Do you remember standing on a broken field
White crippled wings beating the sky
The harbingers of war with their nature revealed
And our chances flowing by

If I can let the memory heal
I will remember you with me on that field

-Poets of the Fall, War

Petty Officer Second Class Kevin Castiglioni instructed his S.W.O.R.D pupils on the basics of scouting and stalking specific targets. He and the rest of SEAL Team 4 were here to support S.W.O.R.D and give them additional—approved of course—training. They had heard of the HYDRA threat and were immediately deployed to Eastern Europe. When they learned of the ambush on S.W.O.R.D, the SEAL team wanted to go on a rampage but Nick forbade them with a steely look. Instead, they were to remain here.

Every soldier and agent on base knew that Nick went on a rescue mission, it seemed to be a poorly guarded secret. Everyone wanted to be a part of the mission. Kevin, having just experienced heavy combat in the Ukraine, sensed the barely controlled tension, an undercurrent of violence that would need to be vented. Kevin understood this. Fighting men needed to be used, needed to employ their training to do what was right. One did not keep soldiers on standby when they knew their brothers were in trouble. Not without good reason. Kevin suspected the bigwigs in the Pentagon had something to do with it and wondered.

He finished his detailed lecture and dismissed his class. The students filed out and Kevin went to the window. This base was in a desolate place where even the sun refused to shine and it seemed to be gray all of the time. Sea birds hung in the air like feathery, mournful ornaments. Like the Catholic man that he was, he thought: Purgatory. We're all in purgatory. He reminded himself that he needed to write a letter to his sister, congratulating her for her graduation to full-fledged Marine.

Kevin was the black sheep of the SEALs, although well regarded and seen as a SEAL with potential. His teammates knew they could depend on him. It was just that he had an old fashioned air about him; not that he felt that he was better than the other men, he just carried himself differently. He did not like to boast of his accomplishments. Although single and very eligible, he preferred not to have sex until he was in a committed relationship. Astonishingly enough, that drove many women off. That was his goal, actually. He wasn't averse to having sex before marriage, and probably would when the right woman came around, but this served to filter out the SEAL groupies from the women who wanted what he did which was a committed relationship, not a tawdry affair.

He was a quiet and modest person, whose sharp wit came out at surprising times. Like his father, he was religious as well, which earned him the nickname of Priest. Kevin didn't tell anyone this, he thought it best kept to himself, but he said a prayer for each person he killed. He was up to seventy-eight prayers now.

His commanding officer told him once, "Priest, with shooting like that, you're going to have all the bad guys praying to God."

"If I'm doing my job right, they won't have the opportunity to pray to God." Kevin said, simply.

His attention was drawn to the sight of the helicopter as it made gentle contact with the landing pad and watched as Nick emerged, along with a woman. She resembled a piece of dried up shit, to put it bluntly. He mused he noticed she had a white streak in her hair, like Nick did. A large man who he immediately recognized followed them. His eyebrow raised. I see why he wouldn't let us tag along on his rescue mission. I wonder how he got Frank. He watched, anticipating more agents from that failed assignment to pour out. None did. Only that woman. That's really not good.

Kevin decided to go catch up with Nick and the rest of them before they disappeared in the complex.

# # #

Frank saw Kevin, dressed in his uniform, stride toward them. Not what I wanted to deal with right now. It isn't going to take Fury long to piece things together. Maybe I should just give up and let him find out.

As if granting him divine permission, Nick waved him over. "Castiglioni, meet Rogue and …." He chose to let Frank introduce himself.

"Frank. We're acquainted. We've met through his father." Frank said, shortly. He wanted to get Rogue medical care. They tried to get her in a stretcher while in transit, but she did not have any of that nonsense. She fought them off with a fierce glare. She did not care to be poked and prodded, as Rogue put it. Certainly not in a whirlybird, she told them all firmly.

"Nice to meet ya, Castiglioni." Rogue replied and Kevin smiled at her warm and welcoming Southern accent. The Castle genes were indeed strong, she thought and she wobbled a little bit. Silently, Frank picked her up and she did not object. She could not stop him and a look at his face told her that he'd had enough of her stubborn pride. One wisely picked their battles with Frank. This is one Ah'll give to him.

Nick stayed quiet, though he looked at the two of them for a moment. He shrugged. It wasn't his business to know what was between Frank and Kevin and how they came to meet. Yet. Right now, it was more important to get Rogue some medical attention. "This way, Frank."

A short while later, after Frank deposited her in the examination room, Rogue sighed. Rogue wanted privacy while the medical staff checked her out and Frank understood.

