Second Nature (Nature Series #4)

4 chapters, total 12k words.

Set after 3.16: Paradise Lost and into the early scenes of 03.17: The Team.

Second Nature: noun; a habit or mode of behaviour so long practiced that it seems innate.


Coulson


Phil Coulson doesn't wake slowly. Consciousness crashes into him like a truck, fast and loud and painful. The status check comes automatically, a rolling line of

what? Giyera took the plane

how? telekinetic superpowers, greeaaat

where? heading for Schoonebeek oilfield

why? bad guy cliches, intel, who knows

who? he took the team he took the team he took the team…

Experienced agents know not to open their eyes the split-second they wake up. There's a lot that can be deduced from sound and air temperature and subtle finger-wriggling without having to give away your main advantage, to wit, the fact that you're awake and your enemy doesn't know it yet.

More experienced agents usually open their eyes anyway. Especially if they think they're in a new location. Touch and smell and taste and hearing are all very well, but sight confers the biggest advantage of all: you can actually see a) where you are, b) if there's anyone in the room with you, and c) how imminent your death is.

Result vary from I'm alone in a field of sunflowers somewhere in the south of France, everything is great to expletive that's a giant wall of fire, how am I not dead from smoke inhalation? No time, got to go. Oh hello, six goons with guns. I hope you have even half a sense of self-preservation between you.

Not to mention the fact that you don't have as much of an advantage as you think you do, because what with involuntary muscle movements, heart rate changes, and a hundred other tiny indicators, anyone in the room with you probably already knows you're awake.

Phil's at even more of a disadvantage than that. His arms are clamped behind his back — tied to a chair frame? maybe — and he can feel the conspicuous lack of weight below his left elbow. Anyone watching will have seen the artificial nerve connections twitching in the port. It's been nearly a year since the Iliad and Gordon, but he's still working on the finer points of, ha, motor control.

So he opens his eyes.

And does his best not to flinch when he finds Hive, in the body of former agent Grant Ward, staring back at him from a distance of two feet.

He's not sure how successful he is.

Hive smiles, deep and slow. "Good evening."

Evening? It was late morning — in the target time zone, at least — when Giyera broke custody. How long has he been out?

And does it matter? It may not even be the truth. Hive and Satan seem to be locked in a feedback loop of myth and legend, each feeding into each other. Everyone knows the devil is a liar.

Sure, humans are liars too, but that's not the point.

"Is it?" Phil asks calmly. He glances around the room, projecting unruffled and relaxed as loudly as he can. Hive will probably see through that in no time. Even Ward would have seen through it, toward the end.

But all the same, he's not about to drop the mask this soon.

No matter how much his skin is trying to crawl off his bones and hide in a corner somewhere.

"Yes," Ward — Hive — says. "It is a very good evening."

"Why's that?" The room is small enough. Maybe ten metres by ten metres. Blank surfaces. White tiles underfoot, concrete slab walls, dark ceiling. Cameras wink at him from the two corners he can see. Without twisting his head to look behind him, he can't prove it, but he's willing to bet there are cameras in the other two corners of the ceiling, too.

"It's a live video feed," says Hive, clearly answering the unspoken question of what's with the cameras rather than the one Phil said out loud. "The signal is going… everywhere. We're on Youtube. Facebook. In government servers. On the DarkNet. On every SHIELD and HYDRA screen across the planet."

That has to be the stupidest empty threat Phil's ever heard. "Of course we are." He doesn't even try to hide the sarcasm.

"It's the truth."

"Right." He doesn't believe the… thing… at all. But Ward's face is looking at him with unexpectedly childlike disappointment, and that can't be a good sign. Goosebumps erupt down his spine. Maybe he'll humour the monster. For now. "Okay, say you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Hive says. It doesn't say it boastfully. Just a statement of fact.

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Apart from the fact that you've just hamstrung both of us, figuratively speaking, in the things we can and can't talk about? It doesn't give you an advantage here. You're not about to admit what you are on international television." He may not know much, but he knows that much. Tipping his hand that earlier… nah. Hive's in it for the long game.

"Perhaps not. But neither are you." Hive turns, hands clasped behind its back, and starts pacing up and down. It's very Shakespearean in a Loki sort of way. Phil would be impressed if he wasn't so hindbrain-terrified. "Perhaps," Hive goes on slowly, "I simply wanted to see how you would react. What you would say."

Phil goes to spread his hands and comes up short. Dammit. Arms clamped to the chair behind him, that's right. Around his biceps and his one remaining forearm. His shoulders will be feeling the strain before too long. He'll manage.

And dammit, he can't swear out loud. Not that he really believes it's a live feed, but if he's trying to sell Hive the story that he believes it… he can't swear when there are kids watching. Listening. Whatever.

"Well," Phil says, "now you know. Happy?"

Hive's smile lingers, entirely devoid of emotion; nothing more than the movement of muscle and skin across tendon and bone. There's no meaning to it. It's an Uncanny Valley in the worst way, a thing trying to mimic human behaviour. Phil's read classic science fiction. It's like the managed corpse, the bogey, the Un-man on Perelandra, but so much worse because Ward was dead.

