"What has he got on you? Is there someone we need to take into protective custody?"

Grant Ward blinked a few times, but he said nothing.

"How did he turn you? I've got people out there-" Phil Coulson gestured to the door, "who want to see you hanged for treason. And I've got to give them some reason not to-" Coulson slammed his hand down on the table. "You didn't just wake up one morning and decide to become a Nazi, Ward! He must have done something."

There was just a slight tone of pleading in Coulson's voice. Let there have been an excuse. Let there have been a reason. I can't have been that wrong about you.

"It wasn't like that," said Ward. "Garrett didn't take a hostage. He didn't blackmail me." Ward tipped his head to one side and then the other. "It wasn't like that."

Coulson rubbed his temples and pulled out a chair. He said down. "Then what was it like?"

"It's not going to make sense to you. It doesn't even make sense to me."

"Ward." Coulson's tone was a warning.

"Whatever I tell you won't excuse what I did." There had been agents who had broken the rules to save hostaged family members or prevent civil war in their home countries. They weren't forgiven for their actions, but their names were whispered with pity rather than loathing. Ward knew his story wasn't one of those. And frankly, he was indifferent on the question of his own execution.

"Don't you think I'm owed an explanation? After you betrayed my trust? After you betrayed my team? After you put a bullet through-" Coulson didn't finish the sentence. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper: "What you did to Skye. I deserve to know. We deserve to know. So you can shove your nihilistic bullshit and start talking."

Grant is eleven years old and he's asleep. Or, he was asleep, until Little Brother crawled into his bed whimpering about a bad dream. Little Brother was dreaming of Big Brother. Grant squirms around in the bed so that Little Brother is between him and the wall. Grant is closer to the door. Grant is closer to the danger. Grant falls back asleep.

Grant wakes to Big Brother bending his toe back and forth. It doesn't actually hurt.

Big Brother puts a finger to his lips as Grant sits up. "What's he doing in your bed?" whispers Big Brother.

"He was sleepwalking," Grant whispers back. "It was easier to put him in my bed then carry him to the top bunk."

"Well," answers Big Brother, "then don't wake him up."

Big Brother starts to poke and tweak Grant. It's not the most painful thing Big Brother has done, but Grant knows this game is less about pain and more about staying quiet. Big Brother doesn't say what will happen if Little Brother wakes up, but he doesn't really have to.

Big Brother grabs both of Grant's ears and starts to pull upward. Big Brother puts all his weight on Grant's left foot. Big Brother grabs the skin on the back of Grant's hand and he twists. Big Brother pats Grant's head in the most patronizing way.

Grant stays silent, even though he knows this game is rigged, because Little Brother will wake up eventually no matter what.

Big Brother is tugging on Grant's arm hair while wearing a broad, mocking smile.

Grant stays silent.

Ward still hadn't been picked. He hadn't honestly expected to be one of the first chosen, but he was left among the dregs – almost all the remaining SO-less cadets were in the bottom 20% of the class. Ward, in contrast, was at or near the top in most rankings.

Most, because two years before Ward enrolled at the academy, some genius decided to make "People Skills" an official category.

He tried not to act worried when yet another classmate met her new SO. He just put more time in at the gym, more time on the range, more time perfecting his Armenian accent with strangers over Skype.

He knew there were plenty of solo ops and plenty of solo agents who specialized in them. He also knew that those agents weren't typically lining up to take loner trainees, for the obvious reason that they themselves were loners. He knew all of that, but he still couldn't help feeling a little twinge each time he was passed by. And it burned when that idiot Foster got picked before him.

Ward was lying in his bunk, shuffling a deck of flashcards for recognizing types of ammunition on sight, when a man in tactical gear walked in.

The man extended his hand. "John Garrett."

Ward scrambled to his feet and stood at attention. "This Cadet's name is Ward, sir." He then realized that he should probably be shaking Agent Garrett's hand and tried to do so without looking terribly awkward.

Garrett laughed, a big belly laugh that made him sound like someone's uncle. "I don't want to hear any of that crap, son. And if I'm going to be your SO, we ought to set the ground rules right now. I like 'sir', but you can ditch the rest of it."

"Yessir." Ward tried to stand not-at-attention. It wasn't clear whether he succeeded.

"Now grab your wind gauge and your rifle. I've got a job for you."

Ward did as he was told. It wasn't common for SOs to bring their protégés on ops first thing, but it wasn't unheard of either. Besides, John Garrett was a household name among the cadets. Getting picked to train under him was a big deal.

They took a jeep up the coastline, Garrett telling stories about ops in Russia and Taiwan and international waters. Except, in between the stories, Garrett told Ward what he's heard about him. He got a pleased, possessive grin when he hacks on about the good parts. ("They said you're top notch with stealth. I need somebody like that working on my projects.") And when he talks about the bad parts, he sounds forgiving, as if to say, Yes, you are broken, but don't worry because I'll fix you.

