Jemma stands at the railing of the mezzanine looking down over the concourse of Paddington Station. If she turns slightly, she can see into the the more intimate seating area of the Lawn where the exchange will soon be made. The information dealer, Vanchat, is already sitting at one of the small tables there, reading a newspaper while he waits.
She presses her finger into her ear, trying to adjust her comms device. There's been enough static on the line to be detrimental to the mission. The techs back at HQ are working on it but it still has her very worried. So far however, she's been able to clear most of it up with a bit of hands-on fiddling.
Jemma can hear some of the other agents chattering on the line. Mostly, Daisy Johnson and her sometime partner, Antoine "Trip" Triplett. Both of them are S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, allowed onto the mission by S.T.R.I.K.E. Director Anne Weaver as a courtesy. It's their intel that'd informed them Vanchat had somehow obtained and offered sale of classified S.T.R.I.K.E. intel.
The highest bidder is apparently none other than Hydra's new leader Grant Ward.
Over a year ago now, she'd thought of Ward as a friend, even trusted him to have her back on missions. He'd been the S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison to Britain's own counter intelligence agency, S.T.R.I.K.E. She and Ward had supported each other and even undertaken countless missions together in protection of their respective countries. That was until he was revealed to be an undercover agent for the international terror organization known as Hydra. Evidently, he'd been actively recruiting double agents in both S.H.I.E.L.D. and S.T.R.I.K.E. for years. The sordid affair had forced a major review of every single agent over the last year and caused a major upheaval and house cleaning within the agency.
Ward had escaped S.T.R.I.K.E. despite Jemma's direct involvement in trying to prevent that from happening. Upon his return to Hydra, he'd killed the former leader Daniel Whitehall and taken his place. Jemma finds herself unable to feel too sorry for that turn of events considering the state of some of the agents who'd been returned from Whitehall's vicious and depraved clutches.
Still, if she ever sees Grant Ward again—she'll kill him.
"Where is Bakshi?" she whispers, counting on the comm to pick up her hushed tone despite the mild static.
"No sighting," the team leader out on the street confirms in her ear, though the static seems to be getting worse.
Sunil Bakshi had been Whitehall's right-hand man but quickly shifted his loyalties to Ward after the coup.
Three years ago, Jemma had managed to turn Bakshi, getting him to give Hydra intel over to S.T.R.I.K.E. She'd used artifice at first and later, blackmail, by using evidence that could prove to Whitehall he'd been betraying him. Fortunately for Bakshi, Ward never learned of his secret status as a turncoat. She hopes to use her blackmail material to force Bakshi's hand once again, forcing him to give up the information Vanchat had stolen. She also intends to capture Vanchat and discover his information source.
That's when she sees him—not Bakshi—but Grant Ward.
He's strolling through the concourse as easy as you please before he heads over to meet Vanchat at his table. His hair is shorter and his beard longer but he's unmistakeable. He wears an old army duffel coat and ratty jeans. If it's meant to be a disguise, it's a terrible one.
"It's Ward, not Bakshi. I repeat, Ward is here," she says into her comm but all she hears in response is heavy static which is exactly what'd been happening off and on for an hour. "Damnit."
She heads down the escalator, surreptitiously unsnapping the strap on the holster under her jacket. She looks around for Ward's guards, members of her S.T.R.I.K.E. team or even Daisy and Trip. She sees no one out of the ordinary and that in itself feels wrong. Why would Ward come without guards?
Stepping off the escalator, she rounds toward the Lawn. She can hear the sharp clatter of people eating as knives and forks scrape across plates, the low idle of their chit chat and the occasional child crying out or item being loudly dropped.
She closes the distance, hoping her team will spring to action.
"Ward is here," she repeats in a whisper but, still, she only hears static. Jemma just hopes they can hear her even if she can't hear them.
Ward is sitting with his back to her and she finds this strange. He knows better than to leave himself open to attack or ambush. To her surprise, he turns, smiling broadly.
"Agent Simmons!" he says, holding out a hand as if she might shake it. In fact, her hands are trembling with contempt and disgust.