"I know you may not want to do this, but we need you to remove your clothes so we can take care of you and document your injuries." Agent Blanchett tried to reassure Rogue, as she prepped all the necessary equipment for the exam. Rogue withdrew the USB drive from her pants pocket and kept it close to hand.

Rogue shoved off the boots, let the clothes drop and kicked them to the side. She closed her eyes and felt Blanchett's eyes on her myriad scratches, bruises and cuts. A soft, offended intake of breath betrayed Blanchett. She must have seen the word carved on me. Ah swear if they can't make it disappear, Ah'll slice it off me. Rogue listened to the soft clicking of a camera phone.

"Williams, we're going to clean you up after we do a rape kit. I'm afraid that I'll have to take pictures. But it might not feel comfortable while I'm doing the kit and I'm sorry for that." Blanchett sounded so sympathetic that Rogue wanted to choke her. Rogue imagined her hands around the nurse's neck as her head flailed wildly. She hated sympathy and pity; while ok in small doses, they were mostly useless emotions and wasted time. She just wanted to see HYDRA burn. Rogue winced but became as quiet as a stone while Blanchett ran swabs and documented the injuries to her anatomy.

While in the waiting area, Kevin caught up on the aftermath of the mission. Nick took a look at the young man and decided to trust him. Word was going to get out anyhow. "So that's what happened. She took care of them before we could."

"I'm impressed. SEALs have been known to die under similar circumstances." Kevin replied and scratched his jaw. He'd need to shave tomorrow. "What's your connection to her, Frank? Old war buddy?" Kevin thought this might not be the best time to call him Grandpa, especially since Frank—apparently—didn't want Nick in on the familial connection.

Frank grunted at his grandson, who just gave him an expression of feigned innocence. "We're dating, if you must know."

Agent Blanchett emerged from the medical facilities to apprise Nick and Frank about Rogue's condition and prognosis—with her patient's permission. At Blanchett's personal request, Kevin wandered off to go find a water fountain. He'd be back later. There was nothing on his agenda to do, and why not return to give the 'old' man some support.

"Well, she's not in bad shape considering what she's been through. She's been sexually assaulted, and someone was a sadist and carved the word slut into her stomach." Blanchett grimaced. "However, an MRI of her face has shown that she suffered a pretty bad facial fracture. The doctor says that she will require surgery. We're flying in an oral and maxillofacial surgeon just for her. I trust you don't object, Director Fury."

"I don't mind. How long do you think she'll be out of action?" Nick lit a cigar and smoked it. Frank just sat and thought.

"About three months. She's young and healthy; she'll heal fast. I also recommend a good psychologist; it's my professional opinion that she'll need some help dealing with the aftermath." Blanchett waited for a dismissal. She had to go about her rounds now and finish up her shift.

"You're dismissed, Blanchett. But before you go, is it ok for her to have visitors?"

"Yes, as long as you don't stay too long. She needs her rest. You can find her in room 101." Then Blanchett was off, to care for Rogue and other people on her watch.

"Castiglioni, eh? I've heard that name before. First time I heard it was in Iwo Jima. Met one Mario Castiglioni, he was a dependable Marine—not one to write home about, though. He had a few good moves but he was nowhere near the fighter his son ended up being." Nick continued to smoke his cigar, drawing in a deep breath and slowly letting it escape. "How are you related to Kevin and David?"

"David is Frank Jr. It's a long story. I'm not getting into it." Frank told him, keeping it quick and to the point. Nick believed him. Frank was not one to create fairy tales, especially about his son being alive.

"This will stay between you and me, Frank." Nick promised him. "Go talk to your old lady. I'll stay here until you're done. I'd like to have a discussion with her, too."

"Oh, before you go. I got the test results of that hair you gave me. It's definitely DNA from a shapeshifter. We can't confirm that it belongs to Mystique, since we don't have a known sample on hand." Nick said. It seemed Frank and Rogue had a blue cockroach problem infesting their lives. It might be time to fumigate, and Nick would help them if asked. Mystique was a potential threat to national security given the nature of her skill set and powers.

Frank went to the room assigned to her. He hated the sterile surroundings of a hospital and had been to hospitals far too many times for his taste. She lay in her bed and sipped ice water. "They said Ah can't have any more food until after the surgery tomorrow. So it's only water for me." Rogue seemed both frail and strong. The gleam in her eyes spoke of her determination to never let people get the better of her. Ever. He liked that about her. She had the quality of being bulletproof yet warm at the same time.

