"I need you to do something. There's no trade. You don't get anything in return. You just do it."

Ward looked at Skye, but he said nothing.

"We've stopped trying to explain who you are to Fitz. He doesn't remember a few days before his injury, so he has no idea that you're a traitor. We tell him, but then he gets really upset and then he forgets it and we have to explain it all over again. It's...the doctors said it was some kind of anti-something amnesia."

"Anterograde amnesia," said Ward, without offering any explanation for how he would know.

Skye decided to let it pass without question. "Sure, whatever." She waved her hand dismissively. "He's at this rehab place and they want him to work on getting better, but he gets confused about where he is and he gets upset. He thinks he's been captured or something." Skye picked a voice recorder up from her lap and lay it on the table. "I want you to record a message for him. He thinks you're going to rescue him. He keeps fighting the doctors and he won't do his rehab. You have to tell him-"

"Okay," said Ward, "hit 'record'."

Skye pressed the red button on the side.

"Fitz, listen to me." Ward's words were rushed and his voice was urgent. "We won't be able to come for you for a few days. Just keep your head down and do what they say. Don't panic. They know better than to hurt you. They know that if they do anything, I will find them and I will make them pay. They're not going to hurt you. You're going to be okay. Just keep playing their little games. It's only a little bit longer, then I'll get Simmons to make you that sandwich you like. And I won't throw it away this time. You can do this, Fitz."

When Ward stopped speaking, he seemed to deflate. His shoulders slumped and his face softened. Before Skye could say anything, he murmured, "I'd like to go back to my cell now."

"Ward-"

"Please."

"Okay. Okay, you can go."


Massachusetts, 1995

"This is my son," shouted Ken Ward, in classic mobster ESL: English, slow and loud. "He's here to translate."

Lavrov looked at the boy and snorted derisively. "Тебе пять лет чтоли?"

Grant shot back, "Даже пятилетнему ребёнку видно что у тебя член не стоит."

There was a tense moment before Lavrov threw his head back and guffawed. "This one," he said, pointing at Grant, "this one I like."

Negotiations went from there, apparently leading to a mutually satisfactory arrangement: Eddie's group got territory, Lavrov's group got guns. It briefly occurred to Grant that he ought to wonder what Russians wanted the guns for, but he ignored those thoughts. It was easier to just keep his focus on translating between two screaming factions.

When Lavrov's last brute finally left the bar, Eddie's men broke out the booze.

"What was that thing he said to you at the beginning?" Ken asked his son.

"He said I looked like a five-year-old."

"And what'd you say?"

"I said even a five-year-old could see he's got a limp dick."

Eddie and his men roared with laughter. Eddie himself brought out a mirror. "Limp dick!" he echoed. "Most powerful Ruskie in the city and you call him a limp dick! That's spectacular. You deserve a reward, kid. You wanna bump?"

Ken stood up, nostrils suddenly flaring, voice cold. "Are you offering cocaine to my twelve-year-old son?"

Eddie pretended not to see the threat. "Aw, Ken, let the boy have some fun. Don't you think he's earned it?"

Grant knew he had to diffuse the situation. It wasn't good for anyone if his dad and Eddie got into a fight. "No," he interrupted. "No thanks, I mean. I don't really like it."

Ken spun around. "And how the hell would you know that?"

Grant forced down a grin as he realized he could accomplish two things at once. "Maynard gave me some a couple months ago."

"Did he? Then he and I are going to have a little chat."

Got in good with Eddie and got Maynard in trouble? Yeah, this was a good day.


"So," said Skye as if their last meeting had never happened, "remember how when you were my SO, you made me make my bed with the sheets tucked in really tight and you said it was a SHIELD thing?"

"I-"

"Yeah, May told me that it's not and it's just your weird quirk that you picked up at military school."

"You're visiting me in a maximum security unsanctioned detention facility to ask me about making beds?"

"Well, first of all, I'm pissed that I learned to do that stupid corners thing for nothing and second of all, you were in military school?"

Ward nodded wearing the barest hint of a faint, almost nostalgic smile. "I'm surprised Coulson hasn't just given you my old SHIELD file. It's all in there."

Skye was not deterred. "What were you doing in military school?"

"I was a delinquent. I got picked up by the police for shoplifting."

"What'd you steal?"

"A tape."

"You stole tape? That's the lamest thing ever."

"Not 'tape', a tape. Like a cassette tape. Like with music."

"Seriously? God, you're old. What was it?"

"Simon and Garfunkel."

"No, really. What was it?"

"That's the truth."

"Wait, so you shoplifted one thing and your parents sent you to military school? That's harsh."

Ward shrugged. "It wasn't too bad. Lots of rules, but very fair about enforcing them. You knew where you stood."

