One: Sworn In

Veritatem Cognoscere

(To Know the Truth)

com·mit
/kəˈmit/
verb

1. carry out or perpetrate (a mistake, crime, or immoral act).
"he committed an uncharacteristic error"

2. pledge or bind (a person or an organization) to a certain course or policy.
"they were reluctant to commit themselves to an opinion"

What if this storm ends and I don't see you?

As you are now, ever again?

– Snow Patrol: Lightning Strike

SHIELD

LOCATION: CLASSIFIED

PRESENT DAY – 6:35 a.m. EST

Glaring a spotlight on the center of the table, the lamp failed to illuminate the darkened edges of the room. With an audible click, the recorder snapped on. Bland voice dismissing the silence, the words echoed faintly after being spoken.

"Recount the mission."

...oOo...

Rain and sweat left condensation on his skin, palms clammy, and heart jumping with nerves.

The pitch black sky pressed ominously above the streets, impotent lightning flickering faintly in the cloud bellies. Persistent drizzling had plagued the day, leaving it dreary and depressing, a fact that hadn't changed as night slipped in. Wan light from the street lamps reflected a dull glow onto the road, the main source of light in the area, but the uncovered fluorescent bulb of the telephone booth on the street corner offered strong competition. The slums of Boston were empty of traffic at that time of night. Weary buildings sagged and leaned against each other, once stately to look upon, but now left to slowly decay. The buzz of insects could be heard clearly over the whisper of rain, tapping longingly against the glass, unaware of the danger closing in beyond their small lives. Threatening from the shadows, raising the hair on the back of one's neck, its presence was tangible, disturbing the quiet, and attracting its servants of darkness and ill-intent to that location.

Bolting from the shadow of the alley where the car was parked, he sprinted for the telephone booth. Digits for the phone number raced through his head, and a single mantra repeated under his breath. "Make the call and finish them. Make the call and finish them." Wind from his speed and the thunderously loud sound of his footfalls drowned all other noise to his ear, leaving him vulnerable to the shadow that raced to intercept him.

Slamming him into the glass of the booth, knocking the breath from his lungs, a solid body pinned him down. "What do you think you're doing, kid?" a voice breathed in his ear, pressing his face harder into the booth. "Thought you were going to rat us out, give away our location?"

Gah, a talker. He hated talkers.

Planting his feet firmly, acting on instinct, the words didn't register, his mind too caught up in the moment to fully consider the small degree of training he'd received. Shoving back for all he was worth, thigh muscles springing him up like a jack-in-the-box, he jerked an elbow around in the process to hit his opponent's ribs.

Hissing as it struck his solar plexus, the other man stumbled back as he bent over double.

Free to move a little, he went for the opening, trying to follow it up with a right hook and roundhouse kick, but the man recovered too swiftly and blocked it with a tidy defensive swipe.

Stepping in with a cold expression, dodging a weak blow, he delivered a rapid two-strike to the younger man's gut.

Inhaling sharply, he glared at his opponent. Okay, not a talker. But this guy was good, much better than his few months of training could offer, but he tested another sideswipe, waiting for his opportunity.

Parrying the blow, his opponent's next swing was a vicious hook to the face.

Vision blanking out, already feeling the beginnings of a black eye, he was helpless to react.

Wet glass meeting his back, his head gave a solid THUNK! as a fist connected with his jaw. Dimly, he noticed two other men in the background.

Materializing out of the shadows, approaching at their leisure, they let their friend deal with him. All wore the same tactical gear, but one had an earpiece, which meant they were in direct contact with a supervisor. It ensured that however he got out of this, he'd have to eliminate them, and quickly, before backup joined in.

Following his gaze, his opponent smirked smugly. "Now's a good time to surrender if you want to get off easy."

Occasional talker then.

Acting impulsively, he used the momentary distraction to his advantage. In this situation, gross motor skills were a finer weapon than the finesse combinations of before. Lightning stalled with a strobe light pulse, illuminating his one punch, two punch, three roundhouse kick into the heavier man's gut.

