Chapter 2: The Show Has Just Begun
"I want you to train me."
So Jemma said to May the very next day. The older agent didn't seem surprised by the request. Quite the contrary; she nearly looked amused.
Well… as amused as May could look, at least.
"Thinking of retaking your field certification?" she asked.
Jemma wrinkled her nose. If it were possible to fail a test with flying colors, she had so done with her field certification. "Not quite."
"Oh?"
"It occurred to me that the incident at the Centipede lab may have been better managed if I had more sufficient weapons and self-defense training."
May's face, previously inscrutable, became colored with concern. "Jemma, you can't think like that."
"This isn't about Grant." she was quick to say, and it was mostly true. This wasn't about Grant as much as it was about who remained of Team Bus. No doubt there would be future scrapes. She was determined to be better prepared for those instances.
She couldn't bear to lose anyone else, least of all due to her own insufficiency.
"It isn't?" May was beholding her with a suspicious gaze.
"No." she insisted. "This is about me. I want to be able to defend myself, if and when the need to do so should arise."
At first, May did not respond; instead, she continued to stare at Jemma, studying her face intently, as if to divine some meaning Jemma had concealed. She grew more nervous with every second, afraid May would say no; and then where would she be?
But, "Okay." is what May said when she at last acquiesced, and Jemma felt positively flooded with relief.
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Jemma made similar requests of her other team members throughout that day. She knew she would never be as ingenious as Fitz (strictly in an engineering sense, of course), but she saw no issues with improving her skills. Fitz would give her lessons every few days. She didn't really have an interest in hacking, but she mentioned it to Skye nonetheless. It certainly couldn't hurt to learn computer science.
Her schedule became thus: in the mornings, she'd train with May. For an hour in the afternoon, Fitz would tutor her in engineering (and he got no small amount of satisfaction of crowing "I'm tutoring the Jemma Simmons", but one half-joking, half-not punch to his arm silenced his gloating for good). She and Skye would work on computer sciences and hacking for a little before lights-out.
When her own responsibilities were accounted for, Jemma found herself scheduled down to the minute. She didn't mind it. She liked being busy. It left less time for quiet, for thinking, and she was so tired by the end of the day that she passed out into dreamless sleep the moment her head hit the pillow. If she kept herself occupied, she had very little time to think about the empty room on the other side of hers.
Naturally, word of her studies made it to Coulson, who approached her at the lab after she'd been training, studying, and practicing her various new skill sets for a few weeks.
"I hear you've been doing some self-improvement." he said brightly.
She nodded, turning away from her microscope to give him her full attention. "Yes, sir. I have been. Is that all right?" She hadn't thought to ask whether it was actually permitted to study outside of her specialty; she figured, if an issue had arisen, she'd just ask for forgiveness, and continue right on with doing what she wanted, of course. Unless Coulson asked her to stop really, really nicely. It made her feel nice to please people.
"It's perfectly all right." Coulson assured her. "I was just curious why you didn't ask me to help you with anything."
"Oh!" She felt sheepish instantly. "Well, I just figured you'd be busy… and I'd already asked the others… but what is it you'd want to train me in, sir?" No offense intended to her fearless leader, but she couldn't imagine him teaching her anything that May hadn't planned to… and teach her to do better, backwards, and in heels.
"Well, I certainly can't teach you engineering or CS, and May has you covered in combat." She was relieved that he said it; it meant she didn't have to and risk hurting his feelings. "How about you just come see me once a week and we discuss your progress?"
Ah. So it wasn't that he was offering to train her, he wanted to attach conditions, she realized with a reasonable amount of suspicion. "And by progress, you don't just mean my studies, do you?"
"No, I don't just mean your studies." Well, at least he wasn't being deceptive. She may not have liked it, but she at least respected that. "Your long-term well-being isn't just my concern as your friend; it's my responsibility as your boss."
