Chapter Two

What lies in our power to do, lies in our power not to do.

Aristotle

Brent Casey had spent a lot of time around the dead or dying. Being a doctor, it sort of went with the territory. He wasn't squeamish by any meaning of the word. He had preformed surgery on everyone from a desert herd-boy to a Colombian drug lord and it was a matter of pride for him that he had never walked away from anyone in need of his help. From the point they reached his operating table to the point he sewed them up, their history never existed. He had lived by that code ever since medical school. But here and now, he had never felt so much hatred toward one of his patients as he did the man lying in front of him.

His new-found friends had given him a rigorous account of the terrorists, his patient's, injuries on the lengthy car ride over. The list was long and detailed, burns and shallow gashes mostly, but the worst and most critical, was an open depressed skull fracture at the base of the skull that penetrated through to the brain, as well as an epidermal hematoma centered behind the left ear. One by itself was complicated, but together… Brent had mentally gone through every surgical procedure he had ever learned or heard of. In his experience, nothing would give this man a chance over 8% of living. But this wasn't his first rodeo and he could take a hint from threatening expressions of the men who had sat across from him in the car and the way they stroked their guns. He didn't get a choice about whether or not this man lived. Either he lived, or Brent died.

"Get to work, please." The man's tone gave express indication that this wasn't a request. Brent shot a derisive glance at the as yet unnamed man and moved to the dying man's side.

The next half hour was filled with hasty movement as Brent took control of the mediocre medical staff this base offered. He supposed that, by most standards and in most situations that a small village doctor would face, these medics would be halfway decent, but here and now, faced with an injury like this, this, they were completely out of their depth. Finally, Cooper had finished prepping his patient along with his staff and was scrubbing in the most sanitary place he could find, which amounted to what appeared to be Brent kitchen sink.

"Will he live?" Brent jerked, splashing water everywhere.

"Jesus, man, get a bell or something." Brent carefully dried his hands on the nearest towel and shot a nasty glare at the suited man standing in the doorway.

The man ignored the words and asked again, "Will he live?"

Brent glanced at him, then back down at his hands, studying the way the water washed off the soap bubbles. "Do you want me to be honest, or tell you want you want to hear?" The man simply stared at him in silence, his dark eyes blank, and, after risking another glance, Brent sighed. "All right. The truth is he might live. And that is a very slim might. The type of wound he has and the conditions under which you expect me to operate make this very difficult. His brain has practically been pulverized and is currently, quite literally, bleeding out of his skull."

The man continued looking at him, his dark eyes icy cold. "Dr. Casey, perhaps you do not realize the delicateness of the situation you are in, so let me explain it in a way you will understand. If he dies, you shall die. Is that understood?"

"Let's get one thing clear, asshole," Brent stepped up to the man, narrowing his eyes threateningly, bringing up the confidence that he hadn't been taught at Howard, but had learned the first time he'd faced the terrified parents of a child caught in a land mine blast. "I'm a doctor. That means I save lives. It doesn't matter whose it is. This guy could be Adolf Hitler and I would still do my upmost to get him off of that operating table alive. You do not possess a threat that would make me perform better, so I'd appreciate it if you'd stop trying." He held the man's gaze for a few more moments, waiting for his words to sink in, for both the Arabic man standing across from him and for himself.

"Now, would you get the door? We wouldn't want anything to contaminate the field."

12 and a half hours later, Brent was walking out of the operating room, stripping off his scrubs and wishing desperately that he could have some whiskey. Or beer. Hell, he'd even take one of those fruity pink drinks the nurses were so fond of when they went on leave, he wasn't picky. His desperate yearnings came to a screeching halt, however, when he saw the man leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, an expression of classic bad guy foreboding on his face.

"Well?"

"Well. He's alive. Will he stay that way? I have no idea." Brent turned to the gurney being wheeled out and crossed to it, placing his fingers on the unconscious man's pulse, frowning, frowning, but not surprised at the threadiness of it. "Get him to his room," he ordered the medics. He followed them, ignoring the hard stare of the other man and remembering fondly a small restaurant in the states with the greasiest burgers and the driest martinis.

A soldier came up to his commander and saluted. "There is a communication for you, sir. It is from…them."

A slow smile, devoid of humor, crossed his face. "Good."

"You rang, sir?" Nick Fury looked up from the file on his desk at the dry tone of the field agent.

"Coulson, we've got a bit of a problem." He gestured for the man to sit down and pushed a picture of a dark haired man over to him. "What do you remember about Brent Casey?"

"That it was a difficult mission," Phil Coulson said immediately, frowning, picking up the photo of the older profile of a vaguely familiar man. "And... a difficult recovery. But if I remember correctly, with the use of funds from SHIELD and a full scholarship, he managed to gather a semblance of a normal life as a...doctor. Is that right?"

"Yeah, unfortunately he thought he hadn't had enough danger in his lifetime and decided to join Doctors Without Borders. He's been to Columbia, Bolivia, the majority of the Middle East and most recently Egypt, where he has now gotten himself kidnapped by a local terror group."

"As much as I sympathize for the man, the employees of these volunteer groups know the risks of traveling to these hotspots. What makes this a SHIELD matter? " Coulson asked, placing the picture back on the desk.

"Intel suggests that these particular terrorists are linked to a HYDRA cell," Fury replied tersely and Coulson grimaced.

"And it would certainly be bad if HYDRA got their hands on a meta-human, especially one of Hall's abilities and intelligence, not to mention his connection to SHIELD." Coulson looked grim at this thought.

"Exactly. If," Fury grimaced at this, "This HYDRA cell manages to…convince Casey to join them, I think even the Avenger's would have a difficult time against him."

"And you'd like to nip the danger in the bud and get to him before the enemy does," Coulson said, nodding thoughtfully. It was good plan. The Avengers, while they would attract more attention, also had the double good of sending a signal that this doctor was under SHIELD's protection.

Coulson stood carefully. While he had received the all clear from SHIELD's medical team several weeks ago, he still occasionally felt a painful twinge around his wound. "I'd better get the team prepped then."

Fury nodded distractedly, tapping out a message on his keyboard. "As soon as we find out the exact location and layout of the camp, the mission will be free to commence." Coulson continued towards the door, but paused as Fury spoke again.

"Coulson…" Fury hesitated and Coulson turned his head, his hand still on the doorknob. "You might want to tell Barton in private."

Yay for the Avengers! Hmm, so why is a random doctor so important? Is that really Phil Coulson or is it a body double? Does Thor think strawberry poptarts are the best?

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Okay, I might have gone overboard with that last comment, but still, continue with your reading and rating and reviewing! Any questions, all you have to do is ask! I just love getting messages