There is medicine in his pocket. Make sure he takes it daily. He doesn't know why.

If you hurt him, you know what I will do.

Be better than I think you are.

-GW

"What was the medicine?" asked Coulson, passing the handwritten note on to May.

"The bottle said Strib- Striblid? No, Stribild," said Skye. "Simmons says the pills match the shape and color for that name, but she'll need a bit longer to check the chemical composition."

"What is it for?" Coulson has beginning to feel the enormous responsibility he had taken on. At least five years until the boy reached the age of majority.

May and Skye exchanged glances and shrugs. It wasn't a familiar antibiotic or sedative or analgesic.

"It's for HIV," said Mack. "Post-exposure prophylaxis or maintenance meds." He did not explain how he knew this and the others did not ask.

'Maybe not such a long responsibility,' thought Coulson, and he hated himself for it.


Curtis carefully inventoried every object in his cell. He palpated the length and breadth of his mattress, searching for sensors or hidden tools – there was a zipper, but that didn't really count. He paged through the magazines. There could still be subtle codes left in there, but there weren't any obvious messages. There was a big box of nutrition bars. He should probably ration them, but he didn't know how long he was expected to survive on them. There were clothes that looked sort of like hospital scrubs in a few different sizes. It didn't really matter since the shirts were shapeless and the pants had elastic waistbands. No shoes, but non-stick slipper socks. There were no obvious weapons, but Curtis had been trained by Grant Ward, so he knew that anything could be a weapon if he wanted it to be.

There were cameras, of course. And even though the wall looked white to him, Curtis was sure that the SHIELD agents could see into his cell. Two years of incarceration had left him utterly indifferent to personal modesty. At least, he thought so, but then he was awfully glad to arrange the privacy screen around the toilet and showerhead which popped out of the walls. Finished with his hygiene tasks and dressed in the best-fitting of the provided clothes, Curtis sat down on his cot to pray.

There was a beep and the white wall fell away. Curtis was prepared for this, although he hadn't expected it to be so soon. He leapt up and ran for the exit only to feel his face smack into an invisible barrier.

There was a low, gentle laugh. "I'm sorry," said the man. "I should've warned you about the wall. I'd like to see you out and moving around the base eventually, but for now…" He gestured to a panel platform sticking up from the floor on his side of the barrier. "My name is Dr. Andrew Garner."

"Do you work for Phil Coulson?"

"I- yes. I'm not a SHIELD agent, but I am essentially a contractor." It was better to be overly honest in these first few meetings. "I understand you're not his biggest fan."

"You kidnapped a minor," said Curtis, choosing to avoid the topic of Director Coulson for the time being. "That's got to be a serious crime."

"I realize that you're not going to believe me, but I can tell you that we did not take you against Mr. Ward's will."

"You're right. I don't believe you."


"You may be captured one day. You may be interrogated." Grant signed FUTURE-THEY ASK YOU FORCE CREATE YOU SAY as he spoke. He knew he didn't have all the signs to explain this and that Nevaeh would have to tolerate a little lipreading in addition to his pidgin sign.

"SHIELD won't use torture per se, but they will use persuasion." SHIELD NO YOU KILL MAKE YOU SICK NO. SHIELD NICE TALK YOU. "Other groups might be crueler." NOT SHIELD MAYBE HURT ASK.

"You've probably seen movies where the hero says, 'I'll never talk'. That's stupid. Go ahead and talk. Just watch what you say. Ask questions. Mix truth and lies." FIVE-OF-YOU NOT NO-SAY. FIVE-OF-YOU ASK SAY RIGHT SAY WRONG BLEND. "People are bad at being random, so here's the trick: Think of a long word or a short sentence." YOU THINK FINGERSPELLING. "Whenever they ask you a question, think of the next letter. If it's a consonant, tell the truth. If it's a vowel, lie." B, C, D, F, AND SAME YOU SAY RIGHT. A, E, AND SAME YOU SAY WRONG.

Ward looked at each of them slowly. He spoke and signed simultaneously. He had practiced this. "If you are captured, it's your job to stay strong. Survive."


"I'd like to ask you some questions," said Dr. Garner.

This is it, thought Curtis. This is my first interrogation. He had to think of a word. He had to do this right. Grant was relying on him. 'Spelling' was the first word that came to mind. Grant always told them it was more important to be quick than creative.

"I understand that you were very close with Mr. Ward. Tell me what's so great about him." Garner managed to say the second sentence without a trace of sarcasm, sounding for all the world as though he were genuinely curious.