They made it to some moneyed little cove where rich New Yorkers spent their summers and parked the jeep on a grey bluff. Ward set up his rifle and kit while Garrett explains the op.

"The fourth house down there, the grey one with blue shutters. See the car parked out front? It belongs to a Mr. Huong. All you've got to do is take out the windshield."

Ward looked confused. He could see through his scope that the car was empty. What the hell was the point of taking out the windshield? And Ward couldn't recall anybody named Huong on any target lists. "Why would SHIELD-" he asked before he could stop himself.

"I didn't say it was an op for SHIELD, now did I?" Garrett grinned in a way that made his left eye go squinty and small. "I used to play the bastard in poker. He owes me money. Now find your sightline and hit the target."

There was no good way to defy orders on your first mission out with your new SO, especially when no one else seemed particularly likely to take you on. And it was just a windshield. It wasn't like anyone was going to get hurt.

Ward checked his wind gauge and took the shot.

Ward never finds out that Garrett had him claimed from the beginning, that Garrett put in to be his SO from day one of the matching process, that Garrett just left him to stew for a few weeks because he wanted Ward to be "hungry".

Ward settles into life training under Garrett. He works hard. He's strong, but he gets stronger. He practices some "soft skills" that he'll need in his ops.

"Good god, boy! That was terrible! Didn't your papa teach you how to talk to women?"

Ward makes his don't-ask-stupid-questions face. He usually has too much respect for his SO to use it on Garrett, but then Garrett doesn't usually ask stupid questions.

"All right, all right." Garrett holds up his hands in mock surrender. He chuckles and lays a hand on Ward's shoulder. "Don't you worry, son. I'll bring you up to speed."

When Ward does well, Garrett calls him 'son' or 'Grant'. When he screws up, it's 'boy'. And when Garrett is really pissed, he's 'Agent Ward'. Ward never really notices the pattern, but that doesn't mean he's not affected by it.

They were somewhere in Canada, splitting a six-pack. Garrett was on his second beer; Ward was on his third.

"I think," said Garrett, "that you're a very angry man."

"I keep it in check."

"Maybe you shouldn't. Maybe there's a lot of shit in this world that's worth being angry about."

Ward took a long sip of his beer and tried to figure out what Garrett was getting at.

"The world is so fucked up. I don't have to tell you that. It's not like the clan you grew up in was exactly a paragon of sanity. Guys like you and me, maybe we ought to spend less time figuring out how to be happy with that situation and more time figuring out how to take control of it."

"I don't think that's…possible."

"But what if it were, son? What if it were?" Garrett got to his feet. "You can have the last beer."

Grant Ward was sitting on the floor in Garrett's quarters. There was a lot of blood – on his face, in his hair, all over his clothes. He was pale and sweaty, eyes unfocused.

"Grant?" asked Garrett. "Grant, what the hell happened?"

"You have to arrest me."

Garrett knelt down and tried to make eye contact. "Are you injured?"

Ward shook his head. "Just superficial scratches. You have to arrest me."

"Where'd all this blood come from, son?"

"I murdered him. With a knife. I wanted to be there when he died."

"And now you want to turn yourself in? Is that it?"

Ward nodded, his mouth hanging open dully.

"Stand up."

Ward complied and the knife clattered to the floor.

"Strip."

It was a mark of how confused and vacant Ward was that he made no attempt to delay or save face.

While Ward unlaced his boots, Garrett thought out loud, "You killed your brother, didn't you?"

"Yessir."

"Where's the body?"

"In his apartment."

Grant Ward stood naked, both literally and metaphorically, before John Garrett.

"I want you to take a shower. I'll take care of your clothes. I'll send my people to take care of the body and the apartment."

"You have to arrest me."

"For killing that waste of space? It was only a matter of time before someone crossed him off. I'm just glad you got to do the honors. Now go shower. Thoroughly."

Ward obeyed. He dressed in the clean clothes Garrett left outside the stall. His brain was still mostly offline, but he could hear Garrett on the phone with somebody, making arrangements to dispose of the body and sanitize the crime scene. He wasn't sure if his legs could hold his weight anymore, so he settled once more on the floor. After a few minutes, Garrett sat down next to him.

"You were strong tonight. You made this choice on your own. You did what needed to be done." Garrett put his hand on Ward's shoulder. "It hurts right now, but I'm going to look after you. Me. Not SHIELD, not the mission. Just me. I'm loyal to you and you're loyal to me, son."

Garrett didn't know exactly what Ward had done, but Ward said that Big Brother was 'murdered', not 'killed'. Garrett didn't know why Ward did it, but he wasn't about to wade into the fucked-up family relationships of his protégé, and he honestly didn't care. Nobody was going to miss Big Brother Ward. And now Grant was baptized in blood, reborn by Garrett's hand.