"Ward, I'm bringing you in," she says simply, but she can hear the hatred in her own tone.
He begins to laugh then. It's full-throated and rich—to her ear, it nearly sounds real.
"Oh, Agent Simmons. I don't think I feel like going anywhere with you," he says in a mockingly juvenile tone.
"I don't—" But she halts her response when Ward lifts his hand to reveal a dead man's switch, his thumb resting against it lightly. He pulls aside his coat and reveals a terrifying amount of C-4 strapped to his torso. She looks over at all the families and chatting people, completely oblivious to the possible doom in their midst.
"So, Agent Simmons, I suppose the choice is ultimately yours," he says, the smile creeping back across his face. "Do we all go boom, or do I walk out of here with what I came for?"
"My team—"
"Is dead," he finishes. "My men have taken them out by now. I could have them take you out too but I just feel like that's a bit unsportsmanlike, don't you?"
"You're insane," she says, unable to stop herself.
His lips draw down into a sneer for a fraction of a second before his smile returns. He seems to contemplate for a moment, nodding slightly. "Could be, agent. Then again, did an insane man just beat you at your own game?"
"Apparently so," she answers frostily.
His smile grows impossibly wider. "Well, I have to be going now," he says casually, looking back to Vanchat.
She watches as Vanchat slides something small across the table over to Ward's hand—possibly a memory stick.
He stands, as does Vanchat but Ward lingers, waiting as the other man passes her. She grits her teeth when the bastard gives her a gleeful smirk.
Then Ward makes his way toward her, stopping just beside her and, without looking, he quietly whispers, "It was your fault you know. If only you'd listened to me. It didn't have to go down that way." He shakes his head sadly, then keeps going, passing by her as he heads to the concourse.
She spins around, staring after him helplessly, her fingers tightening on the non-existant gun she wants in her hand just now.
Ward gives her a jaunty salute with thumb and forefinger splayed as he passes through the large glass doors and back out onto the street.
Pressing her finger into her ear she harshly whispers, "Come in! HQ? Daisy? Trip? Team leader? Tac Team Six? Goddamnit!"
The static goes on for a moment longer before she finally hears Weaver's voice, "I'm sorry, agent. Tac Team Six has been eliminated. Agents Johnson and Triplett aren't responding but their vitals appear strong. They're still in their observation position."
Jemma sprints for the escalator, headed for the spot above the platform where Daisy and Trip were keeping watch in case Ward tried to escape by train. She finds them both unconscious, checking them over she finds strong pulses and normal pupillary responses. Other than being unconscious, they seem otherwise completely unharmed. She reports back to HQ but then stays with them until the medics arrive. As the two are taken out to a waiting S.T.R.I.K.E. van, she heads down to street level, climbing into an idling SUV.
Back at HQ, swiftly bypassing the spluttering secretary sitting at his desk in the anteroom, Jemma barges through the double doors of Weaver's office only to find S.H.I.E.L.D. Director Melinda May there with her. She sits across the desk from Weaver, who stands instantly as Jemma enters.
Weaver's secretary follows Jemma in, stammering incoherently. "I–I tried Dir—"
"That's fine, Agent Hunter," Weaver says, holding up a hand.
"Yes, ma'am," he says and turns, going out and closing the door behind him.
Angry, Jemma ignores May and addresses herself to Weaver. "I'm just supposed to believe that Ward happened to know S.T.R.I.K.E. would be there? That he just happened to know where our agents were and that Daisy and Trip would be there as well?"
Weaver crosses her arms over her chest, her expression inscrutable.
"No," May says, turning and answering for Weaver. "You'd be very foolish if you did. We think there might be another bad seed within S.H.I.E.L.D. We tried to keep Daisy and Trip's involvement under wraps but we're worried there's a leak."
"He knew—"
"Yes, he knows exactly how we do things. Once he knew about the mission, it wouldn't have been difficult for him to determine our strategies," Weaver reasons.
Jemma nods. "What's the plan now? Do we know what he took?"