Her first reaction was to feel petulant, like a scolded teenager. Granted, she could hardly yell, "You can't tell me what to do, dad!" and storm off, but the desire to do so reared its ugly head rather inexplicably, and it was only through great effort that she fought it off. There was nothing in Coulson's request that was unreasonable, either as a superior or as a friend… but it was, once again, an example of how people felt some unspoken need to protect her. Unlike the other times, this she could hardly meet by decrying it as unnecessary. His simple, almost meek, request was well within his purview to ask of her as her boss.
She agreed to a standing appointment of meeting Coulson every Friday at five pm. Jemma was reasonably apprehensive of the motives; they were a spy organization, after all. Every work-related conversation could technically qualify as intel. She had no clue how far up the chain of command her discussions with him would climb, or how they might come back to bite her. Confidentially agreements weren't really a thing in SHIELD, so learning to guard and measure your words with co-workers and higher-ups was necessary to an agent's success, but… she had to trust that Coulson meant well. He had so far only had her best interests at heart, that much she knew. How else would SHIELD have been willing to ground a mobile base in various Middle of Nowheres, USA, for the bereavement leave of five agents, if not due to whatever strings Phil pulled as Fury's favorite?
As it was, her concerns about their meetings were soon rendered irrelevant, for not three full weeks had passed when her studies with Fitz and Skye were postponed indefinitely as Team Bus was upgraded full mission status rather suddenly. She could keep her trainings with May in the mornings, considering they were short a specialist and every capable arm in battle counted, but bereavement leave was officially over. It was time to get back to work.
"But we don't have a full team." Jemma overheard May hissing to Coulson in a whisper outside of her bunk shortly after she was given the order for wheels-up.
"We've been out of the game for three months. I'm not in a position to contradict the higher-ups right now." Coulson answered.
"'Out of the game for three months' is just another reason why we aren't prepared for a full-blown mission. One of several, in fact. Short-staffed and out of practice? Might as well march Fitz and Simmons out with targets on. And don't get me started on Skye. Grant had barely begun her training before-"
"May." He interrupted. His tone made it clear that he would take no further complaints on the matter.
May wisely said no more on the subject. In all likeliness, she wasn't saying anything Coulson hadn't already considered, but he was right; he wasn't in a position to say no. Whatever favor he had curried with the big brass had clearly run short and could only be resupplied by him taking a few (and hopefully not literal) hits right now. "Wheels up in five." she answered him a few moments later, and satisfied that their impasse had been resolved for the moment they both stalked off in separate directions.
Once they had gone, Jemma was left to mull over what she'd overheard. She expected the news of their return to the field to shake her a little bit, but so far she felt nothing. She stood silently in her bunk, waiting for the other metaphorical shoe to drop and… nothing. No nerves, no impending sense of doom; nothing but the usual excitement of plunging headlong into the unknown. In some ways, it felt like her first mission all over again. There was no dread, just anticipation, and even some naive wonder.
It felt nice, but it was not without its edge of sadness. It was their first mission without Grant; no doubt his loss would be keenly felt throughout.
There was the gaping hole in the team still. They were down a specialist, minus a dependable gun in the fight. She knew Coulson and May would protect the less qualified agents to the best of their ability, and she was taking strides in her own training to close that gap everyday, but Grant's imposing presence provided an odd comfort that they were still learning to live without.
Jemma lifted her hand, absently toying with the ring around her neck. The pad of her fingertip ran over the edge, the ceramic smooth against her skin; the steel, cold. The tiny motion was soothing, calming.
It -life after Grant- was getting easier. But, she thought to herself, easier is not the same as easy.
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It would be a long plane ride with one stopover in New York to top-off their fuel supply. While they refueled, Phil gathered the team around the table to disperse the available information. There was not much to share, just that Centipede had, after several months off the radar, resurfaced in Madagascar. After weeks of long-distance recon (spying from space was about as long-distance as one could get, Skye noted drily) SHIELD satellite imaging had caught the heat signatures of a dozen or so people streaming away from their latest base of operations in the middle of the night. The next day, the base was largely abandoned; imaging couldn't pick up a single signature. Team Bus had been asked to investigate the lab.
