Soldat

The man with close-cropped white hair and a lined face seemed to be in his sixties, but his eyes were much older than that. He stepped out of the black car and surveyed the burned-out wreckage of the Ward home, glad to have pre-empted the police to the scene of the crime. He stood and waited several yards away from the blackened frame of the front door, his right forefinger idly tapping against his left hand as he heard his watch tick the seconds by.

A clattering of wood from within the house called his attention forward, and the man gave a thin smile as he saw the object of his search walking calmly out into the smoky daylight. The young man's eyes widened as he saw the unexpected visitors, his hands darting to an absent holster at his side before his brain could remind them there was no gun to be found. The older man smiled: this one was a soldier to the bone.

"No need to be afraid, Mister Ward," he said, "I assure you. My name is Whitehall. I'm here to make you an offer."

"An offer?" Ward asked, still on edge. "What are you—?"

"Let's not be coy, it's a waste of time," Whitehall cut him off. "My organization has been watching you for some time, Grant. HYDRA takes special interested in… gifted people, such as yourself."

Grant Ward froze, his eyes fearful for the first time since his older brother had forced him to stare impotently down that dark hole of a well at their younger brother, trapped and flailing.

"Yes," Whitehall said, his smile widening slightly, "we know what you can do. It's precisely why we are here, and precisely how you managed to walk out of a burning building with little more than a few singed hairs to show for it."

Ward relaxed himself one muscle at a time, accepting that whatever these intimidating people wanted, he probably wasn't walking away alive unless he agreed to cooperate. One of the men was openly carrying an assault rifle, and two others clearly had pistols under their jackets. He could heal from a lot, he'd found, but that was a level of firepower he wasn't comfortable risking.

"Okay," he said, standing at attention. "What's your offer?"

Whitehall's smile widened further, gaining an eerie edge.

"Your abilities make you resilient," he said. "This is what I would call a 'good start'. We have a way to make you even stronger. Near-unkillable. All we ask for in return is your unquestioning allegiance, and this power will be yours."

"Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn't," Whitehall said, chuckling. "But you don't have much of a choice, I think. You just burned your family alive, and I have no doubt local authorities will be keen to track you down if I do not call them off. Besides, all you are doing is trading blind loyalty to one military force for blind loyalty to another. Only ours has the potential, the desire, and the drive to build a better world. Is that not a noble cause, Grant?"

Ward took a few long moments, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he considered his options. In the end, he nodded.

"Deal," he said. "I'll work for you."

Grant Ward winced when the IV needle entered his arm, but he could handle that pain. He felt apprehension when the strange, pale-blue liquid began to flow through the tube, but he shoved that aside. His training had taught him how to do that. When the liquid entered his veins, however, the burning fire of the agony turned his every thought into a scream. Words were strangled in his throat. The visions in his mind were warped, hazy and unclear. He could barely see Whitehall looking over him, grinning, standing next to a stoic man with dark eyes, unkempt brown hair and a metal arm.

Then the pain overtook him, and all was darkness.

When Ward awoke, he reflexively sniffed the air and was shocked to be able to smell everything from damp rot to faint traces of chemicals on the surface of the walls in his room. He gagged, but there was nothing in his stomach to throw up. He blinked a few times, his vision clear now and far sharper than it had ever been. It was then that he finally looked down at his body, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.

"Holy shit."

He had gained muscle mass in places where he didn't even know that was possible, and the definition in them made it seem like they'd just carved themselves into perfect proportions while he'd been asleep. Which, now that he thought about it, they probably had.

"Ah, I see you're awake. Good. How do you feel?"

Ward looked up at Whitehall in shock, struggling to put the answer into words.

"Superhuman," he said at last. "What the hell did you give me?"

"A dose of SHIELD's super-soldier serum," Whitehall said, "which we… requisitioned from Howard Stark. Congratulations, Mister Ward. Most of our test subjects did not survive the process, but you did. You proved yourself in the crucible to be worthy of serving our cause. Now, we can begin your training."

"Sounds good. What're we starting with, marksmanship?"

Whitehall smiled. Ward was beginning to feel reflexive fear every time that happened.

"Not quite yet, soldier. First, I'm much more interested in testing your pain tolerance… and the speed of your regenerative capabilities."

Whitehall gestured toward the door, and an attendant entered the room pushing a cart full of sharpened medical implements. Ward immediately jerked against his restraints, but found that the entire bed and everything attached to it had been triple-bolted to the reinforced concrete floor, built for the specific purpose of keeping someone like him trapped in place.

"Relax," Whitehall said as he rose and made to leave the room. "You'll survive this just fine, I'm sure. And if you don't, well," he shrugged. "That's just fate."

