This is what power feels like. Coursing through her veins, spilling through her mind, weaving ribbons and cracks and crevices through her very soul.
At first it's soothing; a gentle breeze on a summers day, the ripple of a puddle. Then suddenly it comes crashing down around her in a rain of fire, all piercing daggers and sharp edges, coal-hot to the touch and blinding to her eyes. She is nothing more than a mere mortal, and her very being is splitting apart, shattering into a million unrepairable pieces.
She is the roaring fire of the hearth, she is the swirling tornado ripping through a village, she is a leaf floating on the wind, she is the joy of a child's laugh, she is the screech of tires against gravel, she is, she is, she is, she is -
all Jemma Simmons knows is that she is not a mere mortal anymore, not since she was swallowed up by that mythical, magical rock, not since it changed something inside of her.
...
Jemma comes back into the world screaming, crying and kicking, unleashing a fury never before seen by the friends who watch anxiously from behind locked doors.
Her anger is wild, she is clever, she is strong, she is Jemma Simmons and she will not be locked up in a cage like a stray animal.
...
That's when she starts to cry. All the anger has drained from her soul, all the passion and fury and inexplicable feelings. Instead she is nought but a mere shell, an old toy broken beyond repair, a library book mistreated by the local 'cool' kids.
The people come and go, but there is always one there, always someone to look after her, watch over her, guard her like she's a prisoner, like she's a traitor, like - like - like - Ward.
"Please get better," whispers a blue-eyed boy, once broken but now repaired, once with all the dreams in the world but now left with only one; one who's sobbing her eyes out in a containment room somewhere in SHIELD.
"Maybe she doesn't need to," replies the quiet voice of the brown-haired girl, knowing and understanding, but oh so scared, with all the world in her palms but no will to mould it. "Maybe this is who she is now."
...
Perhaps the next day Jemma is what might be described as 'better'. She sits up straight, runs her fingers through the tangles in her hair, and eats breakfast. She wipes the tears on her pillow before anyone can see them and sits on her bed patiently, waiting for the inevitable moment when May starts her shift at 8:30.
"You're up," May notes carefully. Her eyes show concern but her movements are free, and Jemma knows that May has begun to find some sort of peace at last.
Jemma fixes her gaze on the older woman. "I need to speak with Skye."
May is sensible but she also cares, and she hesitates. "Fitz - "
"Please."
May leaves the room.
...
When Skye arrives they sit in silence, cross-legged on the floor on either side of the glass. Jemma sits serenely, but Skye fidgets and shuffles like an uncomfortable child.
"Um - you wanted to talk, but - "
"When you went through your transformation," she whispers, "what did it feel like?"
Skye swallows. "It felt like the world was ending. Is that what it feels like for you? Maybe I can call Lincoln, have him - "
"It doesn't feel like that," Jemma interrupts, shaking her head slowly. "It feels like my world is only beginning."
...
The world is not ending. It is beginning. It's like she's a kitten opening her eyes for the first time, staring around at the world at it's entirety. In some ways the colours are brighter. The plants are full of vibrance, the water swirls with life, the heartbeats of her fellow agents echo in a steady rhythm. She uses this to keep her safe, counts along with the pulses in the middle of the night when she is scared and afraid.
ba-dum - who will i become - ba-dum - what's happening to me - ba-dum - what do i do - ba-dum - who am i now - ba-dum.
There's always one pulse that beats slightly out of time with the rest, echoing in the background. When she raises a hand to her chest she finds it beats in harmony with her own heart.
That's when she knows who's rhythm it is.
...
One day a heartbeat stutters. She can hear it, fighting for dominance, screaming for survival, screeching over the rest. It struggles, kicks, fights -
it stops.
She doesn't realise that she's screaming until her voice runs dry and she finds herself kneeling on the floor, hands tangled in her hair and tears streaming down her features.
