you were listening!" she said with shock.
"We're FBI, Dr. Simmons," he said with a sly smile, "we're always listening."
She let out a "humph" of disapproval. "So wait a moment, you're not American! Why do you have a government job like this?"
"I don't know, Dr. Chief Medical Examiner for the city of New York, why would I have job like this?" he said turning around to face her with a smirk on his face.
"Touché, Agent Fitz," she said with a chuckle. "Touché."