You are not the same person you once were.
You have changed so much you cannot remember who you used to be.
S. H. I. E. L. D. academy psychology courses tended to stick to the big points. Cognitive decision making theory, clinical disorders, social phenomena, and the more practical methods for worming your way into a target's mind and pulling the strings. But former agent Grant Ward had always had a curious affinity for one of the least useful sections of the basic psychology curriculum: early child development.
There is a theory for why we cannot remember our earliest experiences. The neuroscientists claim that an underdeveloped hippocampus is to blame, the linguists that the pre-verbal years make life too incomprehensible to remember, but the theory that has always intrigued him is that a newborn's world is so fundamentally different, so bizarre and alien, that while the memories are encoded, we will never again be in a context to retrieve them.
It's comforting, in an odd way, to know that everything is still there inside of you even though you've become a completely different creature. The world he lives in is all about transformation.
.
It feels good to be out in the open again. He's finally stopped spitting up blood and he can sit up without much pain. Agent 33 works well enough as a field medic when she isn't staring into space, missing Whitehall so painfully and so publically that it makes him sick. He can't even think about Skye, either, because she's stolen from him the last thing that gave him a purpose. Hiding out makes him sick, and Agent 33's familiar mangled face makes him sick, and her desperate pleading for orders makes him sick because how the hell should he know what to do next. It's the blind leading the blind here, lady.
So he takes off the first chance he gets, once he's fairly certain he won't bleed out if he raises his arm the wrong way. He hotwires the first car he can find and takes off. It feels good to be out in the open. It feels good to being going somewhere.
The car blows a tire after half an hour of glorious speed and of course the idiot who'd left it unlocked hadn't thought to keep a spare. Disgusted, he leaves it on the shoulder of the highway, unwilling to call 33 for help and even less willing to admit that such a light activity has left him exhausted. He walks for a few miles, determined and pretending that he enjoys being out in the woods again. He hates the woods. He's lost any nostalgia for simple country life and cooking over fires.
By the time he reaches a town, he isn't walking—he's staggering. He'd grabbed as much cash as he could before leaving, but he knows he should save it for a bus ticket or something to get him the hell out of this horrifyingly quaint little town. They have fake antique streetlights in the downtown. He sits down on a bench underneath one to rest.
For some reason he keeps imagining the childlike wails of Agent 33 when she wakes up and finds him gone. He hopes she won't kill herself. He isn't sure why, he's tried it a few times, but like Garrett had always said, he's a survivor. At least he wouldn't have to hear her crying anymore, waking him up in the night with her soft moans of grief. Crying, he learned long ago, is a useless defense against pain. It's not something he's done, not as he is now, but something that happened before, in the part of his memory that someday will become strange and inaccessible to his mind.
.
The child that existed before Grant Ward was reborn in a juvenile detention center was not often hurt by his family. Perhaps a few scrapes or shoves now and then, but no more than most kids. All the same, despite the fact that his skin was unbroken and unbruised, he frequently found himself crawling into bed at night, pressing his pillow over his face, and sobbing until he was exhausted and tired and his sore eyes closed into a restless sleep.
When he was five his brother made him shoot a bird out of a tree with a BB gun just to see if he could. He could.
But memory is a funny thing. Did his brother really force him to shoot the bird or did he just ask him, casually, as any kid would when making a bet? And when he made the shot, was he relieved or proud? Did he cry that night for a broken bird on the ground or because birds are so disappointingly weak?
There's no context any more for these things. The facts are encoded forever, but the child remains a mystery.
.
He wakes up suddenly and is immediately aware that he's freezing. At first he isn't sure what woke him, the painful cold of his exposed hands, a passing car, or some instinctual alarm. Then he notices the small boy standing next to him.
"Hi," says the kid, shyly. He's no more than 8. In one of his hands he holds a shopping bag containing one large plastic bag of ice.
"Hi," Ward replies cautiously, voice hoarse. They stare at each other for a moment. Finally the kid speaks.
"Is that a gun?" He asks, pointing at Ward's backpack. The easiest way to deceive someone is to tell them the truth or to believe the lies.
"Yes," Ward says.
