[Personal Log:
Location: Russia
23 April 2014
15:08
Day of the HYDRA Uprising] _
My eyes felt heavy and sticky as they opened. How long had I been asleep? My left hand went automatically to my pocket to check my phone for the time. Fifteen hundred hours S.H.I.E.L.D. time, but my muddled brain couldn't seem to translate that into my current time zone. Whatever that was.
Blinking rapidly, I rotated my stiff neck and pushed myself further up against the tree to look around. Assess the situation. I pulled the med kit towards me, perusing its contents for anything remotely useful. More of the square bandages I had pressed to my wound and enough adhesive tape to cocoon my entire arm. The half-empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, bloody tweezers, and an even bloodier scalpel. I found ibuprofen in one of the side pockets and I downed two in the hopes of taking the edge off of the bullet wound. Near the bottom surfaced a tiny packet of numbing gel, which would have been useful an hour or so ago but not so much now. Among the other useless items were an oral thermometer, shots of epinephrine, and a package of five small, empty syringes. On a more fortunate note, there was a plastic bottle of hard candies, a small flashlight and batteries, and, of course, the blanket in which I was currently ensconced.
A quick investigation of my pocket produced my badge and S.H.I.E.L.D. ID, government-issued driver's license and credit card behind it. The other revealed a grand total of fifteen American dollars and my phone, with all of its 38% battery charge and no service. I turned it off as a precaution.
The ICER Agent Simmons had given me was still strapped to my right leg, but I didn't know how much of a help that was going to be in the wilderness. How many shots of—what was it, dendrotoxin?—would it take to knock out a bear?
I shivered, not really dressed for the cold Russian weather. There was no telling just how chilly it would get come midnight, but the sun was only beginning to set and already my teeth were on the verge of chattering. It didn't help that my white blouse was soaked in red in one corner with a large rip through it, although the black tank top underneath seemed to have escaped damage. My pants were of a decent thickness and hopefully my boots would be enough, combined with the S.H.I.E.L.D. blanket, to prevent frostbite. Already my fingers were beginning to feel less human and more like sausages attached to my palms, and I put them between my knees in the hopes of warming them up before scanning the rest of the clearing.
The bright orange parachute, damn it. Not only was it at least twenty by ten feet long, it was the brightest color as far as the eye could see. And...what was the likelihood S.H.I.E.L.D. had installed a tracking beacon in their parachutes? Highly likely. If S.H.I.E.L.D. had been taken over by HYDRA, that parachute would lead them right to me.
I lurched upward and onto my feet on unsteady legs, listing to the side before finding done remnant of balance. I grabbed the scalpel from the med kit contents strewn on the ground and made my way over to the billowy parachute, searching along the rim with my hands for the tell-tale bump of a tracker. Slashing carefully through the fabric, I cut it out, leaving a small black cylinder in my hand about the size of three quarters stacked atop one another. Casting about for a rock, I beat the diminutive device until its plastic coating and electronic guts were one in the same—a smashed hunk of metal and wires.
Night was falling for real now, and I could swear it was getting steadily colder by the minute. I was deeply regretting the decision to leave my jacket in my room at the Hub before going wandering around—before this madness had descended—when my eyes fell on Victoria. Ignoring the flip of my stomach, I extricated it from her stiff body and pulled it into my own, taking extra care with my left shoulder. I dragged the orange parachute back to the tree against which I had been leaning. I picked up the pack with one hand, awkwardly untangling the strings before tossing it up into the tree. It landed back at my feet with a defiant thump. I launched it harder the next time, resulting in sizzling pain from my shoulder as I stretched too far. My butt hit the hard ground with a jolt, but the pack stuck. I reached out to pull the orange parachute over myself, the ridges in it forming a sort of oblong tent. It didn't touch the ground on both sides and was by no means perfect, but hopefully it would conserve some heat as well. I tucked my knees up to my chest and wrapped myself up in the S.H.I.E.L.D. blanket again. My eyes closed not of my own accord, and before I knew it I was asleep.
Stiff arms. Stiff legs. And the sensation of being repeatedly stabbed in my left shoulder with a hot poker. When I groped with one still-half-dead-to-the-world hand for the edge of the parachute and pulled it aside, the sun streamed directly into my eyes from the only patch of sky not obscured by tree branches. I flexed my fingers and wiggled my toes inside my boots.
Peeling the adhesive tape off my sensitive skin, I examined the stitched wound underneath. The bandage wasn't bloody this time so much as soaked in a clearish liquid, and I changed it out with gritted teeth. The wound itself was an angry red, but it didn't look overly swollen or anything of that sort. I wished I had Adrianna to confirm that for me.
I wished I had my team.
After making my semi-uncooperative legs support my weight again I started working my jaw as I moved around the small area of my "camp," moving like an old, crotchety woman who both misplaced her cane and forgot to take her medication. Somehow I ended up next to Victoria's body.