He picked up her hand and squeezed it. He would let her decide what she wanted to tell him. Whether it be small talk or a more serious conversation, he'd listen. Rogue must have seen that in his face and her resolve crumbled enough for Frank to see the pain she walled up.

"Tell me what you want to." Frank watched as she fully let down her guard, trusting that he was correct and knowing that he would protect her, that she did not have to be strong in this moment. The level of trust she had for him, he knew he had no right to have, but he had it nonetheless. The anguish washed over her and he felt it rise against him, a wave of daggers.

The story came out of her between bursts of crying and flares of pure wrath. He pieced it together and kissed her forehead. Frank felt her tremble with anger, not at him but at those who harmed her team and friends. "Ah'm going to kill every HYDRA Ah come across. It might take me the rest of my life, but Ah'll do it." She considered for a moment. "Though it's odd that Ah can't remember everything. It's almost like part of my memory's been redacted."

"After Valley Forge, there were parts that I forgot." He said to her. He tried to recall it now, but was left with blank holes in his memory. He chalked it up to the mind coping with the after effects of combat.

Frank thought about Mystique. He thought about whether or not to tell Rogue he slept with her. After a moment, he opted for the truth. If she found out, she would be furious at him. If he confided to her of his own volition, maybe she'd understand. And if she doesn't, she'll leave me and be happy. "I've got something to tell you…"

Rogue was quiet as a dead stone after he confessed. She seized a few excruciating minutes to think, she finally said, "You had sex with her under the presumption that she was me. Ah'm mad, but not at you. We thought she was dead; you had no way of knowing." Rogue felt surprisingly reasonable. She knew the man, knew him to his bones. He'd never willingly cheat on a partner. Cheating was offensive to him and against his nature. "Frank, this is just my opinion, but Ah don't think it'd be wise for you to go back to NYC anytime soon."

"I was thinking of becoming an independent contractor for Fury." He admitted. From what Rogue relayed to him and from the data gleaned from Nick, HYDRA was an immediate and very credible threat to innocent people—especially women and children. What worried Frank is that this whole situation felt like a distraction, as if the mission were to take Nick's focus away from what HYDRA was really up to. That compound was under guarded. Zemo and Z mysteriously left on 'errands', just in time to avoid having their asses handed to them. I don't like this at all.

"That's a surprise." Rogue finished her water and futilely craved something to eat.

"HYDRA must have a trick up its sleeve. This mission was meant to distract Fury, I think. It stinks like a ten-day old corpse." Frank flatly stated. After seeing and hearing about what Rogue went through, he kept thinking about what if this happened to someone else's daughter or wife. He could not tolerate this and knew he had the prerequisite skill set to help stop HYDRA.

Rogue clenched her teeth despite the pain from her fractured bones. "God damn it. Ah believe you, but to have my friends killed for no good reason…"

"Welcome to war, Lori. Soldiers die for shitty reasons." Frank informed Rogue.

"Point taken." If she couldn't eat, then Rogue wanted to sleep. To be in a warm, clean bed seemed like a luxury to her now. A luxury she wanted to partake in.

"Before you get comfortable, Nick needs to talk with you. Probably wants to hear your story." Frank rose to his feet, whispered something that made her smile, then headed for the door. "I'll see you in the morning, before your surgery."

# # #

David sat down at his work desk the next morning and opened up his briefcase only to be assaulted with the crimes photos of that night in his apartment. They were in black and white, but that somehow only made the gore worse to him. He remembered that scene, saw it when he closed his eyes to sleep at night. Cameron, Emma and Morena. Dead. For no acceptable reason. Just avarice and stupidity. He tried not to recall how ruby red their blood was, or how still they lay amongst the revelry of the ill-fated Christmas party. Or the crunch of broken ceramic plates and ornaments under the stretcher as the paramedics hauled him away. He tried not to imagine his sister and mother lying amongst his family, joined with them in the permanence of death.

"Who the hell slipped these in my briefcase?" David's temper began to get the better of him before he inhaled deeply and collected himself. They weren't in the briefcase last night. He would have known it. That left home. Trent was the only person at home, since the nanny and housekeeper had to leave early. David was relatively sure the sweet woman would never put something so atrocious in his case.

He emailed an employee asking for tips to track online activity. He'd have to do some sleuthing when he got home. I'll get Martha to take Trent out for dinner while I snoop on the computer. He rang her up on his cellphone when he took a breather from his job and the welcome pressures it brought him. It turned out that Martha asked David if she could take Trent over to her house for dinner. She was going to have her grandchildren over and thought Trent might make a much needed friend. David consented, seeing that would give a chance for Trent to engage in social interactions.

