A/N: This is darker than I usually write, so be warned. This could have been taken down many different roads, but this is the one I'm most comfortable with writing, even if it's out of my comfort zone. But hey, if you want to grow as a writer, test your boundaries, right?

Anyway, this plunny was fun to write, and if you know where you'd go with this, adopt it, 'cause I really doubt I'll be writing more of this 'verse, mostly because I just can't write believable brainwashing at all. I've tried, and they never really worked out.

R&R!

'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'

Jemma rested her head on the hard headrest of the contraption they have her strapped in. Her hair, something she'd always loved, was now short, and hardly cut in the stylish pixie cut she'd seen Emma Watson parading around some years back. HYDRA didn't care what her hair looked like, after all. They just didn't want her to strangle herself (or someone else) with it.

How long ago the sedative had worn off, she didn't know. She also had no idea how long she'd been under. How long ago Fitz had been dropped to the ocean while she watched, helplessly restrained by her traitor of a fiance. She didn't even know if Garrett had died because of Fitz, as no one had come to see her in the gray room since she'd woken up.

Oh God, she hoped Garrett was dead, then at least it'd be partly worth it.

Her hands were strapped palms and vulnerable veins up. Earlier she'd found out she had her engagement ring back on her finger, and now she spent her time by tapping rhythms with the diamond against the steel. It wasn't much, it wasn't even a cry for help in Morse code or anything, just mindless tapping until someone, anyone, came and told her what was going to happen to her. She was fairly sure they weren't going to kill her, they already would have if they were going to, but no, instead she was alive, and while not comfortable, she wasn't exactly uncomfortable either, aside from stiff muscles of course.

She wasn't even thirsty, and while she was hungry, she didn't lack energy. She was fairly sure that the IV solution they had her hooked on had at least some nutrients and sugars in it. It wasn't a long term solution, this she knew, but for a few weeks it would be enough if they wanted to weaken her muscles by preventing her from moving. After all, she wasn't in a prime physical condition, even with Grant – no, Ward, trying to push her to get into shape, so even a few days of absolutely no moving would do her no favors.

She couldn't even move her head too much. She could lift it a few centimeters, to see her hospital gown covered body and her toes. But she couldn't turn it at all. It was like the whole contraption had been made just of her.

Sighing in boredom, she wondered how the rest of the team were doing, Skye, Coulson, agent May and Trip. Trip had some medical training at least, so the team wouldn't hopefully be dying of blood poisoning or infections any time soon, she hoped. And agent May, she'd left, hadn't she? Jemma wondered what she was doing. Skye and Coulson worried her the most, to be honest. Skye with her trust issues and Coulson with his old fashioned belief in heroes and good triumphing over evil.

But the thoughts of the team led to thoughts of something she'd been trying to avoid: Fitz.

His terrified and desperate face flashed to her mind. He'd been shouting, pleading for Ward not to do it as the medical container was being ejected from the Bus. Ward had had her hands restrained behind her back, her delicate wrists enclosed in one of his large, calloused hands that before had only ever meant safety. After she'd tried to kick him, her foot had been caught between his legs, leaving her balancing on one leg as she tried to wrench free. Right after the container was gone, she'd felt a syringe in her neck and had blacked out soon after, only to wake up in the room she now was in.

She closed her eyes, hoping the blackness of closed eyes would drive away the image of his face, but instead it became brighter. She could have counted his freckles now, or each curly hair that she saw.

What had happened to him after? Had the medical container floated, like they were supposed to? Or had sunk to the bottom of the ocean? What if Fitz had hit his head as he fell? What if he had been injured in some other way? Had he been found? Was he okay? Was he alive? She hoped he was alive, he still had so much to give and life left to live.

She remembered the first time she met him. It had been a few months after entering the Academy and intense competition of the top spot. She'd thought some with the name Leopold Fitz was older than her at least by ten years, but then agent Weaver had introduced her to this gangly, Scottish bloke who looked her age, and had called him Leo Fitz, and said that she looked forward to the cooperation of the two brightest minds the Academy had seen in a decade. Fitz had gaped at, disbelief written all over his face, and then, as soon as agent Weaver was out of hearing range, he'd made a comment about how the time she used to look good, could have been better used in the lab. And did she even know what problems beauty products could cause? She'd sniffed at him indignantly, asking when he'd last had left the lab long enough to have a shower, explaining to him in great detail about problems that bad personal hygiene could cause. The next following months, until mid February in fact, they'd barely done anything but snipe at each other in the shared lab space, but one afternoon, when Olivia Jameson had come in for an argument with Jemma, Fitz had rounded on her immediately and defended Jemma and her theories to the upperclassman. Jemma had watched in surprise as Fitz reduced the twenty-seven year old woman to tears by verbally tearing apart her theory on cellular mutation, saying that if even an engineer knew more about her field, then she should consider changing it. When Jameson marched out of the lab, her head held high even as tears streamed down her face, Jemma had looked at Fitz, who'd gone back to his work. She'd thanked him and he'd shrugged, saying that it was nothing, but after that, their fights had stopped being about each other and more about science. She had wondered if that was what it felt like to have a best friend.

And now she might never see him again. Even if by some miracle he was alive, she doubted she'd see sunlight in a long time, maybe ever, because, honestly, she didn't have agent May or even Skye's training in escaping sticky situations. And if some day she did see the outside of the room she was in, she wasn't sure she'd be herself anymore.

Her ears sharpened as she heard steps outside her door, only for them to continue on without pause, and she sighed in relief. She wasn't alone wherever she was, but she also wasn't being interrogated.

Closing her eyes, she did the only other thing she knew to pass the time.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four Privet Drive, were perfectly normal, thank you very much...