"Yeah, but for shoplifting? Everybody does that."

Ward raised his eyebrows, expressing the sort of condescending moral disapproval he used to regularly cast on Skye's pre-SHIELD life. Then, he seemed to remember his situation and his face became blank again.

"My father was a career criminal."

"So you'd think he wouldn't mind if you broke a few laws."

"That wasn't the problem. I can't prove it, but I think he was worried that if I had contact with law enforcement, they would convince me to wear a wire or testify against him and his buddies."

"Wear a wire? You're making it sound like the mafia."

Ward shook his head. "Mafia's Italian. This was Boston, the Irish mob."

"The mob? Like, the actual mob? Like, with offers you can't refuse and people sleeping with the fishes and muscle guys holding their guns sideways? Did you ever see your dad whack somebody?"

"You're asking me if I ever witnessed my father commit murder?"

Okay, so when it was put that way, the whole business sounded less like an exciting movie and more like a really fucked up way to grow up. "I didn't mean-"

"No, I never saw him kill anyone. Doesn't mean it never happened."

"Did you…" Skye couldn't figure out how she wanted to end that sentence.

"Are you asking if I worked in the family business?"

Skye nodded.

"On the fringes, yes. I delivered packages, sent messages, picked up money. I never physically assaulted someone or burned down a building on their behalf."

"Just on behalf of John Garrett."

"Ngh." Ward made an unintelligible noise.

"The recording helped," said Skye, apropos of nothing. It was true – the rehab facility staff said that playing it for Fitz reliably calmed him down when he got agitated, soothed him when he was frightened.

Skye could see it, now that she knew what she was looking for: the way Ward's eyes became unfocused, his breathing slowed, and his mouth hung slightly open.

"Ward, don't," she said, and was uncomfortable with the realization that her voice sounded more sad than angry. "Whatever you're doing, just don't. I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. I was just…I thought you'd like to know how he's doing. Even though I don't know why you tried to kill him in the first place or how many people you've killed or why you joined Hydra or-"

"You want to know how I got this way. What ingredients make a traitor. You think it'll all fit into a nice story where all the villains are sad and lonely and probably have low self-esteem. That's not how it works. I'm a grown man and I'm responsible for my own choices."


Massachusetts, 1996

"Come on, Dana. You can walk faster than this." Grant huffed impatiently.

Dana looked ready to argue, but instead he gulped and limped forward as fast as he could. "Don't get mad," he said softly.

Grant realized that his little brother wasn't just dawdling, he was keeping his distance, shuffling sideways to keep his weak side pointed away. "Would you quit acting like that?"

"Sowwy."

"Don't say you're sorry. Don't say anything. Shut up and walk."

It was another two miserable blocks before they made it to Roach's house. Well, the old warehouse where Roach always seemed to be. Roach was a mob doctor who smoked heavily, shared cheerfully, and would keep just about anything secret. He was one of Grant's favorite people.

The boys knocked, waved, got buzzed in. Grant slid aside the heavy steel plate that formed the door and made his way past a pallet of surgical supplies that had obviously 'fallen off the back of a truck'. Roach was sitting on a sofa, watching soap operas, and sucking on a cigarette like his life depended on it. He beckoned the boys in.

"You're both on your feet," Roach said with a smile, "so it can't be that bad."

"His arm," said Grant, gesturing to his brother. "Maynard had a…we need to know if it's broken."

"Well, come on in to the kitchen and I'll take a look."

They followed Roach to another open space on the warehouse floor, this one with a filthy sink, a fridge, and what might have once been a stove, but was now just a fire hazard. Roach helped Dana hop up onto the table and began prodding at his wrist.

"Boy, somebody beat you up good," said Roach in an almost admiring tone. And it was true. Dana had long bruises on his neck and sore spots on his chest in addition to the mess that was his wrist. "You should watch yourself, try to stay out of fights you can't win."

Dana nodded, passive, as he let Roach prod his injuries.

Finally, Roach straightened. "The wrist isn't broken, just banged up and sprained real bad. Ring finger's broken, though."

"Shit," hissed Grant.

"I can splint it for you," said Roach. "You don't have to go to the hospital. But I'd think you boys would be more careful. Splint's still going to turn a few heads." Roach reached into his back pocket and pulled out a single pill which he offered to Dana. (Grant privately felt that this was unsanitary, but he figured Roach knew his stuff.) "You want a Dilaudid, kid? Helps with the pain." (Grant wasn't sure it was a great idea to give a maximum-strength adult pain pill to a brain-damaged ten-year-old kid, but he was confident that Roach wouldn't give him anything actually deadly.)

Dana took the pill with a soft, "Thanks," as Roach busied himself putting a basic splint on the busted finger.