Rocking with the blow, growling an unintelligible curse, the agent fixed his vision unwavering on the kid's face, his eyes darkening with bloodlust. Powering forward with a low thrown punch, swinging blindly, he left himself open for the next attack.

Driving a knee into the broader man's stomach, he shoved forward with his entire body. For a moment, the combined weight of their bodies hung, caught, before gravity acted and their unbalanced weight wavered, teetering...

tipping... slowly...

oooovvveeerrr...

Toppling over with a splash, his knee remained planted in his opponent's gut, giving him the advantage.

"You little shi–!" the man grappled ineffectively at the wiry frame of the smaller man.

Pinning his throat with an arm, a gunshot sent him crouching lower.

Cocking the gun, no longer distant observers, the first figure skirted in and out of shadows. Not too far behind, the second had a hand raised to his earpiece, no doubt communicating with their source and greatly raising the stakes against him.

Then let's finish, he thought grimly.

Eying them warily, he reached back slowly, hand groping around the other man's waist until he found the concealed gun.

Realizing the other's motive, the larger man thrashed violently, bucking upwards to throw off the arm on his throat, but a swift punch to the temple left him stunned.

Settling his forearm more firmly against the other's windpipe, hard enough to cut off all oxygen, body braced in case of another attempt to over throw, he snagged the weapon's handle. Confidence surging, tasting the possibility of a victory, he sighted the other two.

This better work.

Jabbing the barrel into the man's gut below him, he fired a test shot. Not flinching at the man's cry, he whipped the pistol up and shot twice in quick succession.

One black shadow dropped a hand to clutch his stomach, the second scuttled back for the nearest black wall. Raising the gun to cover his injured colleague, he –

Firing again, keen to maintain the offensive, the youngster's second round of bullets dropped the second figure, useless gun clattering loudly against the asphalt.

Thunder crescendoing, he held steady, breath slow, even. Focusing on the final assailant standing, the gun swung easily into position, dropping the man while still calculating the distance in his head. Bringing his hand down, he placed the last bullet in the brain of the guy beneath him and dropped the gun.

Rain pattered bleakly. Lightning flickered anxiously. Staggering to his feet, adrenaline rushed through his veins, trembling within his limbs. Survive. Survive. Survive.

Make the call.

Finish them.

Once and for all.

Leaving the bodies behind him, he limped into the telephone booth, sodden in dirt, sweat, and rain, lungs heaving for air, but more resolved than before to make the call. Phone held to his ear, shaking fingers nearly forfitting the call, he counted the rings with bated breath till the operator finished reciting her lines.

Swallowing to keep his voice even, he stated clearly, "Yes, I'm calling to..."

…

…

…

Abandoning the scene, he moved steadily away from the city.

BOSTON

UNKNOWN LOCATION

UNKNOWN TIME

Within an hour of his call, two sleek, black cars rolled up.

The thunderheads appear to have moved westward, completely avoiding the city and leaving him walking in a constant drizzle. Pedestrians, which were scarce before, are a little more common, traversing between the local joints available at that hour. Drunk. Careless. Ignorant of his shadow as it briefly touches their own shadow and skims by. Observant for any vehicle traffic, he senses more than sees when his tail arrives. Ducking into the first open ended alley, he waits, using carefully measured steps to pace out a comfortable distance between him and the newcomers.

Door thumping closed, the mellow voice that calls out could almost be considered friendly. Almost. If it weren't for that no nonsense you-will-obey-me undercurrent edging it.

"Kid, if you wouldn't mind stopping, we'd like to speak with you."

Damn. That's the second time he's been called 'kid' tonight. Hands burrowed into pockets, shoulders stooped to disguise his stature, he faces them smoothly. Eyes sizing up the two latest black figures to accost him, his words are surprisingly calm compared to the thrumming, quickening pulse throbbing in his neck. "What about?" It could be them. It could be someone else. There wasn't room for risks though.

Flashing a badge, the question, "You made the call?" follows immediately afterwards.

Sagging against the wet masonry of the nearest building, panic subsiding, he resigns, complying with the men's orders. Hands up. Endure a pat down for weapons (good thing he left the gun at the sight). Let them escort him to the street. Climb into the nondescript black car. Listen to a puddle slosh as the car pulls away from the curb.