'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'

Some time during her mental reciting the book from memory, Jemma had fallen asleep, and woke when someone opened the door.

"Well hello there, you precious thing," Ward greeted her as he entered. Once upon a time Jemma would have said he was being sweet, knowing her love of the movie Labyrinth, but now... now she was fairly sure he was being mocking. But even with knowing who he really was, she couldn't be sure of what she heard in his tone, he was just that good of a liar.

"Ward," she acknowledged him, her voice cracking slightly. She had known it was a possibility he'd be the one to come through the door, but it still did things to her. She had loved him for the previous three years, and to be honest, she still loved him, but she couldn't trust him, never again would she trust him. He was HYDRA and most likely there to hurt her in some way, be it emotional, mental or physical pain.

"Oh come now, Jem, I'm pretty sure you can call me Grant," he told her as he closed the door after himself.

"And I'm pretty sure I have no wish to be on first name basis with HYDRA scum," she retorted, before flinching as much as she could, knowing that talking back would only make things worse. She darted her eyes off him and to the other side of the room to stare at the grey wall. She had no desire to see the dark hair she'd loved running her fingers through. Or the cheeks and jaw she so admired. Or the eyes she thought she knew.

His laughter, no matter how fake or mocking, had always sent shivers of pleasure down her spine, and this time was no exception. "Don't worry, sweetness, you don't have to call me anything for a while yet, I just thought you ought to know that you can call me Grant in a few months. I'm just here to give you some implants."

The word implants sent a wave of terror through Jemma's system as she recalled the eye implant in Akela Amador and her handler. The very thought of receiving orders right to her eye, and the threat of being killed if she didn't obey... She had never been good at mindlessly obeying commands, and this would be the absolute highest form of torture for her.

She had turned her terrified eyes to Ward and had tears already gathering in her eyes, and he obviously knew her well from their (fake) relationship. "Nothing as crude as Amador's eye," he waived away her concerns. He flashed her a smile. "Just something to regulate your hormone releases and a few stimulants, you know, biochemical agents."

The way he said it was mocking, the message itself was mocking. HYDRA was going to use her own field against her. She knew the power of hormones and stimulants on humans, it had never been her main field of study, but she had more than passable knowledge of the careful balance that was the human body. With the right cocktail of hormones, a human would be willing to do just about anything. If you added stimulants into the mix, be they mental stimulants or, hell, even aphrodisiacs, a human would do just about anything.

Jemma squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see Ward get ready for the operation, and so she didn't see him inject something to the IV. So she drifted off without even realizing she'd been sedated again.

*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'*'

Waking up didn't really happen gradually. It happened in the span of five seconds for Jemma, going from the blissful unconsciousness, through a momentary distortion to alert wakefulness.

Ward was no longer in the room, of this she was grateful. Instead she had a screen right in front of her, completely blank. She wondered what they were going to show her.

Nothing happened during that period of wakefulness, so she went back to reciting Harry Potter.

Next time she wakes up, it is with a painful jolt of electricity from the base of her neck. She's sure she at least squeaked, though her voice cracked during it from the lack of use. It was very disorientating, and it took her almost a whole minute to realize the screen in front of her was blue instead of black. It throws her off balance for a good quarter of an hour before she calms down enough to think again.

Ward had said implants, and then he'd alluded to controlling her hormones, which might explain her jumpiness, but it obviously wasn't all that had been done. The electric jolt had come from inside her, not from something on her skin. But then, HYDRA had bombs small enough to fit in an eye, of course they'd have something small that could release electric jolts on command. Or she hoped it was on command, she wouldn't like to suffer from sporadic electrocutions without a reason.

Finally the screen in front of her flickered to life.

It was Ward, standing in front of a non descriptive door.

"Hello, Precious," he smiled charmingly at the camera and Jemma felt an unexpected surge of arousal, which warred with nausea of having a traitor call her Precious. "It's the first day of your reeducation. Well, I say day, but this isn't a live feed, and we don't know what time you will see this, now do we? I guess I could explain some things to you. You, my Sweet, have been chosen as a Matriarch for a new HYDRA program to grow loyal soldiers. Of course, for you to be able to do that, some of your morals and inhibitions have to be grubbed. Don't worry, we're not trying to turn you into a sadistic psychopath. You see, as with all humans, the old and tried stick and carrot method works wonders, but it works especially well with children. You'll be the carrot in this scenario. While their other instructors will be harsh and demanding task masters, you will be the kind and gentle mother figure. Of course, once they're old enough, they'll be made believe they killed you and you'll get another batch of children. That won't happen for at least ten years, though.

"But let's start with introducing the children to you," Ward said, and Jemma could practically see the mask he put on in the way his shoulders relaxed and his smile went from charming to warm and caring as he opened the door. "Hello children," he told the nine children Jemma could see on the screen doing various things in the plain room. A girl of about seven was drawing something with a five-year-old boy. Three boys of eight and nine years old were hunched over what seemed like schoolwork. Two six-year-old girls were having a make-believe tea party with a couple of worn stuffed animals. And a boy and a girl, seven and eight years old respectively, were reading on the opposite sides of the room. Not one of the children looks like another, and Jemma's fairly sure they're all orphans. As one though, the children looked at Ward with hesitant smiles.

"Hello mister Grant," one of the six years old girl greeted him, prompting a few more "Hellos" from the others.

"What are you doing, mister Grant?" asked the eight-year-old girl, eyes trained on the camera behind him, and Jemma felt like the girl could see her.

"We're filming an introductory video for your new primary caretaker Jemma. Will you all come and say hi?"

"Your Jemma?" piped up the youngest boy.

"Yes," agreed Ward with certainty. "My Jemma."