"Are you a spy?" The boy whispers conspiratorially.
"How did you guess?" Ward whispers back, playing along. His side is throbbing and he wishes he could go back to sleep, but he needs to move on and get out of this town. It's nearly dark, he realizes as he looks around.
"My big brother was a spy," the boy confesses, sitting down next to Ward. "He was a good guy, but he got tricked. Everyone says he was Hydra."
"What does he do now?" Ward asks, beginning to get interested.
"He's in jail," the boy says, sounding melancholy and rehearsed.
A door opens further down the street and a group of men come spilling out, laughing and obviously drunk. Ward notices with grim resignation that they're all carrying pistols under their jackets. Some of the players are in town and he's been out of the game for so long that he doesn't even know which side they play for or if they're even here for him. The kid seems to melt away the moment he sees them.
Ward sits up a little straighter and tries to look like he's playing with his phone as the men walk past him. He catches a snippet of conversation as they pass.
"-didn't want to end up in a penitentiary, they shouldn't have worked for the goddamn neo-nazis," one of them chuckles and the others roar with laughter.
The laughter cuts off abruptly as two in front skid and topple backwards onto their friends, bringing the whole group to a stuttering halt as they pick each other off of the ground. Ward turns and cannot help but grin when he sees a trail of ice cubes strewn across their path.
"You! This your ice?" One of them shouts, puffing angrily over to him. Ward leans back, relaxing at the man's amateurish attempt to look menacing.
"No sir," he says, and then adds, "maybe its any early snow."
"Listen here, punk, if you've got anyone down at the penitentiary I'll make damn sure you're not on the visitor list for a week," the man huffs. He's both slim and paunchy, a man used to slamming people around with his words rather than his hands.
"Sorry, not from around here," Ward says, trying to stand up.
"And you're aware, I'm sure, that sleeping on a public bench is expressly prohibited?" The man's eyes narrow to piggy slits.
"Mr. Hastings, please, he's a guest up at the inn. Try to be hospitable," a female voice from behind him says. A woman is standing there, bundled up in the cold, and holding a shopping bag unmistakably the same as the one the boy had held.
"I'll be hospitable when I'm not tasked with keeping potential threats away from my prison. It would be a shame if I had to add you to the list of threats," Hasting says, "but then again, seeing as I spend every day guarding men who routinely betrayed their country, it might not be such a shame after all if they had a fewer visitors."
The woman drops her gaze, which seems to please Hastings. He nods to his compatriots and they march off, walking a little straighter and watching their feet more carefully. When they turn the corner, the woman sighs.
"Jamie? Jamie, you can come out now," she calls softly.
The boy emerges from behind a trashcan, looking sheepish but not totally ashamed. The woman takes his hand and turns to face Ward again.
"I'm so sorry about that, but thank you so much for covering for him," she says. "He's upset that his brother's in jail. He doesn't quite understand why."
"No trouble at all," Ward mumbles. He stands up, slowly and painfully, and shoulders his backpack. "I should be off, but it was a pleasure to meet you."
"I-" she begins awkwardly, "you're welcome at the inn, you know. No charge, for your help. It's the least I can do."
He suddenly realizes what he looks like, thin and sick and ragged, sleeping out in the open until someone pushes him off.
She pities him, a condition both irritating and extremely useful. Ward knows how to be charming to women like this, with just a crust of ice over a tender heart so desperate to fix him up and set him right.
"I can't accept-" he begins to protest, but it is a calculated and lame effort.
"Please, I've already told half of the prison guards you're staying there and I'd rather not be caught in a lie," she pleads.
"Stay," Jamie pipes up with some enthusiasm.
"I guess, well, if you're sure its no trouble," Ward stutters shyly and then catches himself. He's incapable of stopping the constant flow of lies that spills from every mannerism. Sometimes he doesn't even realize he's faking it anymore.
"Come on, I'll drive you," the woman says, "Oh, and I'm Candice, by the way."
"Lee," he says, choosing the name on a whim.
Just as he expects, they take him home and feed him and insist that he be as comfortable as possible. He takes a hot shower and feels almost good again with a full stomach, and then he grimly resigns himself to changing his bandages. Seeing the wound has the unpleasant aftereffect of forcing him to remember how he got it.