Grant Ward thought he knew what pain felt like. Pain had been a bullet grazing through his flesh, or the look on his parents' faces as they burned. Pain had been the stinging failure to protect Thomas. Pain had been the burning invasion of the super-soldier serum. But as the steel sliced into his flesh over and over and over again, Grant Ward realized that his definition of pain had been sorely lacking.

As he screamed, the man with the metal arm waited outside his room, unmoving and calm.

What felt like days later, but was likely just hours, Ward felt the waves of pain receding. He could sense his flesh knitting itself back together, but didn't dare open his eyes to see the extent of the damage his torture had caused. Only when his body had finished, and only when he could hear no sounds apart from his own breathing, did Ward open his eyes. He could see no trace of scar tissue on his skin; the memories of pain that had been burned into his brain were the only indication that he'd ever even been hurt at all.

He wanted to cry, but he had no tears left in him to shed. What sort of deal had he gotten himself into this time?

Ward's regret was interrupted by the entrance of the man with the metal arm, and Ward thought for a moment that he seemed oddly familiar, in a distant sort of way. He had definitely seen a face similar to his before, but Ward couldn't remember where. The man with the metal arm walked over to his bedside and unsheathed the knife which had been hanging at his hip, using its blade to cut one of the thick leather restraints holding Ward's arm in place. He re-sheathed the knife and waited, and Ward got the message. Reaching over, he tore off the other restraint and pushed himself into a sitting position before repeating the action on his leg and ankle restraints. He swung around to a sitting position and then stood up, the man with the metal arm appraising him dispassionately.

"Come with me," he said at last, turning and walking from the followed, and found himself in a small armory a few minutes later.

"Suit up," the man said, his voice as stoic as his presence. "Take a pistol, rifle and sniper rifle. And wear a heavy jacket."

Ward did as he was told, glad to be given the chance to wear more than a pair of boxers. When he had outfitted himself as ordered, the man with the metal arm nodded and left the room. Ward followed once more, keeping his eyes to the front as the sounds of fighting and screaming reached his ears. Once they were outside, Ward understood why the jacket had been necessary. A thick blanket of snow covered the ground as far as his eyes could see, and it was still falling. He shivered, but also knew that even though he felt cold, if he hadn't been given HYDRA's stolen enhancement, he would have already frozen to death.

"Use these," the man said, holding out a pair of binoculars. "Look down-range, find the targets. Then hit them."

Ward blinked at him, incredulous.

"Are you serious? I can't—"

"If you fail, they will hurt you," came the flat reply. "Don't."

Ward swallowed his anxiety, looking through the binoculars and hoping his eyes were sharp enough. He saw the targets once his vision had adjusted and cleared, but he had no idea how he was going to hit anything with an un-scoped pistol and midrange assault rifle. The sniper rifle would be fine; he'd always been good with those. Hoping to calm his nerves, Ward lowered the binoculars, took out the sniper rifle, and laid down in the snow to set up. The other man sat beside him, waiting patiently as ever.

Ward looked through the scope, waiting for his breath to even out and for the pattern of the snowfall to emerge. He could hear the voice of his old instructor back at the academy walking him through the steps of how to line up a shot, and brushed it away before he could start berating Ward for going AWOL and turning his back on the glory of the United States military.

He pulled the trigger, satisfied to see the bullet impact the target dead between the eyes. He adjusted his sights slightly as the wind picked up and shot again, nailing the heart. Again, again, again. Hit, hit, hit. The rhythm and the ease with which with motions came to him were intoxicating, and Ward felt his nerves singing in spite of the cold, not because of it.

"Good," the man with the metal arm said. "Now switch."

Ward set his rifle down and picked up the pistol, getting to his feet and shifting over to where the much closer target awaited him. He pulled the magazine out and checked quickly to make sure it was in order, careful not to let the snow hit it. Chambering a bullet, Ward raised it and looked down-range. He resisted the impulse to squint against the snowfall, forcing his eyes to remain open and adjust. They didn't let him down, and a few moments later Ward was repeating his performance from earlier on the target. Three straight clips of ammunition all landed as kill-shots, and it was only then that the man with the metal arm spoke again.

"Good. Switch."

Ward did so, all of his earlier worry now completely replaced with confidence. The assault rifle made mincemeat of the target, short controlled bursts of fire making sure that no bullet was wasted.

"Good," the man said. "Back inside."

"For what?"

"The hard part," he answered, not turning around.

The hard part, it turned out, was hand-to-hand combat against someone with an arm made of solid metal.

"Get up," he said, as Ward braced himself against the floor and spit up blood. "You get rest when you earn it."

He forced himself to his feet, barely registering the metal fist heading right for him. It slammed into the side of Ward's head, and he hit the floor again.

"We're going to do this," he heard floating above the haze of his pain, "until you can match me. Then, you can eat."