"We have a good idea," Weaver says. "At the time, it was decided that the risk of losing the information was low and it would be best-used as bait to capture Ward."
"Well, that plan certainly backfired," Jemma says unapologetically sarcastically.
"We'll need to move the asset," Weaver says flatly, ignoring her sarcasm, her gaze piercing into Jemma cruelly. "I've chosen a safe house that I think will be acceptable." She hesitates, meeting Jemma's eyes. "I'd like you to take care of the operation."
"What?!" Jemma cries in disbelief. "No!" She stops, takes a breath, and then looks at Weaver again, gritting out, "That's not...appropriate."
"There's no one better suited," Weaver says, taking her seat again and shuffling some files across her desk. Jemma recognizes her curt manner as the one Weaver uses when her mind is made up. "To protect or even to help with—" she pauses, pressing her lips into a hard, thin line. "—the other things."
"I can't," Jemma says, not liking the weak, breathy quality of her tone.
"I'm afraid I need someone I can trust," Weaver says, her tone business-like but the slightly imploring look on her face makes for such a contrast to the rest of her demeanor, Jemma finds it disconcerting. Without waiting for an answer, Weaver continues, "The asset is safe for now but you'll be here by nine o'clock to meet before heading to the safe house."
"'Meet," Jemma scoffs. "Right," she starts to say more but then just shakes her head. Knowing she's lost the battle, she turns abruptly and heads out of the office.
Passing by Hunter's desk, she can't miss the way he gazes after her and she sighs. "Sorry, Agent Simmons. Y'know about the…" he says to her back, but she doesn't stop.
She goes to the medical wing to check on Daisy and Trip.
When she arrives on the medical floor, she goes to the critical care unit. It'd been over a year since she's been here. She spots the pair through the circular glass window set into the door. They're laughing and chatting in side-by-side beds and neither of them looks at all like they've just been rendered unconscious.
"You two look to be feeling better than the last time I saw you," Jemma says after she pushes through the door.
They both look up, smiles still lingering on their faces.
"Hey," Daisy says cheerily, then seeming to correct herself, she clears her throat and continues in a more sober tone, "Sorry about your tac team, Simmons. I heard the news."
Jemma just nods, then tries to plaster a smile on her face. "But you're feeling well?"
They both nod. "I think we're doin' pretty well considering," Trip acknowledges. "I don't even know what happened. One minute I was watching the trains, the next I was in the van staring up at the ceiling. It was crazy."
"I'll just speak to the doctor and see what he says. I'll check on you again soon," Jemma says, they both nod and she heads back out to find him.
She catches Dr. Streiten in his office. "Excuse me, doctor," she says, tapping on his open door.
"Oh, yes, Agent Simmons," he says. "Can I help you?"
"Yes, I was just checking up on Daisy and Trip. What happened to them exactly?"
"Well," he begins, looking contemplative, "It seems it was a form of dendrotoxin."
Jemma gasps at the implication. "But how?" She doesn't understand how Hydra could have access to that tech.
Streiten doesn't quite understand her meaning and shrugs. "I have no idea. Whatever method of assimilation was used, it's untraceable. It might've been injected or even inhaled for all I know. I just found the remnants of it in their systems."
"How long will you keep them?"
"Overnight," he says with another shrug. "Just for observation. They're perfectly fine."
"Thank you, doctor."
She chats with Trip and Daisy on auto-pilot for a few minutes before she heads home, far more exhausted by the confrontation with Ward than any physical exertion. Seeing Ward had really made her feel quite foul. He's like some sort of disease, popping up when and where she least expects him.
Trying to ignore her worry about tomorrow, she instead focuses on what'd gone wrong on this mission.
Ward could've been given the heads up about their sting operation by a S.H.I.E.L.D. informer or possibly even by a latent operative still ensconced within S.T.R.I.K.E. It's a disturbing thought but there's not much she can do without evidence. May seems to think her agency is responsible and Jemma has no reason to doubt her for now. It's a working theory.
The more disturbing idea for her at the moment is that Ward has somehow gotten a hold of S.T.R.I.K.E.'s dendrotoxin formula. Perhaps even their delivery device.