It'll give me an opportunity to go through his room. He hated to invade his son's privacy, but David needed to sort out what was going on with him. Trent was beginning to set off mild alarms in David and those could not be ignored, not for Trent's mental health or his either.

He left work two hours early, which meant he worked a regular day. After tossing his keys on the kitchen counter, he went to the family computer which was stationed in the living room. David firmly had said no to a computer in Trent's room, despite the boy pleading with his father. He brought up the internet browser, and after some real digging, pulled up the website that had the crime scene and autopsy photos.

Trent must have seen this shit. I tried to protect it from him and he still saw them, all of them desecrated. He wondered why Trent put the pictures where David would be sure to find them. Maybe it's his way of letting me know that he's seen what he shouldn't have. Maybe he's asking for help. He cleared out the internet history and decided to forbid Trent the internet unless he was under direct supervision. He put up a password on the computer as an added measure.

Now to check out his room. David, nervous at what he could find, wasn't too keen on searching his son's bedroom. But, he did. Methodically, he combed through the preternaturally clean room and finally found a box he was not familiar with. He must have got this after we moved in. David opened it to find a diorama of the apartment. Trent used cheap, naked knock off Barbie dolls to portray their family. Trent had applied a great deal of red nail polish to represent blood.

Nauseated, he set the disturbing display down on Trent's tidy bed. He shook, not knowing what to do other than call his son's psychiatrist. I'll talk with Trent first. Then with Dr. Crocker. This was not normal behavior. Sometimes doll mutilation indicated a deep psychological disturbance—and sometimes not with kids being kids—but in this instance, he suspected Trent was truly troubled.

He heard the door open and Martha announced her presence. "We're home, Mr. Castiglioni." There was an urgency in her voice, as if she desperately needed to have a chat with him. David sighed and wondered what it was about. Probably something to do with Trent.

Trent's footsteps made a light noise as he came to his bedroom door. "DAD! Why are you in my room?" He bore an expression of embarrassment, which deepened as he noticed the box.

"Before you ask, I've seen what was inside the box. And yes, I've found the pictures in my briefcase. I know you put them there. Don't bother to lie to me. After I talk with your nanny, you and I are going to have a serious discussion. You stay in this room, Trent." David had to work up to summon all his sternness to impress on Trent that he meant it. David was being eaten alive by worry and sorrow that his son would wind up being fucked up.

He went out to the living room, where Martha was wringing her hands. "Is everything all right, Martha? Did Trent misbehave?"

"Yes, your son misbehaved! He went after my cat when he thought no one was looking! He was going to choke or break my Missy's neck! He didn't manage to succeed only because my husband kept an eagle eye on him[RL1] ." Martha cried. "Something is wrong with him! You have to get him more help."

"I most certainly will." David promised and that was enough to make Martha relax. "I'll be calling his psychiatrist tonight."

Martha sighed. "I'm afraid that I need to quit. I don't feel safe watching him anymore."

"I understand. I'll cut you a check for the rest of the month and if you'd like, I'll write up a reference." David said, sad that he'd lose a good nanny, but respected her resignation.

"Just make out the check for a full week and the reference." She tried to reassure David. Her opinion of him was high. He did attempt to be there for his son and cared very much about him. "I'm sorry about Trent. You're a great father, but …he's been broken inside."

He scribbled out the check, though he gave her two weeks' pay, and said that he'd mail her the reference in a few days. "Trent's going to keep me occupied tonight." He said with hollow words. "Goodbye, Martha."

"Goodbye, Mr. Castiglioni." She hustled out of the house to go back home. Martha fought to keep from crying. David should not have to go through this pain. He lost so much and now might lose even more.

With the matter of the nanny taken care of, David turned his attention to his son. His nose caught the sharp aroma of smoke. He found the fire extinguisher and ran down the hall toward Trent's room. He saw Trent smiling at the burning diorama, as the flames started to spread to the bed before David hosed it down. The boy held a lighter—David had to wonder how he got his hands on that.

David was furious now and he had it with Trent's behavior. "Why did you do that, Trent? Do you realize you could have killed us both?" He yanked the lighter from his son's hand. "Where did you get this? I want to know right now." He loomed over Trent, but Trent did not seem very afraid of him.

Trent mumbled a quick lie about having found it on the street and brought it home.

