May slipped away quietly. She managed to leave the rest of the playground team in the dark, besides alerting Agent Koenig to the current situation. He had made it easy, the death of his own brother fresh enough that he had given May a slight, empathetic nod, saying quietly, "I'm sorry for your loss," before telling her he would go ahead and code her in for take-off. The next minute her jet was in the air, the serenity of flying a stark contrast to May's mission.
The flight was short: only a few hours had passed before her controls alerted her that she should land. May took her time finding a wide, open, and flat field to land in. She snatched up a GPS with the coordinates already in place, and then stepped out of the plane.
May looked around, taking in the scenery. It was a peaceful location in the South of France, the weather was warm and calm. The sun absorbed itself deep into May's dark clothing as if trying to caress some serenity into her. It was a nice spot. Morse had been kind when she brought Jemma here.
May breathed in the air, a light salt-breeze tickling her nose. She focused in on her GPS, following the path to where she would find Jemma. The walk wasn't far, nor was it difficult. It was just as well, because May had come alone and would need to carry Jemma by herself.
Before long the GPS beeped that she was close enough to the location that her target should be in sight. May paused to inspect the landscape. There. A drooping, old, double-pronged plane tree stood out amongst smaller growth, and prominently beneath lay a bump of man-made navy blue. In moments May was upon it.
May knelt beside the cluster of fabric. She slowly drew the Hydra issue blanket back to take in her first look. God. If possible, Jemma looked younger than she had in life. Her face was so pale, not absorbing any of the warmth of the sun, but mirroring the light back resolutely. Never had her face appeared so insipid. Jemma had always been a beautiful girl, but death had taken away the shine from her features. Just a kid, May thought, not for the first time.
"It's time to go home," May told her quietly. Reaching into her pack, May began to reconstruct the folded up stretcher. Laying it flat next to Simmons, she tugged Simmons on and gently strapped her in. Her body was in full rigor mortis, so there wasn't much extra movement. The chemistry of death held that horrible saving grace: May didn't need the additional reminder of her tragic burden, hearing Jemma's head bobbing around as she pulled the stretcher back to the plane.
As May tried to close the final buckle around Jemma's torso, she felt something smooth and flat under the blanket. May pushed her hand underneath and drew out an envelope with a short note tucked inside. "Daniel Whitehall's work. Forgive me, I wasn't there. I will save her work." The note was unsigned, but May knew it was left by Morse. May closed her eyes for a moment. Not the answers Coulson had hoped for, but it was something.
After tucking the blanket around Jemma, May turned around and fixed the straps onto her shoulders like a backpack, before walking forward, letting the wheels at the stretcher's base do the hard work.
The trek back seemed to go on and on. Each footfall tugged her shoulders down with the weight of the body she pulled behind. Each step refused to let her forget why she walked the fields in the South of France. Each tug reminded her who she bore back to base.
A/N Another short chapter, but the next should be a little longer! Next time: Ward! … say whaaat?! ;-)