Ward got up, and was punched back down. He got up again, and again, and again, lasting a bit longer each time. He found that if he focused himself, he didn't feel hungry, tired, or thirsty. Fatigue was a thing of the past, and his muscles rarely if ever protested against what he wanted them to do. The combination of the serum and his natural abilities had truly, it seemed, turned him into the weapon HYDRA had been hoping for.

It took Ward two straight days to earn a piece of bread and a glass of water. By then, it was more a point of pride than a necessity. As he sat cross-legged on the floor and ate, he looked over at the man with the metal arm and smirked.

"I finally put it together," he said.

"What?"

"Who you are."

The man barely reacted. But Ward knew that for him, 'barely reacting' was the equivalent of a normal person shouting at the top of their lungs.

"Who do you think I am?"

"James Buchanan Barnes," Ward answered, "also known as 'Bucky'."

The man said nothing, and Ward continued.

"It took me a while to remember where I'd seen your face," he said. "History books. You fought with Captain America in World War Two, against HYDRA. How the hell did you wind up here?"

The man was silent for a long time, casting his eyes all around the room and making sure they were completely alone before speaking again.

"That, I can't remember," he said. "But I remember bits and pieces. More and more the longer they keep me out at one time. I don't know why Whitehall is keeping me here to train you for so long. Maybe it's a test, to see if I slip up or not. Let them know that I know. Not that it matters," he added, shrugging. "They'll put me back in the chair, wipe my memories, and ice me until they need me again."

Ward stared at him, in awe.

"It's true?" he said. "I thought… I mean, I was just guessing. What did you mean, they can wipe your memories?"

"HYDRA's been around for a very long time," Bucky said, looking off into the distance of his memories as he spoke. "They can do a lot of things that would surprise you. Memory wiping is the least of it. They can hollow you out, hurt you so badly that you'll be willing to do anything to make the pain stop."

Ward held back his shiver, but only just.

"I thought you didn't feel pain."

Bucky looked at him, his dark eyes chillingly blank.

"Don't you?"

Ward had to admit to himself that he did, no matter how well his body masked it.

"You might think you owe them," Bucky said, "because they saved you. You don't. You owe them nothing. They've already taken more from you than you possibly could have repaid them with on your own."

"How do you figure that?" Ward asked, arching an eyebrow. "I'd call getting the Captain America treatment an upgrade."

"You haven't slept in two days," Bucky replied, "and by the time HYDRA is done with you, you'll be so numb to pain that it'll start making you incapable of empathy. You call becoming a robot an 'upgrade', kid?"

Ward thought back to his parents, and the way they'd treated him and his brothers. He thought back to that day at the well, to his inaction and his weakness. His expression darkened, his mouth evening into a flat, intense frown.

"If you can't defend yourself from predators," he said, "you're just prey. Strength is all that matters. Strength, and being able to pull the trigger when it counts."

Bucky looked at him, the ghost of a sad smile crossing his face before disappearing a moment later.

"If you say so," he said. "Tell that to the top brass, they might not even brainwash you before they send you out on a mission."

He got to his feet, and Ward rose as well, immediately settling into a combat stance. Bucky threw a hard hook, the light in the room glinting brightly off the red star on the shoulder of his metal arm. Ward countered the punch and struck back, glorying in the feeling of a fight that seemed closer and closer to being truly even. Then an unexpected feint ended with a fist in his gut, sending him reeling. The follow-up hit him hard enough that he felt his skull rattle, and hit the ground with a ringing in his ears.

"Again."

Ward pushed himself to his feet, cursing his weakness.

Nine years later, on his twenty-seventh birthday, Grant Ward finally saw the sun again for the first time since he'd burned his parents' house down. The traces of youthful fat on his face had long-since vanished, replaced by a sharp, defined jaw and a steely grimace. Close-cropped black hair had replaced the slightly ragged mop that had been on his head when he'd first arrived, and he finally wore his immense strength and physical conditioning like a man who was used to it.

An Agent of SHIELD, John Garrett, was addressing him, saying something about HYDRA and its grand mission to subvert and conquer SHIELD from the inside. It was a speech Ward had heard before, several times, and this go-around he was only half-listening. His attention was focused on Bucky Barnes, standing there and looking for all the world like a statue carved out of marble. The Winter Soldier, others in the training complex had called him. Those who were unaware of his true identity. Bucky's eyes were blank, his face an unfeeling mask.

"Don't let them turn you into me, kid."

His words from what felt like a lifetime ago sat fixed at the forefront of Ward's mind, and he felt a chill run through him. As much as he felt he owed HYDRA for saving him from a life of juvenile detention, prison or worse, he still wanted to be able to live his own life. No doubt SHIELD would demand a great deal of him, but from what he'd heard Nick Fury wasn't the sort of person inclined to memory wipes and outright brainwashing to ensure loyalty. Bucky's eyes held no indication whatsoever that he and Ward knew each other at any level beyond the purely professional: their friendship, such as it had been, was now only real inside of Ward's head.