It had taken on a pale complexion overnight, giving her a ghostly, very, very dead look. Her lips were pursed much like they had been when she was alive, and if not for her color I would have said she would get up and start berating some new cadets under her command in that strict and disapproving time of hers. Her black-framed glasses were askew on her nose, and I gingerly fixed them back in place, remembering her habit to push them back in place whenever she was handed an overly large stack of files. Then, of course, back when she was my SO, she would hand them to me to deal with, but I never minded. A new analyst fresh out of the Academy was lucky to get her, and word was she only took on those who exceeded her rigid standards. I understood that. She was hardly ever anything but impatient, was intolerant of most forms of extravagant socialization—including, but not limited to, bars, parties, and even large birthday celebrations, and rarely found cause to smile. But I also had never learned more from anyone in my life, never had someone whose character I trusted so completely. She was my SO, my trusted friend and mentor.
I clasped her cold hand in mine, frustration and sadness emanating from me, but none of it leaking out my eyes. That was a good thing, because I wasn't quite sure the tears wouldn't just freeze to my face as I crouched there.
Then my stomach growled, and I realized just how hungry and thirsty I was. Water, I thought. Why did the stupid S.H.I.E.L.D. med kit not come with water? It was time to do some exploring, truly assess my situation.
I unscrewed the lid of the bottle of hard candies and popped one into my mouth, dropping the golden wrapper back inside. Butterscotch. I stood up, carefully brushing dust off the back of my pant legs. On second thought, I emptied the bottle into the bare bottom of the med kit, taking the bottle to carry water if I found some. It wouldn't hold much, but besides the half-full alcohol container it was the biggest I had.
I set off in one direction where the trees seemed to be thinning out slightly, trying to maintain a straight course but stumbling a little unavoidably. The bright orange of the parachute meant that I would probably be able to find my way back within a hundred feet, but it also meant anyone else could too. What Garrett said over the microphone was right—S.H.I.E.L.D. was in no condition to mount a rescue op for one agent, especially one whom they wouldn't even know where to look. The only senior agent who might have launched such a futile mission for me was lying in a forest with two holes in her chest.
Of course, as one of the few level eight agents left, Coulson might have considered going after Hand worthwhile, but we wouldn't be reported missing until—well, with Ward in the picture, weeks from now. No help from S.H.I.E.L.D. was coming.
HYDRA, on the other hand...Garrett had labeled me a lost cause and gone off to raid the Fridge. There was no reason to think he might not do a follow-up once they were finished there, or have one of his cronies do it just to make sure. Especially if they were trying to keep Ward's cover intact with Coulson's team—I knew the truth. I was a threat. HYDRA eliminated threats.
So, camouflage. I'd already destroyed the tracker, but to any low-flying overhead aircraft, the orange would be as good as a beacon saying, "Come, kill me, I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with possible knowledge of your evil plans for world domination!" I was on my way to find a source of water; perhaps there would be mud as well—insulating and toning down the bright color.
It didn't take much walking to find a lake, and I pulled out the jar and filled it about three-fourths of the way with water. Then I sloshed in some of the ethyl alcohol. I swirled the mixture around in the jar before opening it and taking in a long draught. Despite its mild acrid taste, it felt like the best thing I'd put in my mouth for the past month. The headache I hadn't noticed developing receded, and I filled the jar again, repeating the process. This time I capped the jar for good after adding the alcohol, swinging it absently as I surveyed the lake and its shoreline. The were no signs of civilization as far as my eyes could see, but the sun reflecting off the water made visibility poor. The edge was fine dirt rather than sand and the entirety of the lake appeared relatively clear and clean.
I glanced upward and, suddenly feeling exposed with only open sky above me, retreated back to the tree line and then back to camp. The ache returned with a vengeance to my shoulder, and as utter exhaustion gripped me I was forced to take a midday rest. A few hours passed before I came to again, and I packed my meager possessions into the parachute backpack, the process made doubly as long by the loss of the use of one hand. Slinging the pack onto my back was easy, but I soon discovered that the left strap wound directly over my bullet wound and decided to hoist it on my good shoulder only. The parachute folded into a not-unmanageable bundle.
I knelt by Victoria—Victoria's body—and took her cold hand in mine. "You won't be forgotten," I promised her in an empty tone. "Your name will go on the Wall of Valor. And if the old one got torn down in the uprising, we'll start a new one." Tears wet my lashes for the first time. "Goodbye, Victoria." And then, even quieter, "You were like family." A great void was opening in my chest, threatening up suffocate me.
I reached into the pocket of her jacket—my jacket, now, and retrieved her S.H.I.E.L.D. badge. I touched it to her hand. "I'll keep this for you. You will be remembered." Standing shakily, I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
After picking up the orange bundle, I left, refusing to look back. I collapsed on the waterfront, exhausted and contented to spend the next two hours dunking the orange cloth in mud. The result was a dark soil color with only an orange tint left, a result that left me satisfied. I changed the covering on my wound, well aware of the fast dwindling supply of bandages, and retreated to the trunk of a tree as I had sat against before. I fell asleep, as I had done many times since my arrival.
