"Don't come any closer, Simmons!" Ward yells across the anteroom. But his voice is raised only to be heard across the distance, his tone is perfectly modulated. It's cold as ice as he holds the gun to Fitz's head.

Poor Fitz, his eyes are wide as she's ever seen them and terrified beyond belief. "Just back off and I'm promising you that he's gonna be absolutely fine. We just need a little bit of information from him and I'll see he gets right back to you, just as he is."

"Not a chance," Jemma says, her tone harsh and her pistol already leveled at Ward. But he's using Fitz as a human shield and she can't quite bear to risk the shot at this distance.

She takes a tentative step forward but Ward raises his brows and presses his pistol hard enough to Fitz's temple to make him gasp in pain. She sees his tormented expression, the fear in his blue eyes and his shaking hands—her jaw tightens with determination.

"C'mon, Simmons," Ward tries to reason, his tone growing conciliatory as he loosens his free arm around Fitz's neck. Then he smiles the same charming smile he's had for her since the day they met three years ago and it makes Jemma want to be sick. "I'm giving you my word," Ward says with some imitation of sincerity but it only raises her anger.

"Your word isn't worth a bloody damn now, is it, Ward?" she spits ferociously. "Let him go. Now."

Ward's eyes betray him slightly then, dropping in thought as if he might be considering doing as she says. But then he begins to shake his head fiercely. His voice is small, barely loud enough to hear, as he says, "I can't, Simmons, they'll kill me."

She cocks her head to the side, knowing that Ward will take her threat seriously when she tells him, "You know you can take me at my word, don't you, Ward? I don't make promises lightly but I'll make you this one: If you hurt him in the slightest, I will kill you. Let him go right now and you might get out of this without me trying to kill you."

His mask cracking slightly, Ward's frustration bleeds through as he kicks back at the exit door behind him. Lights are flashing red all around its perimeter due to the security lock and that, along with the alarm that blares every ten seconds or so, has been giving the proceedings a more than hectic feel. Jemma ignores it, lets the background fall away, including the sound of more agents grouping behind her, readying for the standoff. Nevertheless, Jemma is in charge.

Ward meets her eyes across the thirty-odd foot distance between them. "Open the door, Simmons, or you're giving me no choice. If I come back empty-handed, I'm as good as dead."

"You're as good as dead if you don't let him go now," she shouts, but it's for effect as much as anything. She keeps her anger under tight control as she tries to aim for a spot that won't endanger Fitz.

Ward is shaking his head slowly. "Can't do it, Simmons. Just can't do that. I promise you, I'll get him back here. I don't want anything to happen to him either."

She ignores the watery look in Ward's manipulative eyes and says, "There's no way I'm letting you take him, Ward. None." She glances to Fitz's terrified face and just manages to catch a glimpse of his slack-jawed admiration for her.

"I'm not giving you another choice," Ward says, fury just under the surface of his words now. "It's him or me. That's what you're making it. That's the only choice you're leaving me even though you know I'll choose me. Now let us both go or I'll shoot him in the fucking skull." He taps the gun against the side of Fitz's head. She hears the crack and though it isn't hard enough to do any damage, Fitz flinches away sharply. The cold, hard stare Ward gives her with his challenging words is almost enough to make her shiver.

Pressing the barrel once more to a spot just over Fitz's ear, Ward gives her a meaningful look and then slowly tightens his finger on the trigger.

Jemma points her pistol to the ceiling and holds up her hands in surrender. "Fine," she says, trying to make it sound good. "You give me your word that you'll return him unharmed. Tell me when?"

Ward looks relieved as he says, "Twenty-four hours is all I need. I'll deliver him right to your doorstep tomorrow by three. I give you my word as a soldier."

She keeps her face impassive, despite the ridiculousness of his promise.

"And if he gives you nothing? You are promising not to harm him after all. How will you get the information?" she asks reasonably. She ignores Fitz's wide eyes and brows drawn in horror and incredulity.

"Don't worry, Simmons," Ward assures, his former smug air returning, "Fitz will never be able to resist QNB-T16. You know that it's the top-shelf martini of Sodium Pentothal derivatives. He'll be just fine with me. Safe as houses."