"Ward? You listening to me, son?"

"Of course, Sir," Ward said, all confidence. "You're to act as my SO, and provide the recommendation to get me placed into SHIELD's Academy. After that, I work my way up the ranks and await further orders."

Garrett smiled, satisfied. It was warmer than Whitehall's, in the way that snow was warmer than ice.

"Good. Very good. Let's get you to a jet and on your way, then."

He walked outside with Garrett, and it was there that the bright light of the sun hit him square in the face. He winced, but soon settled into it. Garrett chuckled.

"Nice to see they didn't turn you into an actual vampire in there," he said. "I looked over your file— they really put you through the wringer, didn't they?"

Ward shrugged.

"Nothing I couldn't handle, Sir."

Garrett shook his head, smiling ruefully.

"No," he said, "I suppose not. You still remember how to smile, kid?"

"Of course," Ward said, hoping the short spike of emotion at hearing Bucky's nickname for him would just come across as annoyance at being asked such a simple question. "I got taught all about blending in. Plenty of time for that between torture sessions and getting beaten to a pulp."

He passed off his resentment with enough dry humor to keep Garrett's doubts at bay, the other man barking out a laugh in return.

"Well, that answers that question," Garrett said, as they stepped up the waiting ramp and into the jet destined to take Ward to the first day of the rest of his life.

And if HYDRA thought they could tell him when and where that life was due to end, they had another thing coming.

Ward felt comically out of place dressed in a plain SHIELD shirt and simple, loose-fitting canvas pants. Not to mention the fact that no one here seemed to want to torture him, beat him, or otherwise subject him to bodily harm. Hell, trainees were laughing and talking about popular culture, and no helmeted soldiers were stopping by to shoot them in the head for daring to act like normal people.

"Brave new world," he muttered to himself, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder and continuing to walk through the common area. He could feel the eyes swerving to follow him as he went, no doubt struck by how preposterously handsome and confident he was. That, or he had something on his face. Ward hoped for the former, and would believe it until told otherwise.

"Hey, new guy!"

Ward turned instinctively to face the speaker, whether or not the words had been directed at him. It was a man his age, who looked to be in almost as good physical condition as Ward was. A beaming smile dominated his face, an expression so foreign and disarming that Ward almost found himself trusting him.

Almost. He knew there were snakes in the grass here, but he didn't know how many or where they'd been let out to roam. Ward made his way over to the other man, who quickly held out his hand. Ward shook it, and the other man whistled appreciatively.

"Not bad, rookie," he said. "You'll have to tell me your routine, because that is one hell of a grip. My name's Antoine Triplett, by the way," he added, "but everyone calls me Trip. And you are?"

"Grant. Grant Ward."

"Nice to meet you, Ward. Where're you headed?"

"My SO's recommendation was Operations."

"Oh man," Trip said, shaking his head. "Good luck, that place is rough. Been kicking my ass going on two years now. Who's your SO, if you don't mind me asking?"

"John Garrett," Ward said, internally stunned at how relaxed everything felt. He could still feel the edge of the instincts HYDRA had ground into his brain, but they were more subdued than he'd felt in a very long time.

Trip raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

"No wonder you get to waltz right into Ops," he said, impressed. "Do you two go back a ways?"

"He scouted me out of military academy," Ward lied, so easily he could almost have believed it himself. "Liked what he saw enough to make sure I got here before someone else snapped me up."

"Yeah, makes sense. Well, how about I wait here while you go get your intro blood work and exam done, and then I can take you over to the Ops Building?"

"Sure, that sounds good. Thanks, Trip," Ward said, meaning it as he shook the other man's hand. "Which way to the med lab?"

"Just follow the signs with the red crosses on them. We're totally original like that."

Ward nodded, smiling.

"Be right back."

He made his way towards the lab, taking the time to memorize as much about the layout of the building as he could. There were far too many exits, and not nearly enough cameras. Overconfidence, laziness. HYDRA had been right about one thing: there was no way SHIELD would ever see them coming. It was tragic, in a way, a fall so sudden and so sharp. But at least it would be the mercy of a quick death, which was more than HYDRA usually provided.

And then Ward would walk away from the ashes a free man, to do whatever he wanted.

The bright, white sterile light of the med lab pulled Ward out of his thoughts, and he quickly ran back over what Garrett had told him to expect. A lady named Rebecca Thomas was going to be on-duty, and she would know not to draw his blood, swapping in a false sample instead. The rest of the physical would be a formality, done quickly, and then Ward would be on his merry way, with SHIELD none the wiser about just how 'special' Ward had become.

He opened the door, a short beep announcing his arrival.

"I'll be right there," a voice called out, unmistakably British. "Just a second!"

Ward paused, confused. Wasn't Thomas supposed to have been from Kentucky?