But as he's falling asleep in a quaint little room, sinking into a slightly squeaky pillow-top mattress softer than any bed he's slept on in years, he feels happy for the first time in months. Maybe he'll stay a night. Maybe he'll stay forever and become the man this family needs him to be.
.
Some memories come in dreams, but the oldest ones are inaccessible to the dreaming part of his brain. Like plugging an ipod into a gramophone, it's the same effect without compatibility. He doesn't dream this memory, but when he awakes it is floating at the front of his mind: an oil slick gleaming sickly on the surface of a beautiful pool.
He is sitting by the creek, not even thinking, just letting himself watch the water. He begins to hear screaming in the house. His mother runs out to the car after a minute, carrying something in her arms. Thomas is very sick. His parents speed away in the car to the doctor's. He wishes he felt anything but relief to see them leaving.
Christian comes out of the house, walking without urgency and kicking at dandelions. He says that Thomas has a stomach bug and he's in charge now as the older sibling.
By nightfall his parents haven't returned. Oddly, even Christian seems depressed by this fact. They sit in the den together reading silently, neither admitting that they're clustered around the phone. They both fall asleep on the couch and when they wake up their traitorous bodies are curled companionably around one another.
When he wakes up it's still nighttime, as evidenced by the gleam of moonlight spilling in from under the curtains. Slowly, he rises and feels every stitched together part of him aching. Grimacing, he holds his injured side and moves to the window to look outside.
Down in the yard, a small dark figure throws stone after stone at a makeshift target. The boy has woken up in the night to practice. With a jolt, Ward notices that the boy is using his night vision goggles to see the target. It has been years since anyone has set foot in a room where he was sleeping and not woken him up. What is wrong with him?
Ward pulls on a sweater and shoes and moves down the stairs as quietly as he can in such an old house. As he slips out into the yard, he opens his mouth to call for the boy, when suddenly a dark shape comes racing out of the darkness towards his face.
His body reacts instinctively, and the dark shape goes flying backwards with a pained yelp. It's a dog, he realizes with dismay, probably a family pet.
"Bela?" Jamie calls out when he hears the dog. "What's the matter, girl?"
Ward kneels and frantically tries to apologize to the rattled dog. He offers his hand in recompense and finally the dog licks it a few times. Gently, Ward strokes the dog behinds the ears and the dog begins to pant happily. There's something so heartbreakingly pathetic about dogs, he thinks, the way they love what they shouldn't and the way they want so desperately to be loved back. The dog begins to thump her tail as if she's pleading 'please like me, please like me' again and again.
"Nice dog," Ward says when the boy turns and notices him, "I used to have a lab like her."
The boy looks sheepish and takes off the goggles.
"I, uh, I was just going to borrow them," he mutters.
"Your brother was S. H. I. E. L. D.?" Ward asks, rubbing the dog's neck.
"Yeah, but everybody says he was Hydra so they locked him up," the boy says quietly.
"You wanna learn to fight like a real spy?" Ward whispers conspiratorially. The boy grins widely.
"Yes," he whispers ecstatically.
"Alright, then first we're going to have to work on your throw," Ward begins, scooping up a rock from the ground.
He's so pathetic, teaching an eight year old the basics of armed combat. So desperate for this kid to like him, a dog that's been hit coming back for more.
"You're a lot like my brother," says the boy as they walk back inside and Ward is doomed. Dawn is beginning to peak over the horizon. "Will you stay here a while?"
"No," Ward forces himself to say, "I have somewhere else to go." The boy nods, sadly accepting the fact. Ward speaks again almost without meaning it. "But I have something to give you."
From his bag he pulls a flash drive and presses it into the boy's hand.
"You know how to use this?" Ward asks and the boy nods. "Only plug this into a computer if you want it to break, okay? A kid like you has to learn to fight with the stuff he can until you're a little bigger."
Jamie nods, excited and serious, holding the flash drive like it might explode.