Phil murdered him.

And now he's back.

No. Ward's body is back. But the thing inside it… the thing inside Ward's body is not Ward.

Looking into its eyes is like trying to stare down a black hole. It's dark and cold and empty and Phil's goosebumps are sprouting goosebumps of their own.

Even in the worst days of the Bahrain fallout, May was more human than this.

He can't wait to get out of here.

Unfortunately, that doesn't look like happening anytime soon.

Ward's body tilts its head at him. "Why SHIELD?"

Phil blinks, affecting quiet bafflement on a Remus Lupin level. "SHIELD is dead." Officially, at least.

And speaking of officially dead, so is he. That's going to be awkward if the cameras really are live.

"Are you not the Director of SHIELD?"

"SHIELD is dead," he repeats. The layer of shabby confusion cracks, letting the anger show underneath.

Layers upon layers, that's all this is. He's been in the business so long, it's second nature by now.

But just because they're masks doesn't mean they're not him.

It's not hard to dredge up the memory of the day SHIELD fell, the stunned shock and the confusion and the scramble for intel and supplies and sheer survival, and let it leach through into his voice. "SHIELD fell when Hydra came out of the woodwork, you of all people should know that."

"Interesting." Hive blinks at him, the movement far too slow to be convincingly human. "You're saying you're not Phil Coulson, Director of SHIELD?"

"Correct." If he has to give up either himself or SHIELD to the possibly-nonexistent gaze of the entire planet, it sure as hell isn't going to be SHIELD. He's not going to throw the company under the bus. Himself, on the other hand… "I'm an advisor for the Advanced Threat Containment Unit. You might remember their former head. Rosalind Price."

"I do remember her." Behind Ward's dead eyes, something older than galaxies laughs at him. "A fine woman."

"Yes. She was."

"A fine rival."

Rival? That's… unexpected. "Oh? You're opposing the ATCU now, are you?"

"I oppose everyone." Again, the words aren't a boast. They're emotionless. Implacable. The statement of a fact as undeniable and unstoppable as the rising tide.

All tides rise.

And all tides fall.

"Then I guess," Phil says, borrowing a bit of Natasha's sly mockery and a bit of Clint's lazy drawl, "I'll just have to oppose you."

"I thought you already had."

He'd be a fool not to hear the double meaning in the words. Two can play at that game. "Yes and no." Because he has opposed Grant Ward — to the death and, it appears, to beyond death. But he's never met Hive before. Until now.

He's kinda wishing he hadn't met it at all.

But then, if wishes were horses…

"So you're not affiliated with SHIELD?" Hive asks.

"Can't be affiliated with something that doesn't exist."

"Answer the question."

"I just did. Or are you not smart enough to know what I'm saying without me spelling it out for you?"

Hive lifts his gaze meditatively to the ceiling. "Your aircraft is out there. With your team on board."

The threat is implicit. Phil lets his face close over. "No," he says. "I am not affiliated with SHIELD."

"But you are Phil Coulson?"

Here's hoping Audrey Nathan isn't watching. "Of course I'm Phil Coulson. Who else would I be? Unless I'm actually an evil robot version of Phil Coulson. But I'm pretty sure I'd know if I was. So. No. I'm me. Phil Coulson. Hi."

A spark of ancient, mocking amusement lights Hive's eye. "Hello."

"And what do I call you?" He's honestly not sure of the etiquette here. What should he call his team's former combat specialist who betrayed them, murdered dozens of people including Eric Koenig and Victoria Hand, tortured Bobbi Morse, and assassinated Rosalind Price; who Phil once called friend, then traitor, asset-in-the-basement, temporary ally, enemy, and finally target before murdering him with his bare cybernetic hand; and whose reanimated body is now playing host to a centuries-old demonic entity who appears to be the literal embodiment of Hydra itself?

Hive pauses for a long moment, head tilted.

Phil holds his gaze.

The change is so sudden it stirs nausea in his gut.

One second Hive looks at him through Ward's eyes, dispassionate and — sorry, Daisy — inhuman. The next second it's Grant Ward standing there, obnoxious smirk playing about his lips. "Coulson," he says, and — oh, Phil really hates him now — spreads his hands innocently. "I'm not one of your agents anymore. Haven't been for a long time, I know, I lost that privilege. Honestly, I'm not sorry. It was a drag. I understand that you can't call me Agent. But please, call me Grant."

"I don't think so," Phil says. There was enough grease in that speech to rival a particularly bad visit to McDonalds. But it's Ward, the slimeball, superficially smooth and charming as ever. Except it's not. The skin at the back of his neck prickles, tension coiling in his gut. Just because he can't see Hive doesn't mean it's not there. "Ward," he adds. Just to be clear where they stand.

Or sit, in his case.