"So sorry about that," the voice called again a moment later, as a young woman at least a couple of years Ward's junior walked hurriedly into view. She had striking red hair, a bright smile, apparently boundless enthusiasm, and her badge said her name was Jemma Simmons.

Shit.

"Not a problem at all," Ward said, covering his concern with a smile. "Nice to meet you…?"

"Jemma," she said, reaching out to shake his offered hand, "but I go by Simmons."

"Last names seem to be a thing around here," Ward said. "I'm Grant, but I go by Ward."

"Pleasure," Simmons said, just as surprised as Trip had been by the strength in Ward's grip. "My god, what sort of food do you eat? That can't be natural."

You don't know the half of it.

"A lot," Ward said. "This muscle doesn't maintain itself."

"No, certainly not," Simmons said, finally tearing her eyes away from one of Ward's biceps a long moment later and pointedly clearing her throat. "Anyway, let's get you looked at."

Ward found himself smiling at how flustered she seemed as he sat up on the exam table, wondering if this was really the same SHIELD that HYDRA considered a worthy adversary. No one here seemed nearly as resilient as any of HYDRA's soldiers, although he had no doubt that the Operations Academy would put him through the paces. Once he'd come out the other end a full Field Agent, he would know for sure how concerned he ought to be.

"Not that I don't think you can do your job," Ward spoke up as he saw Simmons preparing a butterfly needle for drawing blood, "but isn't Doctor Thomas supposed to be covering this shift?"

"Oh, yes," Simmons said, looking over briefly while her hands continued to work, as if they had a mind of their own. "She's my supervisor during my resident shifts here. Unfortunately, she came down with a nasty bug this morning, so I'm on my own today. I hope that's all right."

Shit. Shit. Shit shit shit.

"Of course," Ward said, knowing that his long-term plans were about to get completely screwed over in the worst possible way. There was no plausible way he could duck out of getting his blood drawn, and it would be immediately be flagged in the system as containing super-soldier serum. Which meant that it would be classified at three levels above the highest possible level and sent right to the desk of Director Nicholas J. Fury, who would likely show up soon after with some very specific questions.

Like how the hell some rookie had shown up on SHIELD Academy's doorstep with one of SHIELD's most closely-guarded secrets pumping through his veins. And Nicholas J. Fury was not someone who enjoyed being lied to. If Garrett had seemed worried of anyone at SHIELD, it had been Director Fury first, and Agent Phil Coulson second.

"Okay, all set. I'm just going to need you to clench your fist, please."

Ward did so, letting his mind wander as Simmons drew his blood and sealed his fate. His side would be picked for him, then. Because there was no way he could talk his way out of this, and to overtly crawl back to HYDRA after leaking their big secret would almost certainly get him decapitated.

Hail SHIELD.

"And, done. You're the first person today who hasn't even flinched, Ward. I'm impressed."

He smiled.

"Just a high tolerance, I guess."

"All right; take your shirt off, please."

Ward did so, carefully studying Simmons' expression as his plethora of scars was revealed under the light. A few years ago, HYDRA had ordered him to stop erasing his scars as he healed, the last step to honing his control over his abilities. Ward had complied as always, leaving him the proud owner of a tapestry of scar tissue that wouldn't have seemed odd on a career soldier twice his age.

"God," Simmons gasped under her breath, her eyes widening. "How…?"

"Rough childhood," Ward said, feeling slightly unnerved beneath his casual exterior as he saw the extent of the concern and compassion on Simmons' face.

"Ward," she said, looking him in the eye, "I'm so sorry. I know you probably don't want to talk about it, but if you ever do, I'd be more than willing to listen."

"Thanks," he said, smiling as best he could. And in that moment, Ward realized why HYDRA was so intent on taking SHIELD down. Their sense of loyalty to one another, their desire to help the team, the mission, the people next to them, was just as intense as HYDRA's, without the need for coercion. If Jemma Simmons was representative of even ten percent of SHIELD's soldiers, then that was more than a cause for concern.

"Well, apart from a frankly inhumane amount of scarring, there doesn't seem to be anything immediately wrong with you, so that's good," Simmons said, returning to her normal self. "Should have the results of your blood-work by tomorrow at the latest, and if anything comes up we'll call you. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," Ward answered, nodding. He got down from the exam table, picking his shirt back up and putting it on. "Thank you very much, Simmons."

"Oh, just doing my job," she said, smiling. "But you're welcome all the same, Ward."

He briefly entertained the thought that Simmons might be HYDRA, but quickly dismissed it as impossible. Her emotions were too genuine to be faked by all but the most well-trained of field agents, which Jemma Simmons definitely wasn't.

"See you around," he said in farewell, picking his duffel bag back up and slinging it over his shoulder again as he left. As he went, Ward spared a look back over his shoulder and saw Simmons standing slack-jawed in front of a notice flashing on a computer monitor. He turned his head back around and kept walking, not needing to see the look on her face as she no doubt turned to look at him.