Ward goes back into his room and shuts the door, heart beating faster than he'd like. He needs to leave. However much he'd like to lie to himself even more and try to stay and help these people, it would just be more of the same deception. This isn't a place to confront the things he's done, to find a new mission; it's a place to hide.
He goes into the bathroom attached to his room and gingerly peels off his sweater. Despite the pleasantly decorated room he looks like a horror movie, all scars and bandages and dead eyes. Shaking off the feeling, he begins to patch himself up again and get ready to move on.
By 7 A.M. he's downstairs, packed, and eager to leave. Candice insists on making coffee, as she is supposed to provide a continental breakfast.
"Really, please, it's no trouble at all to make a full breakfast. I'm making one for Jamie and myself anyways," she says as she sets the coffee down. "We've got no one else in the hotel, in fact, you're welcome to stay… well you're welcome to stay a while. I've actually got a few chores I wouldn't mind a hand with…"
"Sorry, you've been very kind, but I should be on the first bus," he says gruffly, trying to stop himself from charming her further, trying to show her without scaring her the type of man he really is.
"At least let me drive you to the bus station," she says firmly and he knows better than to protest.
Abruptly the phone rings and she hurries to answer it. He can hear her muffled voice from the next room, and while he doesn't listen to the words, he can hear her tone getting increasingly hysterical. When she returns, her face is white and she leans against the counter. There is a long silence between them.
"Perhaps I could just walk to the bus station, the weather looks fine-" he begins uncomfortably.
"They're transferring my son to maximum security. He's done nothing and they're moving him away," she says blankly. He can hear the unspoken horror: that she could either trail after him and give up her whole life here to be the mother she thinks she ought to be, or abandon her son to his fate. After all, she has another son to think about, to care for, and to worry over.
Oh, to be such a fortunate son.
.
Memories do not exist in the past. They happen in a flash, less than a second, and the mind can recall vividly the details of an event. Of course, the reconstruction process is quick, dirty, and inevitably prone to error. And occasionally, it is involuntary.
The ringing wakes him up, but Christian is the first to scramble to the phone. It is their father and he explains in a calm, tired voice that Thomas had somehow gotten hold of antifreeze, but that he would be all right and they would come home soon. Kids often mistake the bright and appealing bottles for sweets, he assures them, and it was all just a terrible accident.
"We're so lucky your mother saw the signs so soon. She saved his life."
Christian sets the phone down and looks reverently at him. He glares back. Christian has always hated Thomas, but never before had he gone this far. He can just imagine his older brother, smiling and coaxing the child to take a sip. But it wouldn't be like Christian to let himself be caught in the act. No doubt he'd simply left the bottle uncapped, right where he suspected Thomas might reach for it.
"I can't believe it," Christian whispers, as though in awe, "I didn't think you had it in you."
He doesn't understand why his brother is beaming at him. It's like he sees him for the first time.
"You actually tried to get rid of him? On your own?" Christian asks. He recoils.
"What? No. That's what you do. I love Thomas, and now you're trying to pin it on me," he says, shrinking back defensively.
"Sure Grant, act as high and mighty as you want, but don't try to deny that you haven't helped me every step of the way in giving dear brother what he deserves," Christian snarls.
He leaps up from the couch and stalks off to his room. He lies on his back, heading spinning. He imagines himself pouring antifreeze into his little brothers mouth, and then suddenly he isn't sure if its memory or fantasy. He grinds his fists into his eyes to dispel the image and repeats his mantra, voice desperate and ragged.
"Christian always lies. Christian always lies."
.
He buys a ticket for the first bus, which is still hours away. Candice had insisted he accept a sandwich for his wait. She still believes he's homeless. He supposes she is technically correct. He eats the sandwich.
Strangely his mind drifts again to Agent 33, alone in their hideout. Her strange scar is both revolting and the only part of her face that he can focus on. It's the only part where he can see past the disturbing replica and into the real person beneath.
"Lee!" A voice calls and he is startled from the contemplation. For a moment he doesn't recognize his fake name. His bus is arriving in less than fifteen minutes, but for some reason Candice has pulled up next to the station again. She leaves the car running and hurries towards him, her face drawn and panicked.