Admittedly, it was not much to go on, but they had worked with less before.
"It makes sense, if you think about it," Jemma stated as she took diligent inventory of her supplies. It was hard to anticipate what she might need outside of her med-kit. There were dozens of scanners and scopes and "doodads" from which to choose. It would be easier to prepare if SHIELD had better specified what they were looking for, but Coulson had only been able to say "You know… stuff."
"What makes sense?" Skye asked as she watched Jemma pack, then picked up a portable thermal scanner and held it up like a gun. She even made a "pew pew" sound. While Jemma laughed, Fitz scolded her roundly, shaking his head in disappointment at her as he yanked the tool from her hands.
"Being based in Madagascar." Jemma explained after their mostly playful spat had passed. "It's one of the most biodiverse places on the planet, exactly what an organization like Centipede would try to take advantage of, if my conclusions about their experiments are correct."
"And what are your conclusions again?" Fitz asked. He said this half to her, half to the scanner, which he was inspecting with a scrutinizing eye to make sure it hadn't suffered any damage in untrained hands.
She said it in a whisper; not because the information was a secret, but purely for dramatic flair. "They're trying to duplicate the super soldier serum."
Skye blinked. "Super soldier serum? Like, Captain America and all that?"
"Precisely. Unfortunately - or fortunately, depending how you look at it- none of their scientists are Erskine's caliber. Consequently, I think they are looking to natural resources, hoping to duplicate his results."
"And if they were scientists worth their salt, they'd realize that that's highly unlikely." Fitz said with a scoff.
"It is?" Skye asked.
Jemma nodded at her. "It is very unlikely, but," she looked at Fitz, her next words measured, "not entirely outside the realm of possibility."
Again, he scoffed. "If you took a second to calculate the odds-"
"- Believe me, I know the odds." she countered. "The likeliness that any organization will duplicate Erskine's serum without SHIELD's top secret knowledge of the formula, guided purely by blind luck… well, it's about as likely as a Norse god buddying up with a billionaire and coming to save the world, isn't it?" She didn't even try to hide her smirk, while Skye hid her grin behind the sleeve of her shirt.
Fitz's eyes were narrowed, a feign at anger. "Don't think you can use Thor as a trump card anytime you'd like."
She pretended to groan. "But he's such a pretty trump card, and it only proves my point. No matter the odds, there's always room for the improbable; or what do you think the one represents?"
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They arrived in Madagascar around 5pm EST, which was dead in the middle of the night Eastern African Time.
"It's a shame it's already dark." Jemma said to Fitz as they carried a small crate containing their tech down the lowered ramp. "I'm sure Madagascar is lovely in the daylight."
"I'd give my manifold-imagery prototype to see a lemur up close." Fitz replied.
"Unfortunately, there's no time to sight-see." Coulson said as he approached the pair. "The situation in Madagascar isn't the most stable. We are here by special permission and have been told by their government that we only have two hours to get what we need and get back in the air, or else."
Even in the dim moonlight, Jemma could see Fitz went as white as a sheet. "Or else, what?"
May stalked by the then, her steps loud and intentional as she hustled down the ramp. "Better hurry so we don't find out." she called over her shoulder as she passed. Skye followed behind her at a jog. Coulson lagged behind with Fitzsimmons to make sure they got their equipment in safely.
"I don't understand why they would put restrictions on us when they are the ones who let a band of potentially-evil scientists keep a base on their island." Fitz groused to Coulson.
"I don't ask questions when getting what I need depends on the kindness of the government." Coulson replied. "And who knows whether they even knew that Centipede was here? They fled in the middle of the night. Not something you'd expect from an organization who operates in the open, now is it?" Fitz had no reply to that, and for that, Jemma was glad. Excited as she was to be back on the job, she was less than thrilled to be working the Centipede case again (and careful to refrain from considering why that might be while working). She was comforted only by the knowledge that the base they were investigating was no longer active, but determined to remain alert. Just in case.