Shit.

"Here," Trip said, handing Ward a leather jacket that matched the one he was wearing, "put this on."

"Why? We have a uniform?"

"No," Trip said with a laugh as he climbed into the driver's seat of his car, "I just want girls to be looking at me rather than you when we get to the Ops Building, and that means you need to put those guns of yours away."

Ward chuckled in spite of himself, shaking his head.

"They seemed plenty interested in you on the way here," he said. "I wouldn't be worried."

"I'm not," Trip assured him. "I'm just being smart."

Ward's chuckle returned, the easy atmosphere in the car combined with the sun and the cool breeze through the rolled-down windows almost enough to take the edge off of his nerves. No doubt Fury had already flagged whomever on campus he trusted the most to deal with this issue, and they'd track him down in short order. He just hoped he had time for a beer or three first, if he could even get intoxicated anymore.

"You look like you've already been through a few years of training, Ward," Trip said several minutes into the ride, breaking the silence. "And I don't just mean military academy drills, either. The way you carry yourself… that isn't something people learn in school. If you'd told me you were already an Agent, I'd have bought it."

I have been, for six years.

"Just a natural, I guess."

"Yeah, sure," Trip said, "and my mom's the Queen of England. If you don't wanna talk about it, that's fine. I just know who I'm putting my money on in the Ops Rookie Pool."

"There's a pool?" Ward asked, arching an eyebrow. "What, on who makes it?"

"Yeah, of course," Trip said. "Each class has at least an eighty-percent failure rate. Lots of money to be made playing the odds right."

"That doesn't sound very SHIELD-y to me, Trip."

Trip laughed, long enough that it ended with a sigh and a deep breath.

"Oh, man," he said after he'd recovered. "If you think that's over the line, I can't wait to see how you handle some of the stuff the students get up to. If you ever meet Leo Fitz, ask him about the time he dematerialized a wall just so he could surprise his girlfriend on her birthday. I don't think I've ever seen Simmons look so furious and so impressed at the same time."

"Simmons? You mean Jemma Simmons?"

"Yeah, that's the one. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. I just met her in the med lab earlier. She said she was doing a residency, so I didn't think she was still a student."

"She is, she's just a scary smart one. I wouldn't be surprised if a field team picks her up before the year's out."

Ward settled back into his seat, opting to wait out the rest of the ride in silence. The Operations Academy looked more like a prison than anything else, but that didn't surprise Ward. If SHIELD was built anything like HYDRA, their Operations side would be spartan, focused and ruthless. No doubt they would subject their candidates to supposedly grueling day-to-day conditions, to test their mental fortitude. Ward saw windows in the side of the building, which was already enough to make it a luxurious atmosphere compared to HYDRA's training compounds.

"Here we are," Trip said, pulling into a parking spot with a sigh. "Welcome to heaven on earth."

Ward got out of the car and took his duffel bag from the trunk without a word, mentally preparing himself for what was coming. The check-in process was surprisingly painless, with the person at the desk finding him in the system quickly and giving him a room number. Which meant that either the trap hadn't sprung yet, or it already had and SHIELD personnel were just good at being spies. Ward hoped for the former, but knew to assume the latter.

"Looks like you got a single, Ward," Trip said, smiling. "Lucky."

Only because they planned it that way.

"Would've liked a roommate," he said, sincerely. "But it's not up to me."

"I'm sure someone would love to trade with you," Trip said with a chuckle. "Maybe ask around, when you've got the time. But I'll leave you to get settled in, Ward. Good luck."

"Thanks. I'm sure I'll need it."

They shook hands and parted with a smile, Ward turning to walk down the hall towards his room. The locks were old-fashioned, keys over electronics. He smiled, appreciating the switch back to something analogue in a digital age. It was the same reason HYDRA kept solely paper records of its most sensitive information, if they kept records of it at all.

The door opened to reveal a room far more spacious than Ward had been expecting, with several amenities he hadn't owned in years: a bed with sheets on it, a desk with a computer on it, and a small kitchen with a table and refrigerator in it. The central area of the room held a couch and a few chairs, and the chairs were occupied by a trio of very serious people wearing equally serious expressions.

Ward smiled as he flipped the lights on. At least they wouldn't be wasting any time.

"Agent Coulson," he said, recognizing the man's face from HYDRA's files. "Agent Hill. And Agent Romanov?" he finished, surprised. "If I knew Fury was going to roll out the red carpet, I'd have worn a suit."

Romanov smiled.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," she said. "I was here for a guest lecture."

Ward smiled in kind, wondering if he was in for a fight after all.

"Take a seat please, Mister Ward," Coulson said, his face unreadable. "We have some questions for you."