"It's Jamie," she says, "they're accusing him of sabotaging a federal prison. It's ridiculous, he's eight years old and he probably had no idea what he was doing. I guess he found this flash drive that took down their whole system for an hour when we were visiting. I'm worried he stole it from you, it's such an awful misunderstanding and I don't want to drag you into this, but… if you could just explain to them what happened…"
She trails off desperately.
What does the good man do here? What does the man who makes amends do here? What does Agent Grant Ward do? And what is the point of it?
It's as good a place to start as any.
"Let me talk to them," he says, "I'll make sure they let him go."
When they get back to the house there are three cop cars parked in the yard. Alarm bells are blaring in his head telling him to run, telling him that he's an idiot for even trying this. But, he realizes, he's more afraid of the dreams he'll have if he runs.
Probably at least six armed officers inside, maybe a few more forensic specialists if they're really serious. All of them local badges, barely trained and skiddish.
"They're searching his room, like it's some sort of conspiracy," Candice whispers furiously.
"That guy in charge?" he asks, gesturing towards a grizzled older man talking to the same irritable guard they'd run into the night before.
Ward gets out of the car and strides quickly up to the detective, grimly resigned to the gamble. Candice follows him nervously, jogging a little to keep up.
"You holding that kid for this?" he says bluntly when the detective turns towards him.
"I'm sorry sir, this is an active investigation and I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave the premises," the older man says in a bored tone.
"Hold on a second, this is the asshole from last night," the guard says indignantly.
"Sir, I have information regarding this investigation. Urgent information," Ward says, ignoring the guard. The detective considers him again and then rubs his nose thoughtfully.
"Let's hear it then," he says, guarded and untrusting.
"I'm a guest at this hotel, but I work in security. I specialize in running simulations of particular kinds of electronic attacks for several major companies. The kid probably took it out of my luggage before I left and I doubt he knew anything of its affects," Ward says, carefully setting his body to seem open and honest. The detective seems to buy it.
"Let's talk inside," he says, and waves away the guard. Ward follows him into the kitchen where they're interviewing Jamie. Three uniforms. The rest must be upstairs.
"What's he telling you?" The detective asks.
"He refuses to talk," says another cop, a young woman.
"Jamie," the detective says, squatting in front of the boy, "did you take the flash drive from this man?"
"No," Jamie says stubbornly. Ward curses under his breath.
"Did you know what it did?" The detective asks firmly.
"It hurts computers," Jamie says firmly. Candice sighs miserably. The detective looks back at Ward and he sees suspicion beginning to take seed in his face.
"Jamie, it's okay to tell them," Ward urges, "you don't have to feel guilty for stealing it."
"I just wanted my brother to get out!" Jamie shouts.
"Alright, let's bring 'em both in," the detective mutters, "Something's not right here."
Two cops move in towards him. He lets out a long sigh.
"I wish you hadn't said that," Ward murmurs. The room goes very quiet.
Both cops reach for their weapons, but before they can even get them from their holsters he's slammed both of their heads down into the table. Two limp bodies at his feet. Candice screams.
The detective dives for his radio, and Ward can hear more feet pounding down the stairs. A few solid blows to the kidneys and the detective goes down. Ward moves to behind the doorframe and when the next cop bursts Ward swipes his legs out from under him. It's so natural. Old rhythms.
Then one of the bigger men from upstairs gets lucky and catches him on the injured side and he's down, barely able to see through the pain.
.
He watches Thomas breathing that night, reassured to see each breath. He looks pale and small in his bed while Christian seems to grow bigger every day. Trying not to wake him, he reaches out and takes his little brother's hand.
"What are you doing in here?" a voice hisses from behind him. His mother stands silhouetted in the doorways. "Get away from him!"
"I'm sorry," he whispers, scrambling backwards. "I just wanted to see if he was okay, I didn't-"
"He doesn't need you to protect him. He has me for that," his mother spits at him, moving in between Thomas and him. "I saved him. He wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for me. I always have to protect him from you and your brother."
"I didn't hurt him," he insists, louder.
"You and your brother, you're just the same," she says, voice ragged as she smoothes Thomas' hair back from his face.
He feels like he's been punched.