Jemma had begun her career as a scientist but within only months of her arrival at S.T.R.I.K.E. Academy, she'd been handpicked by Weaver to become one of the new breed of specialist she'd been championing at the time—the intelligent intelligence agent.
Weaver had been looking for brilliant recruits who also possessed the capacity to be trained as specialists. She wanted recruits who were more knowledgeable, flexible, creative and had the ability to actively solve problems on the the fly. Weaver use them to create a new breed of deadly, independent operative able to think on their feet and take matters of great importance into their own hands when necessary. The program had been a great success, elevating Weaver to the position of director and increasing the positive outcomes of their operations with far less collateral damage.
Along with six others, Jemma became one of the new elite. They were used for deep covers, high-risk missions, kill orders and matters of national security. Their team had certainly always had their uses. Jemma is the only one remaining of the original seven from the program, codenamed Paragon. The other six had all been killed in action.
Dendrotoxin had been Jemma's creation back when she'd been nothing more than a green student-scientist hoping one day to become a field agent and never even dreaming of being a highly-trained specialist.
A fellow student, Leo Fitz had been the one who created the delivery mechanism. She'd found him to be the cleverest and, by far, the most interesting person in the school but they'd only barely begun working together before she'd been recruited to Paragon.
Fitz was so brilliant in fact that—within two years of them graduating their respective programs—he was made head of S.T.R.I.K.E.'s Science and Technology division. As head of Sci-Tech, he'd provided her with the tools of her trade—weapons, tech—machines and devices of his own design, many of which had saved her life over the years.
She'd always had a special affinity for him, though they were more likely to argue science than to have a traditional conversation. Still, from their earliest days at the Academy, she'd always admired his creativity and genius. Of all the students she'd worked with, he was ever the only one who could keep up with her.
She'd noticed early on the sweet admiration with which he looked on her and—more so than anyone else—his praise meant more to her because she had the utmost respect for his opinion. She valued it above all others.
Over the next six years, however, she'd seen his warm glow of admiration for her change slowly to the sharp glint of infatuation. His fancy revealing itself in the slow path of his eyes over her and the dazed look of adoration with which he often gazed at her.
To her dismay, two years ago, he'd stammered out a haltingly babbled request for a proper date. Jemma, never one to suppress her appetite when it came to the opposite gender, froze, stunned by his request. However, it was only because she knew her desires generally had little to do with the type of feelings that he seemed to harbor for her.
Still, she'd felt trapped by his appeal—unable to say no for fear of injuring his feelings and damaging their working relationship, but also knowing she didn't have the stability in her life to commit to a serious relationship. She'd blurted out acceptance only because, in her mind, she'd somehow hoped she might end his misery with a bit of casual sex. Which she was by no means opposed to.
It turned out to have been a terrible mistake. She'd realized it immediately as he kissed her goodnight with all the passionate feeling that she knew she didn't have for him—could never allow herself to have. There was no place for it in her life at that time and she didn't want to hurt him by letting things go any further.
As much as it had pained her, she'd politely refused all his subsequent offers to take her out until he'd finally grown sullen, even cold to her attempts to renew their friendship. He grew sarcastic and bordered on impolite at first, and yet, somehow that outcome seemed better than the alternative. Hurting him in that small way seemed far better than letting him become attached only to lose her to her work. Ending his infatuation was right, she convinced herself, because then at least he could move on and find someone he could share something real with, something that might last. She believed it was what he deserved.
Six months on from their failed date, he began to respond to her gentle prompts and playful jokes; his coldness receded and he warmed to her again. She was glad but concerned that he still hadn't moved on and found someone more suitable. She soon became aware of the reason. He was clearly still mooning after her, even though he no longer made any requests, seemingly resigned to his unrequited fate. Though she tried to ignore it and continue to hope he would resolve to end his feelings, she still caught the occasional dull glimmer of longing in the bright blue of his shy glances.
His starry-eyed romanticism was all too apparent to her, until the day it ended far too abruptly.