"And I have the answers," Ward said, sinking into the couch with a sigh and facing his interrogators. "But I'm only going to tell them to Director Fury."

Maria Hill scoffed, taken aback by the rookie's presumption.

"Anything you have to say to him, you can say to us."

"No," Ward said, leaning forward. "Not this."

Garrett had briefed him on the flight over from the HYDRA base on who in SHIELD was a true loyalist, so Ward knew that these three were Fury's troops to the core. But he still had an appreciation for the dramatic that HYDRA hadn't quite been able to squash.

"Really?" Romanov said. "I promise you I've heard it before, from someone somewhere. How'd you get your hands on the serum, Grant? Theft? Coincidence?"

Ward leaned back again, trying not to wince at the old memory of what Whitehall had done to him.

"It was given to me," he said. "By HYDRA."

The effect his words had on the trio was immediate and electric; Romanov drew her sidearm, Hill looked like she'd been punched in the face, and Coulson was doing a remarkable job of hiding his sudden and acute fear.

"Give me one good reason," Romanov said, "why I shouldn't just shoot you."

"Because it wouldn't kill me?" Ward said. "Besides, you're going to want to hear what I have to say. I promise."

"What happened to 'For Fury's eyes only'?"

Ward shrugged.

"That was before you pulled a gun on me, Romanov."

"Start talking," Coulson broke in, finding his voice again. "Tell us everything you know."

"Fine," Ward said. "I hope there's beer in that fridge, for your sakes."

He told them everything. That he'd been born with abilities that made him 'enhanced', as they were calling it now. That he'd been working for HYDRA in the field for six years, and had been trained by them for nine. That he'd run 864 operations missions, and had personally killed 216 people. That the serum had been stolen from SHIELD by the Winter Soldier, who had subsequently been responsible for teaching Ward everything he knew. And finally, he told them that HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD so deeply that not even he knew the extent of how far it went: only that John Garrett was an operative of theirs, and they had at least one mole on the World Security Council.

He sat and waited in silence while the three agents in front of him struggled to process what they'd been told. Coulson spoke first, as he'd expected.

"That can't be true," he breathed, devastation plain on his face. "It can't."

Romanov recovered herself with a measured breath, shaking her head.

"It is, Coulson," she said. "If HYDRA trained him, he knows how to lie with the best of them. And that was the truth." She pressed a finger to her ear. "Orders, Sir?"

"I had my suspicions," Fury's voice replied through a speaker on the device strapped to Romanov's wrist. "But to hear it right from the source… that's just icing on the cake. For now, keep acting like we're still in the dark. The only way we make it through this is if they don't know that we know. But keep your eyes peeled for anyone else who might be a double-agent. Understood?"

"Of course, Sir," Romanov said, cutting the line. She leaned back in her chair and glanced up at the ceiling, sighing. "Forget beer," she said. "I need vodka."

"That makes two of us," Hill commiserated, her head in her hands. "I have no idea how I'm going to tell Cap that his best friend is a HYDRA assassin."

Coulson sat in thought for a few moments, then spoke, his voice back to normal. Garrett had been right: the man was a consummate soldier, even if he was reluctant to act like it sometimes.

"As redundant as it'd be to put you through the Academy," he said, "it makes sense to keep up appearances. Just… try not to make it too obvious you've done this before."

"Roger that," Ward said, nodding. "I'll try not to make everyone else look too bad."

"Good," Coulson said, allowing himself the shadow of a smile. "And just because I have to ask, why are you turning? I thought HYDRA's whole thing was loyalty to the bitter end."

"Purely selfish reasons, really," Ward admitted. "HYDRA thought they owned me for life, and it was clear they'd do anything they wanted to my head to make sure that happened. I signed up because they knew who I was— what I was— and I had no other way out."

"Then why follow them for so long? Why not try to run?"

Ward let out a bitter laugh.

"Because they would have killed me," he said. "And because I follow orders. Because I owed them that much. But now, I'd say we're even. I'm not going to let them turn me into a slave."

Coulson nodded.

"I appreciate your honesty, Ward. But that doesn't mean I'm ever going to trust you."

"I'm not asking you to," Ward said. "I'm asking you not to torture me or shoot me in the head."

"We aren't HYDRA," Coulson said with disdain, before stopping himself. "I mean, most of us aren't HYDRA. I hope. The point is, we don't torture people at SHIELD."

"Good enough."

"I do think you could use a handler, though," Coulson added. "Just for insurance."

Ward arched an eyebrow.

"You have someone here who could stack up to me?"

Coulson smiled.

"HYDRA isn't the only covert organization with tricks up their sleeve," he said. "We have an… exchange student here. Daisy Johnson. I think you'd be surprised by what she can do."

"We'll see," Ward said. "Not much left that can surprise me these days."

"Well, if you'll excuse me," Agent Hill said, getting to her feet, "I need to go talk to Cap, and start getting ready for this war of ours. Walk me out, Natasha?"