The base itself was on the small side, a quarter of the size of the warehouse they'd investigated just a few months before. The base Centipede had most recently occupied was a tiny, nondescript concrete shell, and in poor condition to boot. Native plant life crawled up the exterior walls. The windows were barred, but the glass behind it had been smashed out on more than one pane. Someone had taped cardboard over the holes, which probably did nothing to help keep pests or weather out, but certainly contributed to the overall dilapidated appearance of the place. Only one side had a vinyl awning, and it was in terrible shape; useless against sunlight, no doubt, let alone rain.
"This place is kind of a dump." Skye commented once they were inside. She shone her flashlight in a sweeping arc and sure enough, it did look pretty dingy. Unclean, even. Jemma half-expected vermin to scurry from where the light shone, but was relieved when, thankfully, none did. She was already on edge; dealing with cockroaches would really have been too much for her.
The beam from Skye's light caught a glimmer in the far corner, which Jemma chose to investigate. She turned on her headlamp as she stooped to get a better look. It was a small pile of equipment in various states of disrepair, the haphazard stack no higher than her shin. She carefully picked up one of the tools, a large, rapid-release hypodermic jet injector. It was a defunct model, the likes of which she'd only seen in sketches during her classes at SciOps, out of public circulation by ten years at least. As she held the needle up to the light, a gooey orange substance oozed from the shattered chamber, dripping down her hand. She was thankful she had had the good sense to don gloves before investigating.
"Fitz, I think I have something," she called, beckoning him over. He separated from the group and came to her side at a jog, carrying a transport case. She carefully placed the injector in the box, then put her gloves in a plastic evidence bag. She would examine the substance later.
"That looks ancient." Fitz said about the injector, and she nodded her agreement. Yes, "ancient" was a bit hyperbolic, but in terms of technology, ten years was practically archaic.
"Hints at the sort of funding Centipede has, I'd say." she replied.
"Or doesn't have. Was the last base this…" he trailed off, gesturing emphatically instead of finishing his sentence.
"No, not at all. It was much cleaner, for one thing. And armed. This…" she motioned toward the rest of the building, which was basically all one room, "isn't half as large as where we last encountered them. I wonder what changed?"
"Perhaps they lost their funding?"
"Perhaps." She was skeptical that it was that simple. If Centipede had any uncertainty about the attention their organization had attracted, no doubt it was all dispelled the moment she and Skye and Grant had snuck onto their previous base. "Or perhaps they're considering other options."
"Mobile options?" Without even saying so, Fitz anticipated the direction of her thoughts. She nodded, but said no more on the subject. It was something to discuss with Coulson, not with one another.
Once they were both satisfied that the injector was secure, they rejoined the group. The other three members were crouched around a metal box. It was a decent size, about four feet long and three feet high, and Jemma could only wonder at what might be inside it. Unlike the rest of the warehouse, the box seemed new, and likely possessed some sort of technology rendered unseen by the sleekly curving steel.
Skye was searching for a button or trigger, something to open the box, but so far was having no luck. May stood by, her fingers twitching restlessly by her weapon, and Coulson was… listening to it? At least, he had his ear pressed against the container, which Jemma found silly, but she wasn't about to say so.
"Fitz, why don't you-"
"- Good idea." From another container, he withdrew the full set of DWARFs. With Fitz's expert guidance, the majority of the drones took off around the room, scanning happily as they went. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, indeed. Fitz directed only one to stay near the box, hovering above it as it tried to scan the container three times from different points without any successes. Tempted as she was to see if another DWARF would do better, Jemma knew there was no sense in asking. If one failed, odds were the remaining DWARFs would be just as unsuccessful. They still had no clue as to what might be in the box.