Hunter runs into the room quickly, Bobbi close behind in her wheelchair, both of them with weapons and wide eyes. Hunter falters when he sees her but Bobbi only wheels closer, empathy showing as she taps frantically on the glass.
"Jemma! Jemma, what's wrong? Do you need medical assistance? Lance, get some fucking help!"
Jemma shakes her head, still trembling on the cold concrete of the floor, her ears ringing with words like 'get help!' and 'he's gone' and 'no, wait, there must be something we can do'.
"I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay," she whispers to herself over and over again. On the other side of the containment room Bobbi and Hunter are panicking, Bobbi's yelling at Hunter to get a move on and he's trying his best to help - but - but nothing's going to help because someone's heart has - oh god - someone's heart has stopped and now she doesn't think she'll ever be able to breathe again.
"Jemma, you need to tell me what's wrong," Bobbi urges.
"Who is it?" she begs instead, the salt from her tears making her lips dry. "Please tell me who it is."
It's then that Skye bursts into the room, eyes blazing with a fire none of them have ever seen before, tear tracks staining her features. "He's dead," she spits out eventually. "Garner is dead."
...
"Did you know?" pleads the blue-eyed boy (who's name it hurts to think of). He sits on the floor in front of her, facing the glass and making small smudges from the engine grease on his hands.
She stays silent, mind still echoing, rebounding with tears and shocks and one heartbeat less in a sea of what seems like a thousand.
"Please, Simmons," he chokes out, eyes watering. "I know - I know you think you make me worse, and maybe you do and maybe I'm being selfish but I need you, Jemma." He pauses then, like he's reliving a moment what seems like a thousand lifetimes before. She can see the memories flashing through his eyes, can see a pale, sick version of herself falling, can see the murky depths of the ocean, can see every time she laughed or smiled and talked to Leopold Fitz. "You can come for me to help. I need you. Please come back."
She moves closer to the window and puts her hand up to his, separated by a thin sheet of glass, and he looks hopeful, oh so hopeful.
"I knew," she whispers.
(she's starting to think maybe the world is ending after all.)
...
Coulson confronts her a while later, looking concerned and tired as he notes Jemma's thin figure and her facial expression (she hasn't done much for a while).
"I know you're dealing with your own problems," he begins, and he sounds so weary Jemma wants to fall asleep, almost wants to slip back into her old self, almost wants to retreat into doctor mode and boss him back to bed and fuss about, promise that she'll make sure Lola (his beloved, beloved car) gets a good cleaning and fix up some soup and medicine for him. "But I need you to talk to her. I'm hoping - you're the best person we have. And I know it's not convenient. But please, Jemma."
So she allows him to let her out of the containment room, allows him to lead her down the corridor and into a comfy room with a table and chairs. He claims it's for therapy but she sees it more as interrogation as she sits herself down, cross-legged on a seat.
"Hello May," she greets serenely as Coulson backs out.
May doesn't say anything, so Jemma fiddles with a rubix cube and waits. Red, blue, green, white - it doesn't matter, as long as they all fit together.
"Bobbi says you were screaming. When he died," May says eventually, straight to the chase as per always.
"I was," she replies matter-of-factly.
"How did you know?"
Jemma sets the rubix cube down gently, all completed. "Do you know the feeling, when you jump into a pool and suddenly it's all quiet? It's like everything is slow-motion and muffled? And then you surface and it's like a million noises are coming at you at once, screaming and loud and bright? It was just like that."
"And now?" May echoes, looking lost. "What happens after? What are you supposed to do when you've lost everything?"
"Please tell me when you find a solution," Jemma says quietly. "I'd like to know."
"But you've got it all. You're fine. You're lucky - that rock could have done anything. You're still here. You're still breathing. What have you lost?"
"I think," Jemma hesitates, "I think I lost a part of myself."
"Why's that?"
"The world is only just beginning," Jemma says quietly.
Her fingers close around May's throat.
...