She nods and gives a signal to the guard behind the bulletproof glass of the security booth. He waves back at her, though the poor older man looks more terrified than Fitz after Ward had emptied a full clip at him attempting to get through the glass and open the door. The thick plexiglass is nearly opaque with all the cracks and lines that spiral outward from the many bullet holes in it.

The red lights cease their flashing and the door behind Ward opens. Instantly, he smiles, beginning to back through as he glances behind him to check for obstacles and threats. Ward pulls Fitz along by the neck, keeping him where he'll block Jemma's line of sight. But while Ward is distracted behind him, she rushes forward, aiming for the exposed spot just under his raised right arm that's left unprotected by his bulletproof vest.

She fires off four shots—but then hears a fifth ring out.

The next part seems to happen in slow motion.

The first thing she sees is Ward's wide, startled eyes as a spray of bright red blood hits him across the face when he starts to fall backward away from Fitz. Then there's the sight of Fitz's unfocused, heavy-lidded eyes as he begins falling to the side, hitting the ground like a dead weight.

Riding the adrenaline rush, Ward skitters away toward the exit, holding his side as Jemma continues on to where Fitz has fallen. Ward manages to get his feet under him, nearly falling, before he finally manages to push out through the heavy doors.

All Jemma can do is fire off a few more rounds at him, missing entirely, before she's falling to her knees at Fitz's side. A pool of red is slowly expanding over the white marble floor, soaking the knees of her trousers.

Her eyes rove over the damage: blood, hair, bone…brain. Her heart stops.

"NO!" Jemma screams, sitting up in bed with her arms outstretched.

As awareness comes back to her, the sheen of sweat on her skin makes her shiver in the cool air of her room. She wraps her arms around herself for comfort as much as protection from the chill. Raising her knees, she drops her head down to rest there until she can take control of her ragged breathing.

She glances at the clock and sees that it's not yet five in the morning. Knowing she'll never go back to sleep, she doesn't bother to try, instead, getting up to begin her routine jogging and calisthenics.

Once finished, she showers and dresses in a simple navy, knee-length pencil skirt and matching blazer, her shoulder holster underneath keeps her pistol tucked securely under her arm.

Still too early, she cleans her twenty-two caliber pistol and puts it in a thigh holster that easily conceals the small weapon along her leg while still keeping the slim line of her skirt. She packs a small bag for her imminent journey and waits anxiously for the clock to advance.

She isn't looking forward to this meeting with Weaver but, even more than that, she's dreading what comes after. Over the last year, she'd molded her guilt over what happened to Fitz into anger at Ward. Razor-sharp and laser-focused, she's been using it to hunt the traitor, her former friend. Yesterday's disaster of a mission was nearly the closest she's gotten which, when all is said and done, seems rather pathetic. Still, now with Ward threatening S.T.R.I.K.E. again, she wants to be in the field, hunting him down, not babysitting the asset for Weaver.

The time finally comes for her to head to HQ and she mentally steels herself for what will come next.

She strolls into the anteroom of Weaver's office, dropping her bag just inside the door.

"Hello, Agent Hunter," she says, trying to keep her tone from being overly flirtatious even though she's forced to admit to being flattered by his frequent attention.

He looks stunned to see her even though he must've been expecting her for the meeting with Weaver. She can't help but note how his gaze lingers over her legs and along the bare expanse of her neck as he drags his headset backward off his crown and runs a hand over his dark, close-cropped hair to tidy it. She's not often found to be wearing a skirt to the office unless, like today, there are only meetings. As a specialist, it's highly impractical for her to wear them at any other time but whenever she does, Hunter notices.

"Hello, there, Agent Simmons. Lovely ensemble you've chosen there," he says, infusing his tone with a syrupy suggestiveness as he grins quite charmingly. "And how're you this fine morning?"

"I'm alright, I suppose," she says, not finding it in herself to lie knowing that it will soon be required once she takes possession of the asset. Hunter looks sympathetic but she finds herself shaken by it. His look picks distractingly at the thin skin of her composure for some reason, so she quickly adds, "Is Director Weaver ready for me yet?"