"Should we just move it onto the Bus and deal with it there? We don't have a lot of time." Skye said, shifting from one foot to the other. She looked nervous, as if she were expecting enemy agents to descend from the rafters at any moment. Jemma hadn't considered
Coulson shook his head. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you don't take strange tech onboard without having a good idea of what you might be carrying. And this," he gestured to the box, "this is humming, so I can only imagine what it might be."
"Humming?" Jemma asked. "Is that why you had your ear pressed against it?" Coulson nodded. She turned to Fitz again. "What if the lock is sonic?"
"And the right frequency pattern could unlock it?"
"It'd be best to try to match the frequency before we even begin to guess a pattern. That's going to take too much time. We'd probably want to take the box back to the HUB for that." But if Coulson wasn't going to let them bring the box onto the Bus, their options were limited… She wouldn't think of that now. She had only capacity enough to worry over the present problem, the one right in front of her. If matching the frequencies didn't work, they'd try something else, and she refused to consider what "something else" might be until she were certain of its necessity.
He pressed one curled finger to his lips, considering her suggestion. "It's worth a try."
It took some of what Skye humorously called "MacGuyvering", but by using some of their tools simultaneously, they managed to emit a frequency identical to the box's and were pleased with the results. The lid opened easily with a hiss. Something like steam billowed from within the opening that now yawned before them, which Coulson was quick to disperse with a wave. Then, the five of them peered inside, Jemma's headlamp and Skye's flashlight illuminating the contents.
The first thing Jemma saw was white skin, fair and unblemished. It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust in the darkness, to decipher form and shape when aided by their torches that struggled against the night, but eventually the angles and curves in her vision came together to reveal a man, naked and unconscious, inside the box. He was curled in the fetal position, his legs bent to his chest, his hands placed prayerfully beside his lips.
Dark brown hair. So dark it was nearly black.
"Jemma." Skye alone whispered. The others were rendered speechless, and rightfully so. As was she.
The glow of her headlamp had not moved from his face for seconds that felt like isolated eternities. She knew that face. She knew it well.
His name came rushing out of her, riding on the breath of a shocked exhale. "Grant." she cried. The last thing she felt was the cold concrete floor rushing up to meet her, and everything went black.
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Jemma had only ever fainted once before; in advanced human anatomy, during her first ever dissection of a human heart. She was young, the youngest in her class by a good six years, and eager to prove herself to her older, more mature classmates. She'd been nervous and clumsy, and her wide-eyed youthfulness made her easy prey for pranks. She only made one incision before her scalpel nicked a perfectly planted squib, splattering fake blood across her lab coat and goggles almost immediately. It gave her such a fright that she fainted dead away. She awoke to a concerned student aide waving a smelling salt in front of her nose, the professor fanning her gently with his hand even as he groused, "There's one every year". She never did learn whether he meant one fainter, or one prankster, and she could still hear the snickers of her classmates even though they tried to hide their smirks in their books, behind their tools, and so forth.
No professor bent over her this time, ready to level her with a disapproving stare. Only Coulson. Beneath her was not the aged tile of a college lab, nor the unforgiving cement of the Centipede base, but clean white sheets. A pillow had been placed under her head. She had somehow made it to her bunk. Had he carried her?
"Sir? What happened?" she asked as she tried to sit up.
His steady hands on her shoulders kept her horizontal. She didn't quite have the strength yet to resist. "Careful. You had a bit of a fall. You should take it easy." He said it how Coulson said most things; kindly, but without much room to argue.
As the fog in her mind cleared, she began to remember, though at first only in flashes. Skye's torch glowing in a sweeping arc. Something sticky and orange running down her hands. A box.
Grant.
"Did I dream it?" Her question came out sounding more desperate than she intended. It also, without context, incredibly vague, but she counted that as a credit to Coulson. She trusted she didn't need to specify what "it" was. She was right to risk assuming, for no sooner had the question left her mouth than Coulson's face clouded over. He seemed to be warring with himself, wrestling with what to say to her, how to respond.