David briefly examined the lighter. "You're lying, Trent. You're not good at it." David pointed at the very crisp looking price tag, clinging to the bottom. It was generally a very bad idea to lie to an FBI agent. "If this had been on the ground, the tag would show signs of exposure to the elements. Also, the body of the lighter would have scratches on it. So try again, Trent. This time tell me the truth!"

"I stole it, Dad. I stole it from a grocery store. I stole the dolls and the nail polish. Not all at once, over time. I stole candy and soda from other places too." Trent was as cool as a cucumber. If he was upset in the slightest, it would solely be due to being caught red-handed.

David just asked, "Why? I gave you an allowance? You didn't need to steal this crap." Something is terribly wrong with my boy. Fear for him almost brought David to his knees. I don't want to lose another child. I don't want to lose Trent.

"I just felt like it, Dad. Can I be alone in my room now?"

"No. Get out to the living room. I'm going to call Dr. Crocker." David replied. "These actions of yours are not tolerable, Trent. Now march your butt to the sofa. No TV. I'll be out in a moment."

He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and called one Dr. Phineas Crocker. He hated calling him past eight in the evening but it was important. Dr. Crocker picked up on the fourth ring. David's foot tapped impatiently on the floor. He saw the half melted Barbies and how much more gruesome the diorama was with the warped limbs and heat twisted smiles of the dolls.

"David Castiglioni, is that you? What happened? Is Trent alright?" The voice came from a tired man who had probably been busy all day conducting sessions with his clients.

"Trent's not alright. His problems run deeper than we thought." David debriefed him about the photos, the butchered dolls, the attempted assault on the nanny's cat, the stealing, and how Trent started the fire.

Dr. Crocker let a deep sigh. "His behavior is …. devolving. He requires more intensive care than you or I can give him. He needs to be placed in residential care, for his benefit and yours. I know a good one inside D.C, you'll be able to visit whenever you want. But, David, for your safety, you need to admit him tonight." It went unsaid between them, but Trent was showing some signs of anti-personality disorder. As a psychiatrist, it would not be right to diagnose a child with that. The diagnosis was saved for people over the age of eighteen. The reason being that children, with proper therapy and support, could grow up to be functional human beings. Most of the time.

It cut him to the quick to say, "Ok, it needs to be done for his well-being." David knew his responsibilities as a parent weren't limited to keeping his kid safe from the world. It was also keeping the world safe from his child.

"Get his medical records and some clothes together and I'll call the Amber Glen Institute. We'll help him, David. You're doing the best you can." Dr. Crocker said before they hung up.

David went out to the living room to find Trent sitting on the couch, per his instructions. "Trent, we need to talk. What you're doing is not normal and your doctor and I agree you need a different kind of care. Tonight, I'm going to admit you to an inpatient facility. I don't want to do this but I am very worried about you."

"No! You can't do that! I'll be good. I'll be goooooood!" Trent screamed and hit the couch in anger. He kept on screaming until his face turned red. When he received no reaction except a fatherly glare, he stopped, snot running down his face.

David grabbed a Kleenex and wiped his son's face. "I love you, Trent. This decision hurts me a lot but part of being a dad means you have to make hard choices. I have to do this to get you healthy."

Trent glared at him, then cried. David wrapped his arms around Trent and kissed his head.

What David didn't know was that Trent got a kitchen knife while his father was talking with Dr. Crocker. Trent had caught snippets of the discussion and didn't like it one iota. So he went and got a sharp steak knife, secreting it on the inside of his shirt sleeve. Now, he wondered what it would be like to stab someone. The knife slid out and Trent sank the blade into his shoulder. It felt like stabbing a pillow. Trent enjoyed it and was going to do it some more. He yanked out the knife and stabbed him again.

David yelled as the blade entered his shoulder again. He seized Trent and put him in the nearest bathroom, one with no window for escape. Blood poured down his back as he called 911, gave his name and address. He leaned against the door, knowing that Trent was capable of anything. Trent scraped at the door with the knife.

"I'm going to kill you, Dad! You were supposed to love me! Not give me up." Trent howled with anger.

That was how the police found them. David bloodied and slumped against the door and Trent yelling threats of murder and destruction. The two cops could hardly believe their ears. They helped contain Trent, one of them got a scratch to the face for his efforts, but they managed. They called an ambulance for David and formulated a plan to handle Trent. There was a mental health facility at the hospital that would hold him until further arrangements could be made.

David just stared at the ceiling of the ambulance as he was hauled away. Trent was in the police vehicle, being taken to the same place. My own son stabbed me. What is he? What happened? What did I do wrong? He craved to talk to his own father, maybe get some advice. Then the ambulance stopped and he was carted off to the emergency room.