A/N: So, this is something that has been in my head for some time so I thought I would give it a try. The story is set some time after what is happening on the show, a year maybe. I'm hoping to make it multi-chaptered and probably pretty long. Let me know what you think and if you're interested in reading more!
Disclaimer:I don't own any of Marvel's characters. I own my original characters and the story.
Prologue
The prisoner was secured to the sturdy metal chair tightly, and the chair was bolted to the stone floor. The rather broad table was also that bolted to the floor. Come to think about it, the only mobile objects in the room, was the light, plastic chair on which the negotiator sat, and the negotiator himself. He was S.H.I.E.L.D.s finest, brought in for this particular negotiation with one of S.H.I.E.L.D.s top risk prisoners. Thus the extra safety measures. The negotiator was not allowed to bring the briefcase he usually took with him everywhere he went, and was separated from the prisoner with the unusually broad table. He also knew that, at any given time, there was several guns pointed at the prisoner, and that the dark, padded cell would fill with gas as soon as there was any signs of trouble. The gas being the air borne dendrotoxin Agent Simmons had perfected after Centipedes crude version, of course, and the guns filled with the same. Both were at a concentration enough to knock out both persons in the room for two weeks straight. They were assigned as such to give time to move the prisoner back into the secure cell the prisoner normally inhabited down in the Casket, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.s most secret prisons, and one of the heaviest guarded. By all rights, a prisoner of level 9 should not be allowed a live negotiation, should have been forced to remain in the cell and communicate via technology. But the prisoner had requested live negotiation or nothing at all, and for it to occur at ground level. By all rights, a level 9 prisoner should not be taken up on such a request, but this prisoner was an exemption for many rules. And S.H.I.E.L.D. needed the information the prisoner had badly. Very, very badly. Badly enough, to do virtually anything to receive it, and in this case, that meant pleasing a level 9 prisoner.
She don't look the part, the negotiator thought to himself as he waited for the psychologists on the other end of his comms to give him go-ahead to start the negotiation. But he wasn't stupid, he knew very well that looks could deceive, and he also knew she was the only level 9 prisoner not to have started out that way- the only prisoner ever, in fact, who had risen to a level 9 risk through what she had done after she had been contained. The prisoner was small; she didn't look to be much over 160 centimetres. She was not particularly bulky either- although if you looked closer, you would see she consisted of nothing but sleek muscles. She was looking down at the moment, and had been ever since the negotiator entered the room. Her face was covered by her hair, which was a bit longer than shoulder-length. He figured it probably used to be curly, but now, ingrained with dirt and not washed for what seemed like (and probably was) year, it was just… a large mess. The colour was largely undistinguishable. The psychologists had told him he was to wait until she looked up before initiating any conversation, so he had the time to muse over her hair as minutes ticked by. The negotiator was far to experienced to show any nervous ticks as the minutes dragged out into an hour. There was a reason he had been picked for this job, after all. Still, he could not help but think: finally, when she eventually did look up. She looked up, the hair fell from her face and the negotiator, no matter how experienced, could not help but gulp a bit too loudly. There was screaming in his ear as the psychologists scolded him on his reaction. The prisoner was sickly pale, although that was only to be expected considering the amount of time she had spent underground. Across her face ran a large, ugly scar, starting above her right eye and ending under her left chin, buckling as it went. Above her left eye and at her hairline, she had an oddly-looking burn, where no hair grew. And these were only the most noticeable scars, if you would look closer, you would see countless more. But it was not her paleness, nor her scars, that made the negotiator flinch. It was her eyes. They were dead. They were dead, and absolutely menacing as she turned them onto him. Afterwards, he would realise that he never knew what colour her eyes were, only how it felt like to look into them, and see Death. A small, humourless smirk played at the prisoners lips when she took in his reaction. He quickly composed himself and prepared himself to start talking, but was stopped once again by the people in his ear, telling him he needed to let her go first. She stared at him for quite a while, but after the initial shock and swallow, he did not show any more signs of nervousness under her dead stare- he was after all S.H.I.E.L.D.s finest.
- So, here you are. They actually did send for Gerhard M. Reuter. You are a bit of a disappointment though, I have to say. Her voice was horse, having not been used for some time. The negotiator opened his mouth to answer but she was faster;
- No, don't speak. I'm not interested in hearing you talk. I am going to tell you what my deal is for giving you the information you so desperately crave, and you are going to agree. The negotiator opened his mouth again;
- I SAID, don't talk. I have my terms, and they are not negotiable. I know very well how badly you need the information I hold, and so you are going to agree to my terms. I said, don't talk! You are to listen. And S.H.I.E.L.D. listened. And they discussed. But she was right, they needed the information, bad. So, extremely reluctantly, they agreed to the terms of a level 9 prisoner.