Now what? She thought bitterly. Why did I agree to this? What do I gain? She already knew the answers to her rhetorical question, and it's these answers that prevent her from regretting it.
She managed to push her way past other young and "gifted" students. They were laughing and staggering over the steps leading to the auditorium. You can pull through, she tried to convince herself. You've been through worse.
The large group of students poured into the auditorium, but not before shoving each other roughly. What are they doing at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy of Science and Technology? She shook her head disapprovingly as she watched the youngest one fall flat on his backside. They belong at Operations.
As she was about to walk away from the rowdiness, she heard a shout that made her turn right back around.
"Hey!" The one who fell cried out. "Just stop it. I didn't come here to be bullied by some Neanderthals."
She snickered at his insult, but to her dismay, the insult earned him another shove. The sympathetic part of her wanted to help him. The intelligent part of her knew not to.
One of the boys, who looked a few years older than his victim, stood above him. Her eyes widened in fear, knowing what older students tend to do with the younger. It was basic psychology. The aggressor felt incompetent with knowing someone years younger could be at his level of intelligence, or even farther.
She took the time to take in both their appearances. The older one was almost six feet tall, with the younger one about a half foot shorter. The older one sported large framed spectacles that was almost covered with his shoulder length green hair. His buttoned down red shirt contrasted with the bright yellow tie dangling around his neck. What truly surprised her was how muscular he was. She knew S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were muscular, but usually the muscle trained in Operations, or even Communications. I suppose it's silly not to expect such diversity, she thought. She then transferred her attention to the other student.
He was young; not much older than her. She knew she was the youngest female at the Academy, and it seems she just met the youngest male. His curly hair and checkered shirt were simple and boring. Then again, so was she.
The attacker grabbed the smaller man's identification card from him and read it out loud. "L. Fitz," he read out loud. He slapped on a pondering expression and grinned at his friends. "What do you think the "L" stands for?"
Fitz scoffed as he pulled himself up to his feet. "The bloody card has my na-" Fitz managed to say before he was interrupted.
"I'm thinking "loser,''" the attacker smirked, earning guffaws from his crowd.
"How 'bout "lame?"" one of his fans suggested.
The ringleader chuckled. "He sure does have a lame accent."
She snapped her head back to Fitz. She was surrounded by so many different dialects and various accents since her first day, so she didn't even realize Fitz had a Scottish accent. I don't know what those dim-wits are talking about, she thought with disbelief. It was much better than these American accents.
"What I like," the older student continued as he patted Fitz harshly on the back, " is "lucky to be alive."" She winced at Fitz's flinch.
"I-I don't want any trouble," Fitz stammered, looking down.
"You coming here got yourself trouble," the tormenter hissed, leaning down to meet Fitz's eyes. Fitz tried to step away, but his teaser grabbed his collar.
"You'll be nothing," he taunted, "while I go from place to place seeing the world. I'll work with the best of the best and have the hottest partner. And you?" He sneered. "You'll be lucky enough to be a level one S.H.I.E.L.D. agent." He let go of Fitz roughly, and his crew followed him to the last row of seats in the auditorium.
She still couldn't believe her eyes. A fight occurred right before an assembly meant to welcome new students. She was ready to walk away with the guilt of just standing there, but the look in his eyes pulled at her heartstrings. She knew that look; she had it in her most vulnerable moments. It was all the more reason to go to him. The look she saw in the mirror, the look that haunted her. The look of loneliness.
She took careful steps toward him and put on the most honest smile she could muster. "Hello," she said quietly, almost like a whisper. He looked up at her, surprise not hidden. She hoped English sounded much better than American.
"Hi," he muttered. He looked uncomfortable, but she decided to still press on.
"I saw what they were doing to you," she explained her interest. "He was just-"
"Intimidated by my youth and intellect?" She was shocked by his sudden response, but needlessly nodded in agreement.
"Then they should've picked on you," he replied, running a hand through his ruffled hair. He froze and turned to her, adding quickly, "Not that I wish harm upon you. You're smart, I think. Not I think. I should really stop thinking."
She giggled at his clean up. "I understood what you meant," she eased him. She looked around at the students still piling in and noticed not one took a glance at either of them. "Do you know anyone here?" she inquired as she casted her gaze back to him.
He shook his head and glimpsed at the passing faces. "You?" he asked.
"Not really," she replied, growing red in her embarrassment.
"Want a mate?" he offered with a grin. His grin disappeared when he saw her arch an eyebrow. "I mean a proper mate- not someone to mate with- a mate as in-"
She laughed again as she watched him stumble through his own words. She hadn't laughed since she arrived at the Academy, but she couldn't help but adore the nervous wreck she proudly called her new friend. She took Fitz's arm and pulled him to the third row, since the first two rows are already filled. She plopped down in a metal seat, and he graciously sat next to her.
Before she could say anything, Fitz sat up straight. "We haven't been properly introduced," he informed her as he stuck out his hand. "Leo Fitz."
She took a moment before she smiled and put her own small hand in his. "Jemma Simmons."