"Sure," Romanov said, giving Ward one last look on her way out and shaking her head.

"This is going to suck," she muttered, preparing herself for playing the longest con she'd ever pulled. Until HYDRA made a move, there was nothing any of them could do but wait. Wait, and take orders from traitors hiding in plain sight. Where was Clint with a joke when she needed him?

Once Coulson and Ward were alone, Coulson pulled out his phone and punched in a number.

"Daisy? Yeah, it's me. Could you come to room 147, please? Thanks."

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Coulson said, and the door opened to reveal a young woman a few years Ward's junior. She had piercing brown eyes and short, dark hair that came down to just above her shoulders, but what drew Ward's attention was her presence: she had the easy confidence of an apex predator, something belonging only to people who knew that very few others could even come close to threatening them. Definitely enhanced, then, like him.

"Who's the new guy?" she asked, quickly sizing Ward up with her eyes as he got up to look at her.

"This is Grant Ward," Coulson said. "He's a new recruit we turned from the Rising Tide. You know them?"

Daisy smiled.

"Yeah, hackers. I've been watching them for a while now. Good, but not as good as me."

Coulson smiled.

"Very few are," he said. "I need you to chaperone Ward during his time here. If you think he's stepping out of line in any way, do whatever you need to fix that."

Daisy grinned, and Ward felt a chill prickle up his spine.

"Whatever I want, huh? Can do, Sir."

"Don't get too excited," Coulson cautioned. "We just renovated this place. Can't have you knocking it down."

"Who, lil' ol' me?" Daisy said, her mischievousness moving to her eyes. "I'd never, Sir."

"Right," Coulson said, shaking his head. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Welcome to SHIELD, Ward."

He left the room, and Daisy was quick to cut through the silence.

"You don't look much like a hacker, Mister All-American."

Ward smiled.

"I was the getaway driver."

"Sure," Daisy said, smirking. "You hungry, Ryan Gosling?"

"Yeah," Ward replied, his smile holding up. "You have a nickname for every occasion?"

"That," she said, "is for me to know and you to find out, padawan. Let's go, the dining hall's not too far from here."

Ward shook his head in bemusement as soon as Daisy turned her back to him, following her out of the room. The dining hall was just a ten-minute walk away, and Ward was just as struck by the level of noise and chatter here as he had been back at the main building. It was something he could definitely get used to.

"Holy crap, Fitz?" Daisy called out, hurrying over to the table where a young man was sitting across from Trip looking very out of place. "What're you doing here?"

Daisy pulled Fitz into a hug before he could answer, and he returned it with a small smile.

"Agent May wanted Jemma's help with something," he said. "I offered to help consult."

"Oh, so that's what the kids are calling it these days?" Daisy said, smiling at the blush that immediately consumed Fitz's face. "Good to know. Guys, this is Grant Ward, a newbie. Coulson wants me to look after him, make sure he doesn't do anything fishy. He's ex-Rising Tide," she added, answering the unspoken question on Fitz's face. Trip shot Ward a look, understanding at once that Coulson had given him a cover.

"We've met," Trip said, flashing Ward a genuine smile. "Welcome to the messed-up family we've got going on here, Ward."

Ward smiled, feeling more and more at ease.

"Still nicer than mine," he said, eyeing the food on the other side of the room. "Glad to be here, Trip."

He got back up and made his way over to the food, piling a plate full of as much as he could fit. He carried it back to the table and earned a whistle from Trip.

"You planning on finishing that?"

"Wanna bet?"

Trip grinned.

"You're on. Twenty says you tap out before the plate's clean."

"Deal."

Thirty minutes later, Trip was staring at the empty plate in gobsmacked disbelief.

"No way," he breathed, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a twenty dollar bill. "Remind me never to bet against you again, Ward."

"Nope. I never say no to easy money," Ward said, leaning back in his chair and marveling at how easy it was to let his guard down here. He enjoyed it more than he'd expected to. And as he looked around at the happy camaraderie and smiling faces at the table, Ward suddenly found himself feeling protective, in a way he hadn't since Thomas had been part of his life. He wondered for a moment where his younger brother had run off to, then pulled his attention back to the present.

He had a chance here, he realized. A real chance, to rebuild something resembling a normal life. Or at least, as normal a life as he could ever hope to have. And he wasn't about to miss that chance. If that meant facing down HYDRA, so be it.

If Grant Ward loved one thing in life, it was a challenge.

…

…

A/N: I just watched through Season Three of Agents of SHIELD recently, having not watched it since the Season Two finale. It was an awesome ride, and this idea wouldn't stop bugging me until I wrote it down. I apologize if any of the characterizations are rusty, but trying to remember what everyone sounded like before the HYDRA flip happened in Season One is a bit difficult at this point.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!