He begins to shake his head slowly. "She said she'd buzz," he says. "Not down for the new mission, then?" he questions with a quirked brow.

She shrugs and, for a diversion against this conversation she'd inadvertently begun, she leans against his desk then slides her rear up onto it in a half-sit braced with one foot still on the floor. He leans back, placing his hands on the arms of his chair, seemingly admiring his new view.

"I'm not much for babysitting," she says, leaning forward conspiratorially as she smiles a bit more invitingly.

"Mm," he agrees, "I can't say I blame you, not when Ward's still out there—the bloody traitorous bastard."

Jemma smiles at his vehemence. Hunter hadn't even been with S.T.R.I.K.E. at the time. He's a recent SAS acquisition but he has a bit of an attitude problem, according to Weaver, and she'd made him her personal secretary to teach him a lesson.

"You've got quite the mouth, haven't you?" Jemma says coquettishly.

"You've no idea," he agrees, leaning forward and resting his chin in his hand.

Suddenly, an overly-loud buzzer goes off on his desk, startling both of them. She slides off the desk almost guiltily and Hunter quickly picks up his headset and slips it back on. Jemma can just barely hear Weaver's ghostly voice through the headset but not quite make out her words.

"Yes, ma'am," Hunter says into the microphone. "She's right here. I'll send 'er in."

He smiles apologetically and sweeps his hands toward the large double doors. She gives him a resigned quirk of her lips and pushes inside.

Fitz is fairly certain Weaver had just asked him something but at the sight of a breathtaking woman sweeping into the room as if she owns the place, he's rather forgotten what the question was.

"I'm sorry," Fitz asks, turning his head only slightly toward Weaver again. She's sitting on the other side of the desk, but he isn't quite able to tear his gaze away from the stunning brunette standing just inside the doorway behind him.

"Agent Leopold Fitz," Weaver says, by way of introduction, "This is Agent Jemma Simmons. She's the specialist who'll be making certain you're quite well looked after until we manage to sort this business with Hydra."

"She's…we're…wait now. What? She and I are going to…" But he can't quite remember what his thought was going to be as Agent Simmons smiles bemusedly at his stammering.

Her smile is like the sun, he decides. Glowing and warm, it somehow fills him with life and reason to draw air into his lungs.

He starts abruptly. What is the matter with him for chrissake? And where in the holy hell'd that bit of rubbish come from? Christ almighty, he must be losing what's left of his bloody marbles! He tries to shake off the odd thoughts about the (unquestionably gorgeous but completely unknown) Agent Simmons who will evidently be babysitting him and likely thinking he's some damn jessy who can't take care of himself. Bloody hell and fuck!

He clears his throat. "It's nice to meet you, er, Agent Simmons."

"We've met actually," she says, with another small smile that makes his chest swell uncomfortably. "Back at the Academy, but only briefly."

"Oh, I apologize. I didn't realize," he says, knowing he'll have to go through the entire bloody explanation about his injury once again and hating it. Now this lovely woman will look at him like some sort of brain-damaged charity case just like all the others around here. "I'm afraid I've had an injury," he starts, "and there are a number of things I'm not able to remember. The doctors say I might get a bit more back but it's been a year now and at this stage it looks to be permanent."

"I'm very sorry, Agent Fitz." She nods soberly. "Truly."

"Not to worry," he says in attempt to lighten the mood once more. "It appears I'm able to recall a good deal of the knowledge I've gained over the years, just not how I might've acquired it. All I need to access the information is something like a key. It's not always so simple but, for instance: if someone brings up atomistic attributes, suddenly they might just come to me even though I've no clue where I've learned them from." He can't help smiling back at her as her lips quirk into a grin.

"They used to do atomistic attribute drills…back at the Academy," she says and then licks her full red lips. He swallows sharply and sits up straighter in his seat.