The leather seat sticks uncomfortably to his wet clothes, creaking with every weight shift. Encased by the dark intestines of the car, he can't even make out the cityscape beyond the tinted window. But he did it. If only they'll believe him.

"How soon will we be there?"

Guarded eyes flicker to meet his in the mirror. "Soon enough."

"Where are we going?"

"Headquarters."

INQUIRY ROOM

UNKNOWN LOCATION

UNKNOWN TIME

He'd become well acquainted with the room by the time someone returned. There was a musty smell of old mops and rodent dung. Formless rust stains curved with the slope of the concrete floor, not nearly as broad or large as the cracks across the ceiling. Bland cement bricks with chipped white paint revealing gray underneath, proof that the room really was an unused storage closet in the basement, stacked twenty high, and sixty across, offered no more visual interest than anything else. Hastily set up in the middle of the room, it was clear that the cheap folding table and chairs were last minute additions.

It'd felt like hours since he'd entered "headquarters", the walk through the garage a blip in his memory compared to the hours he'd spent being interrogated by every kind of agent. Little gratitude could be spared for the fact that someone had actually provided food and water at point during the ceaseless shuffle of questions, only because it'd been so much further away compared to how long he'd been waiting.

Slouched in the chair, he glared warily as the door swung wide, admitting a man dressed in business casual and sporting an agreeable smile that said 'I want you to believe I'm your friend.' Not trusting him, he ignored him as the other man took a seat. He'd dealt with enough agents already and was far beyond tired of this dance.

Noting the open hostility with which he'd been greeted, the smile was swiftly replaced by a grim expression, and he studied the boy a moment before speaking up.

"What's your name son?"

Flickering a glance up at the agent, he muttered, "Grant Ward."

"Well Grant Ward, you can call me John." Sitting across from him, shadows played across his face and concealed all recognizable characteristics. The only notable features were the well-muscled frame, broad shouldered and tall, with a deceptively friendly tone. "Now you have two options. One, you agree to accept a mission from us, the details of which will not be disclosed until you've given your answer. Or two, if you decide not to accept the mission, you are put on trial and incarcerated in federal prison for the rest of your life." Folding his arms over his chest and tipping onto the back legs of the chair in an 'I'm waiting' gesture, the grim lines on the agent's stern face didn't slacken.

Frowning petulantly, frustration bubbling up at the fact that he had put his life on the line to bring this intel to them, he moodily looked away, refusing to answer. 'I don't have to play this game. I offered my cooperation, if they want to believe me, they should act like it.'

Not at all impressed with the affronted child act, the agent counted almost to a minute, letting the young adult stew in his temper tantrum before adding, "In ten seconds we decide your fate for you." An unkind smirk flitted briefly across his face, daring the punk to see what they had in store for him, but it wasn't like they hadn't given him a cha...

He'd hardly finished thinking the thought before Ward snapped out, "Fine, I'll take option one!" Crossing his arms huffily, he glared murderously at the older man, hating the smug bastard for failing to mention the last condition of a time limit.

Teeth flashing in what must have been an attempt at a welcoming smile, the effect totally lost on Ward, he pulled out a mission file, assorted loose papers, and identification card from under his coat. "Congratulations Mr..."

/\\/\\

A/N: Just going to keep this note quick. Thanks to all the other Skyeward shippers out there who kept me inspired with your stories! While I'm several seasons behind on AoS, I'm finally contributing to the fandom again! (Thank goodness this is a non-canon compliant AU, because otherwise I'd be toast trying to bring this up to speed! And Skye will always be Skye to me, never Daisy...)

Anyways, the first few chapters will be posted regularly, after that it just depends on how well I am able to stay ahead ;D

Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next time! Until then ^^

Ward: *makes the call* "Yes I'm calling because no one has reviewed! How do I get them to review?!"

Operator: "Sir, that's not what this line is for..." *click*

Ward: NOOOO! But I need reviews to finish the mission! *fades away into the distance*

...oOo...

Reviews are greatly appreciated, thank you!