After a few seconds of internal deliberation, he landed on a reply. She could tell, because she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard, preparing to deliver it. When he spoke, his voice was somber, and he watched her carefully to see how she took it.
"No. You didn't."
His words rang in her ears, the sound going tinny until it was overtaken by the thundering of her heartbeat. Within seconds, it felt like someone placed a great weight on her chest; an anvil, maybe, or a boulder. She couldn't move, her hands useless and uncooperative at her sides. She couldn't breathe.
The sensation of tears rolling freely from the corners of her eyelids, landing silently on the pillow and in her hair, grounded her. She gasped a great breath, the imaginary weight gone for the moment, and her hands flung to her face of their own accord, folded over her mouth as the gasp dissolved into one single sob.
"I want to see him." she decided, sitting up. Her head ached, but she didn't care. She swung her legs over the side of her bunk and stood, feeling very proud of her self when she only got dizzy once as she stumbled toward the door.
"Jemma! Wait!" Coulson called, grabbing her by the arm.
"Sir, I need to see him. I need to."
"I know, and you will, but… Jemma, he was on a Centipede base for who knows how long. We have reason to believe that he may have been subject to experimentation."
She had come to that conclusion on her own (or rather, she trusted she would have if her mind weren't going a million kilometers an hour with the suffocating knowledge that Grant is here), but hearing Coulson say it was still chilling. She folded her arms in front of her. "So, what? Do you mean for me to just sit in my room? He's here, sir. He's alive, and he's here. I need to see him. Please."
He looked hesitant. She considered what she'd say next, if he continued to refuse her.
"All right. But only for a second, and only because if anyone can figure out what they might have done to him, it's you." Coulson was visibly distressed at acquiescing, but nonetheless helped Jemma to her feet and led her to where Grant was being kept.
"He's not in the lab?" she asked nervously as they arrived outside the cage.
Coulson didn't meet her eyes as he replied, "Just a precaution," and opened the door.
The room was dark when Jemma entered, kept dim so its occupant could rest undisturbed. Grant lay on thin, narrow cot, a black blanket with a gray SHIELD logo draped over his body and pulled up to his chest. Someone had clothed him, or at least they had put him in a shirt; his chest and arms were now covered by a plain white tee, though it was just a tad too small. Most likely a loan from Coulson, then.
For a minute, she walked no farther than just a few feet past the door, staring at him wordlessly. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, hear the deep, easy breathing of a person fast asleep. He was just as she remembered, if a little more pale than before. She was almost afraid to walk closer, half-convinced that this was a dream, or a hallucination; if she got any closer, she worried he would disappear, vanish like a vapor.
She soon chanced a step forward, then another, until she was at his side. Her hand trembled as she reached out and touched him. Her fingers, curled into a fist, fanned out over the expanse of his breastbone. Her eyes slipped closed and she could feel new tears slide down her cheeks as she sensed his pulse, steady and strong, beneath her palm.
"Grant." she whispered and let her head drop, coming to rest on his chest, his heartbeat loud in her ears. What a beautiful sound it was.
Soon, she felt fingers begin to comb through her hair, moving through her auburn strands as they were pushed away from her face. She looked up to see him awake, watching her carefully, his face contorted slightly in an unreadable expression.
In her darkest moments, when her denial was at its strongest and fantasy was a refuge, she imagined what she'd say to him if ever they were reunited. Probably that she loved him. They never quite got to that part. Perhaps that she'd missed him, for that was only too true. She might even make a terribly impulsive suggestion; ask that they both leave SHIELD behind and run away together, ride off into the sunset, to the ending she felt certain they both wanted and deserved. But all that she managed, now that he was here, alive and in front of her, was a meek, broken, "Hello."
No other words passed between them, neither from her nor from Grant; no sooner had she spoken than his hand, previously entangled in her hair, closed around her throat.