Roach offered his hand to help Dana down off of the table. "You go watch some TV, kid. I'm going to check up on your brother's stitches."

Grant hopped up onto the table and began pulling off his shirt to expose the gash where Maynard had slashed his side with a broken yardstick. The stitches weren't supposed to come out for two more days, but the cut was healing up nicely, and since he was here anyway…

"Put your shirt down, you little shithead!" hissed Roach, quiet enough that Dana wouldn't hear, but plenty angry. "Where do you get off beating him up? He's your crippled younger brother. That should make him off-limits times three!"

"It wasn't me!" protested Grant. "It was Maynard! I keep telling everyone that he's crazy and no one believes me!"

"They believe you," said Roach, "they just don't give a shit. He's working for Eddie these days. Didn't you ever wonder where he went at nights? He's the perfect enforcer."

That…actually made a lot of sense. It explained why Maynard had money these days, too. Grant wasn't going to give in without a fight, though. "Doesn't mean Maynard can't beat people up off the clock. He still knocks me around. What makes you think I did it?"

"Hold up your hand with your fingers stretched out."

Grant did as he was told. Roach did the same thing and he pressed his palm to Grant's. Roach's fingers were longer by at least an inch.

"The bruises on the kid's throat and arms, they show me what size hands did this. Maynard and your dad, even your mom, their hands are too big to make those bruises. Yours are just right."

Grant tensed his face, looking miserable and angry and sullen all at once. He didn't admit to the crime, but he didn't deny it either.

"You want some pain pills, too? They'll get you pretty high."

Grant shook his head. "Roach, how much would it cost for some fake IDs?"

"For you? A million bajillion dollars."

Grant glared.

"It's not going to happen, kid. The ID is only part of the game. You have to look like you could plausibly be 21. You're what, 13? There's no way."

"I don't want to get into bars. I want fake IDs for me and Dana. New names, new birth certificates, like you did for Andrea."

"I had nothing to do with whatever happened to Andrea and if you've got any decency, you'll never suggest that I did again."

"But the IDs. I can get you money. I can get you a lot of money."

"Can you get me a private island? Because that's where I'd have to live the rest of my life if I did something like that."

"But-"

"I can't do it, Grant. It's more than my life's worth." Roach shook his head as he patted Grant on the shoulder. "You're a good kid. You're not cut out for this life. Just keep your head down and you'll find your way out soon enough. And kid, I've been good to you, right?"

Grant nodded.

"Then don't say that thing about Andrea. Even though it's not true. If it got around, it could..."

"Don't worry," said Grant softly, "I can keep a secret."


Three guards walked Ward back to his cell, one on either side and one behind him. They knew his crime in its essentials and initially they hated him for it, but that was old and abstract – their opinion was really shaped by their day-to-day contact with the man. As prisoners went, Ward wasn't that difficult to deal with. He didn't try to piss through the food slot. He didn't scream at all hours of the day. He didn't try to attack the guards or slump bonelessly to the ground when they were supposed to transport him somewhere.

Compared to some of their other prisoners, he was a damn delight.

Which is why they were surprised when he asked for something.

"Would it be possible," said Ward, "to turn the camera off for just five minutes tonight?"

"What'd you want that for?" asked the guard to his left, a stumpy man named Franklin.

Ward looked almost shy. "There are some things…better done in privacy? You know…guy things?"

God, he was stuttering like a thirteen-year-old who got his bedsheets sticky.

The guards exchanged looks. They weren't supposed to, of course, and the lack of privacy was supposed to be one of the punishing things about prison, but the guy had been meeting with woman who, well, after watching her walk, Franklin needed some privacy himself. It wasn't like Ward could get up to any real trouble in his cell.

"Yeah," said Franklin, "we can probably manage that after lights out if you keep it down."

"Thanks," said Ward, still looking sheepish.

They opened the door to his cell and he obediently went through the routine as they removed his manacles. He sat down on his cot and waited.

Time passed. Dinner came and went. More time passed. The lights dimmed. They never went out entirely, but they were low enough for sleep. The red light on the ever present ceiling-mounted camera stopped blinking. There was a knock on the cell door. "You've got five minutes. Use 'em wisely!"

Ward turned to the opposite corner of the cell where he knew another camera was hidden. He angled himself to get as much light as possible on his hand and began to fingerspell the message he'd been mentally rehearsing all day.

COULSON. I KNOW YOU ARE WATCHING. I KNOW NOTHING ELSE ABOUT HYDRA. STOP SENDING HER TO TORMENT ME. I KNOW ONLY ONE OTHER THING: THE DESIGN SPECS OF THE FIRST 0-8-4 WE RECOVERED. REVEALING THEM WILL HARM 0-8-4, BENEFIT NO ONE. I WILL NEVER TALK.