"Oh?" he says, leaning toward her in his chair, wondering if he might be recalling something. "Were you…did we know each other well at all?" Then it occurs to him that she's a specialist, not a scientist. "I—oh, that's—but you weren't at Sci-Tech, were you? You were Ops, I s'pose." He shakes his head at his silly assumption. She'd said they met, not knew one another but somehow she seems so familiar to him. He can't help but think there's something more about her that he should remember.

"Oh, not at first," she says, "I began as a scientist before I was recruited to Ops."

"Really?" He finds this fascinating since he'd once wanted to become a field agent. Or so he recalls, that bit's still quite hazy however. "I didn't know they recruited out of Sci-Tech."

She shakes her head, glancing to the floor. "It's a special program. Not many qualify."

"Indeed," Weaver says, breaking the spell that he and Simmons are alone. He'd somehow nearly forgotten the director's presence. Simmons steps further into the office but remains standing to the side of Weaver's desk, forming a rough triangle, and forcing him to glance back and forth between them like some sort of conversational tennis match. "Agent Simmons is a highly-skilled and trustworthy asset, Agent Fitz. She'll keep you quite safe."

"I only hope it isn't too dull for you," he tells Simmons sympathetically.

She cocks her head slightly and says, "I'm quite sure that won't be an issue."

He can't help the smile that curves his lips then. However, trying to shake off his swell of irrational happiness at her answer, he goes on, "Anyway, I think, once we get through this bump in the road, safe to say that, eventually—I mean, it's quite likely at least—that I'll be able to get back to my job again despite my slightly shoddy bit of wirin'." He taps his temple in jest but Simmons doesn't respond as he'd thought she would. Her mouth draws down in a slight frown at his self-deprecating humor.

"Yes," Weaver cuts in, her tone formal, "We're all looking forward to that day, Agent Fitz." She looks to Simmons. "I've made arrangements for you two at The Resort." This name rings no bells for Fitz and so he just continues to listen as Weaver goes on. "I'm hoping we can have things sorted by the end of the week and then you and Agent Fitz can return. He's been getting regular treatments with Dr. Streiten to help improve his amnesia."

Agent Simmons looks uncomfortable as she asks, "How extensive is his memory loss? Has he been able to recall anything before the…eh, accident?" Though she'd asked Weaver, Simmons' eyes seek out his.

He glances at Weaver and when she only looks back, he says, a bit overly cheerfully, "I've got back a good bit of my childhood. Though nothin' much beyond age twelve or so. It's all a bit fuzzy from then. Apparently, I was at, ehm, M.I.T. soon after that."

"So, you can't recall the breakthrough that's got Hydra so keen on you?" Simmons asks, one brow raised in question.

He sighs, these are the questions he gets on practically on a weekly basis but Dr. Streiten has told him (as well as all the other S.T.R.I.K.E. and even S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors) that without the key to that information, there's no way for him to access it. Though they've tried hypnosis, a couple of drugs and even a machine a bit like an MRI where he'd laid with his head stuck inside. None of it had helped. Weaver and some of the government higher-ups have all questioned him but Streiten seems more pragmatic, saying that it'll come or it won't. He'd just been suggesting to Weaver that if he could only get back to working, perhaps he might come up with the idea again. It's still his brain after all and, excepting his memory issues, it seems to function well enough. He knows what he's looking for after all, just not the specific formula.

He shakes his head minutely at Simmons, slightly uncomfortable at being forced to make the admission. Somehow it felt like losing. "No," then he quickly adds, "I mean, not as yet. But I think it'll likely come back to me…one way or another."

She smiles tightly and looks back to Weaver.

"Yes. Well. Agent Fitz, why don't you go and speak with the quartermaster about what might be needed? I think one of the new SUVs is in order. Tell him I've authorized it."

Recognizing the clear dismissal from Weaver, he nods and gets up from his chair. "Thank you," he says to the director though he's not sure why exactly. For keeping him safe? For assigning him the most beautiful woman he can ever remember seeing in his life to guard him for however long this fiasco takes? Yeah. Probably that one. He tips his head to Agent Simmons as he passes and, though he knows he'll see her again very soon, he can't stop himself from giving her one last parting glance as he passes through the big double doors.