"Look," says Ward. He crouches down, putting himself at Phil's eye level. But he stays safely out of kicking range, more's the pity. Even though Phil's legs are clamped to the chair. "I'm — "

"Don't you dare."

Ward stops. Frowns a little. "What? Oh!" The frown clears. "No, it's nothing to do with that."

It'd better not be. If he even thinks the words Phil thinks he was about to say…

"No," Ward says, "I was going to say, I'm sorry I sold you guys out — "

The hell? "No, you're not."

" — but you of all people should understand why I did it."

Phil stares at him, incredulous. "I — what?"

"You understand, don't you?" Ward licks his lips, and don't fall for it, Phil, he's a spy just like you are, you can't bring him back from this, it's not Ward, for a moment he looks so much younger, so much more innocent. It would be easy to ignore the blood on his hands. "Please tell me you understand."

"No," Phil says bluntly. "But please. Enlighten me."

"SHIELD was your family. Once, years ago, you had Strike Team Delta. Barton and Romanov, your lost boy and your broken girl. And you fixed them, because that's what you do." Ward's eyes are cold. Cold like the dead of winter, cold like the Arctic Sea. "And then you had us. Ward. The lost boy. And May. The broken girl."

He nearly chokes. Ward did not just say that. "Don't let May hear you say that. She'll do more than fracture your larynx this time."

"And you wanted us to be like them," Ward continues, as if Phil hadn't spoken. "To look to you as a father, a brother, a mentor, a blinding light of everything good and pure and holy in a world of darkness."

Phil shakes his head, bereft of words. He hadn't realised Ward was this delusional.

Clint's his brother, sure. Ward, if he hadn't been, well, Ward, might have become something of a son.

Natasha's his sister, yes. May is… not.

"But I already had a father." Ward's eyes gleam. Sanity, in its own way, can be worse than madness. "John Garrett. He saved me and — I owe you, Coulson, I know. And SHIELD itself, I owe SHIELD a lot. But I owed him everything."

"John Garrett," says Phil deliberately, "was a psychotic, back-stabbing son of a — "

"Please don't." Ward rocks back on his heels and rises to stand. "I just wanted you to understand. Why I did it. All of it."

Gibbets and crows, Phil thinks distantly, and nods. "I understand."

"Good."

"I understand that you'll never take responsibility for your own actions. For the blood on your hands. I understand that you'll always have someone else to blame — your parents, your S.O., my leadership, maybe, I don't know, who cares — it'll never be your fault, right? You're the victim. The tragic hero of the story. Everyone turns on you, everything bad happens to you. But not because of you, huh? Has it never occurred to you that maybe you're bringing it on yourself? That you're the cause of everyone turning against you?"

Ward shrugs, unconcerned. "No," he says. "Because it's not. Stop trying to manipulate me, Coulson. It won't work."

"Manipulate you?" Phil barks a laugh. "Looks like I don't have to. You're doing that just fine all on your lonesome."

Ward looks away and cricks his neck —

Phil's stomach drops as the goosebumps return in full force, and he slams his guard back up just in time —

And Hive looks back. Somehow it appears taller than Ward's six-foot-one. "I hope that was sufficient enlightenment."

Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid. "In a manner of speaking," Phil says, heart jumping in his chest. He's got the company man mask firmly in place. It's the quickest to hand. Default. Reflex. Carefully veiled double-meanings, red tape, misinformation, all wrapped in a sharp-dressed bureaucratic shell that can be comically incompetent or terrifyingly efficient by turns.

Hive jerks its head in a sharp movement. It almost looks like… impatience? It's a bad look on Ward. Doubly so on the centuries-old thing in his body. "I'm afraid we don't have time for games," it says softly.

Phil throws a long look at the nearest camera and looks back at Hive. "I'm afraid we don't have much choice."

"You don't want to make me angry."

"Seriously?"

Hive twitches. It looks like an out-of-body experience. It might actually be an out-of-body experience.

It also looks disgusting.

"I lied," it says. "They're not recording live to Youtube and Facebook and everywhere else."

"Gosh," says Phil. "Really? You totally had me fooled. Totally."

"They're on a closed loop. Feeding through to your aircraft, and through that to every SHIELD screen and server in the world."

"Nice try."

"They're also going to our servers here. So my men can see the Director of SHIELD completely at my mercy."

"Again: nice try."

Hive considers him for a moment. "They call me Hive," it says. "Alveus. Death. It. The first Inhuman. I am of Maveth."

"Phil Coulson. Wisconsin."

"Before that, many centuries ago, I was of Earth. A human. The Kree took me. Tortured me. Transformed me. Changed me into… what I am now." He turns to the camera. Bows. Turns back. "I would not tell that to anyone who was unworthy of hearing it. Does that reassure you?"

"No," says Phil. But he can see as well as anyone the way things are going. He heaves a put-upon sigh. "Fine. Yeah. Go ahead. Why not? It's bound to be better than you monologuing at me."

Hive smiles a very faint and empty smile. "Excellent. Tell me." Its head tilts. "Why SHIELD?"