Back in his room alone, he cannot sleep. Maybe he did poison his brother. Or maybe he had just wanted to. If not Christian, it had to have been him.
The room feels hot, unbearably hot, so he slips out of bed again. He pads into the kitchen, hoping for a glass of water, but then he hears a cabinet door creak open. He peeks around the corner. His mother is in the kitchen now, fumbling in the china cabinet. She reaches back behind the antique percolator and pulls out a bottle of antifreeze.
She stuffs it under her shirt and then goes back to bed.
He sits there in the dark hallways. This is the last time he can remember crying.
If there's one thing about memory it's this: it can never be trusted.
.
He forces himself to his feet. It's unpleasant to say the least, but he manages to stand long enough to seize the head detective around the neck and press one of the guns scattered across the floor to the man's head. The two remaining cops freeze and for a moment the whole room is silent.
"My name is Grant Ward," he announces slowly and clearly, "You may have heard of me. I was a Hydra mole. I escaped custody and murdered my family. And I am the one who sabotaged your precious prison, just because I could. I'm not letting some kid take the credit."
The cops nod slowly. Jamie and Candice are huddled together in the corner behind him.
"Now if you're familiar with my work you know that I will blow this man's brains out and destroy everyone in this room unless you give me what I want," he snarls, pressing the gun harder into the man's temple. "And what I want is for you to throw your weapons on the ground, leave, go back to your station, and tell your superiors that Hydra will not be contained and we will come for every last man you've locked up."
"Do it, for gods sake," the detective wheezes. The cops lay down their weapons and leave, hands over their heads.
"What will you do to me?" gasps the desperate detective.
"Give me your keys," Ward says and the man fishes them out of the pocket of his coat.
With a quick, decisive motion, he gives the man a sharp blow with the bottom of the gun and he falls to the ground, out cold.
"Well," he begins, turning to the boy and his mother, "they should drop the charges now."
When he turns to them, they shrink back against the wall. The mother clutches her child, terror etched into her face. He has expected this. The boy's face, however, is unreadable.
"Look, I have to leave soon, but I'd like you to have this," he says, digging the night vision goggles out of his bag and offering them to the boy. The boy looks down at the gift. He reaches out a hand and smashes them into the ground.
"I hate you," the kid says with total conviction. His mother grips him tighter, as if she's bracing for a blow.
He stares down at the ruin of the expensive goggles, at the unconscious cops, at all of the risk and the expense of helping these people. Then his mouth tightens and he limps out of the room. He slides into the cop car hoping he can ditch it before they put an alert out.
The car starts and he immediately slams on the gas. In the rearview mirror he watches the boy standing at the door, staring at him with a face full of loathing.
Out of the corner of his eye he sees a dark shape.
With a resounding thump, he hits something and a shift in the tires tells him he's run right over it. He keeps speeding forward, but behind him he's sees a dark lump lying in the driveway. The boy runs towards it, mouth open in a wordless, soundless scream.
He goes a town over and then pulls onto a dirt road to hide the car. Pulling branches down to cover the car, he brushes past the front and sees the blood on the front bumper.
Gently he reaches down and touches the spot where he'd hit the dog. The blood is drying, beginning to congeal, but it still sticks to his hand.
A sound tears its way out of his throat and it takes him a moment to realize it's a sob. For a moment he is simply stunned by the reaction, and then his body spasms. He sinks to his knees beside the front tire and sobs. The way he hadn't when Garrett was shot, or when he was shot for that matter. The wound in his side throbs with every gasping sob that rips its way out of his chest. He curls inward, pressing his teeth together, but unable to stop crying. And for what? A stupid dog that should have known better than to chase cars.
It's nearly five minutes before he can stop. He feels exhausted and shaky, hands trembling and lungs burning. He's in the middle of the woods, hunted, damaged, and vulnerable. For the first time in years he's completely alone, without back up or mission or cause. Just Grant Ward, alone.
And he doesn't like what he sees.
He pulls his cell phone from his pocket and dials Agent 33. She picks up on the first ring and for some unknowable reason it's a relief to hear her voice.
This is it, he thinks, this is how we evolve. And just like that, he's not the same.