Who would ever imagine perfect, peter-pan collar Jemma Simmons in jail? The straight-A student, the sweet English girl, the bright-minded child prodigy. But here she is now, sitting on an uncomfortable bed, haunted by the ghost of Grant Ward. The cell's long since been cleaned since the traitor left, but all she can smell is his cologne, all she can see are his fingerprints.
Ever since she left bruises on the Cavalry's neck, nothing has been the same.
Fitz has stopped visiting her everyday. The guards that come down to watch her are nameless, faceless. They're not important anyway. The old Jemma Simmons would have protested, argued that they were a living, breathing soul with emotions. Now she sees them as just another heartbeat among the ocean of pulses.
Something inside her snapped when Andrew Garner died (she didn't even know him).
Something inside of her broke, and this time she doesn't have anybody to fix her, anybody to hug her and tell her it's going to be okay, that she's going to be just fine.
...
("There's something wrong with her," Coulson says.
Fitz shakes his head obstinately. "No. No, it's going to be okay. We just - just - just have to figure something out. I'm still analysing the rock, still - "
"Fitz," Skye cuts in sadly. "Maybe this is it. Jemma - I know what it feels like to change. I remember being afraid; so afraid. Maybe she just couldn't handle it.")
...
Something's going to be done eventually. She can sense it in the air, practically taste the worry that's plastered across the base. She can't blame them. There's a first class scientist gone mad sitting in the basement, locked away where she can't come to any harm.
She's stopped crying now. There's nothing to cry about - there's nothing to do full-stop. She understands why Ward used to exercise so often now. There's nothing much to do in this cell.
So instead Jemma sits herself on the floor, occupying herself with her own thoughts. But she's always been an active soul (her mind is always searching for things to do, solve, explore) so before long the floors are riddled with crosswords scratched into the floor, and she studies two or three each day, taking a deliberately long time contemplating each one to herself.
Misery loves company.
...
The first time it happens she is terrified.
It happens more out of boredom than anything else. She reaches her hand out vaguely to the pencil in the corner and before she knows it the pencil is gravitating, floating in the air all by itself.
To a scientist, this is impossible. All her life Jemma has believed in physics, dedicated herself to Newton's Third Law, payed homage to the laws of gravity. And now, with a simple wave, she's conjured magic. Heart in her throat, she flicks her finger instinctively. The pencil crackles and turns into ash.
Jemma Simmons would have cried in horror, turned to Skye or Coulson or Fitz for help. Instead, this new, changed woman turns to the security camera and raises her hand. The camera crumbles into a pile of dust.
...
She'd been against such powers before. As a scientist, you stick to the facts. Logic, rationality, process of elimination and things that make sense. Inhuman abilities are not a part of this category.
But now that Jemma actually has abilities of her own, has the chance of destroying everything with the twist of her finger, she's oddly numb to it all. How do you keep going when you don't even know who you are anymore?
...
It's the middle of the night when she makes a desicion. Jemma Simmons is tired. She's tired of being the smartest, tired of being alienated down in this cell, tired of crying herself to sleep. But mostly, she's tired of being alone.
She burns a hole through the impenetrable prison cell, hugs her arms to herself and wanders through, her bare footsteps soundless in the silence of the night. She's not thinking about it but her feet know where to go, and soon she's walking more on instinct than anything else.
She stops outside the door and opens it with a small creak, her fingers trembling and her words suddenly stuck. "Fitz," she forces out, searching for those familiar blue pools of warmth, looking for comfort.
Fitz sits up in his bed, his curls ruffled and his clothes awry. For a minute it reminds her so much of old times sake that she smiles, but his eyes are wide in a mix of shock and fear. "Jemma?"
Gently, she sits on the end of his bed. "I've been keeping something from you. When I was swallowed by that rock, something happened to me. And I'm - I'm not okay. Something happened to me and I don't know how to fix it but - " she's crying now, rushing her words out between breathless sobs, "but I'm ready to talk now. I'm ready to talk and I'm ready for help."
The world isn't beginning (but it's not ending either).