S. Tell the truth. Keep it short and simple. "He raised me from perdition."

Garner pursed his lips as he considered the odd phrasing. "What does 'perdition' mean to you?"

P. "It's like hell. I used to be a sinner in hell. He pulled me out."

"What was your first impression of Mr. Ward?"

E. "I thought he was..." Quick, think of a lie. Not powerful, not terrifying, not godlike, not beautiful, not- "weak. I thought he was weak. I mean, he had muscles, sure, but most guys like are just showing off. Gun cuts anybody down to size."

Garner looked skeptical, but he didn't question the response. "What did you and Mr. Ward do after you left with him?"

L. "We stole a car and drove north. You can't really hotwire cars anymore. That's just in movies. But you can steal them if you know how, especially if you have the right tools."

"Mr. Ward sounds like a resourceful man. I imagine he taught you a lot."

That wasn't a question, so Curtis said nothing.

"I'm going to bet that he took you someplace interesting, someplace that made you feel special." Garner knew that Ward probably seemed near-omnipotent to his followers, especially to a child. Professional experience had taught him that he could project a sense of power by making a few obvious predictions. "Where did he take you?"

L. Curtis was supposed to tell the truth, but that memory was private. He didn't want to share it with this man. "We went to the beach," he said finally, leaving out all the important details.

"The beach. I see."

Curtis added no further information.

"Where were the others?"

I. "It was just me and Miles back then. Grant didn't recruit the others until later. Miles was doing a mission and he met up with us in Baltimore."

Dr. Garner knew that didn't fit the data in a number of ways. Miles disappeared from detention in Hong Kong after Nevaeh Little dropped out of university. And based on what Skye said, Miles was the most squeamish about Ward's plans. If Ward was smart (unfortunately, all data suggested that he was), he wouldn't send his least loyal subject to another city alone. Dr. Garner leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. "Curtis, if you don't want to answer me, just say so, but I would very much prefer if you didn't lie."

N. "I'd very much prefer if you choked on a dick," answered Curtis, speaking naught but the truth.

Garner laughed. He didn't seem angry. "Now you've settled in, is there anything you need?"

G. "I need to talk to Grant."


"Have you ever seen the ocean?" asked Grant, in between bites of a fast-food burrito.

"Sure," said Curtis. "Those movies where they show you dolphins and stuff." He was wary of disappointing this muscular, magical man who had appeared in his life like a genie from a bottle.

"I meant in real life."

Curtis tipped his head like a puppy, as if the idea of a real ocean had never occurred to him. "Umm…"

"That's a no, then," said Grant, shifting into the right lane. "I grew up near the ocean, saw it all the time, so I never got what the big deal was." He ate the last bite of his burrito and took the exit ramp. "What do you think the ocean is good for?"

This was much worse than a school quiz because Curtis wasn't sure that there was a right answer. It was an ecosystem – that was important, wasn't it? – but he doubted that Grant had broken him out of prison to discuss earth science. "Well," he said, hoping this was a response worthy of his freedom, "it's a good place to hide a body."

Grant laughed. "Eh, it's not bad. You have to dump it pretty far offshore, or it will just wash up on the beach. And even further out, you have to watch out for the currents. But yeah, if you weigh it down correctly, a body can be lost in the bottom of the sea." He turned left down an unlit street.

They travelled in silence. Even though he was too excited to be hungry, Curtis ate a chicken soft taco. It was messy. He wished he had gotten a burrito like Grant. Then Curtis remembered that he was riding in a stolen car with a felon and he decided that a few pieces of shredded lettuce on the seats were no big deal in the grand scheme of things. Grant pulled off the side street onto a thin, marginally paved road. Curtis realized he should be paying more attention to his surroundings in case he had to escape or Grant sprung a pop quiz on him. The tiny street led them to a dead end and Grant parked the car.

"Are you a serial killer?" asked Curtis.

Grant chuckled, getting out of the car. "I've been called that," he said, "but it's not how I see myself."

Curtis followed him around the DEAD END signs, through thinning pines, over increasingly sandy soil. He didn't know where we he was going, but he knew that if he were a character in a movie, the audience would be shouting at him to make a run for it. He also knew that running would be futile. The man ahead of him on the path obviously knew this land, his long legs and black boots eating up terrain. He had weapons and he Curtis knew by instinct that this man knew how to use them. No, running would get him nowhere. And even if he did escape, where would he go?

Grant pushed through the last wave of pines, holding the branches back as if he were holding the door open in a gallant gesture. Curtis stepped forward to see…a beach. A small one, but with everything a beach should have: foamy waves, gritty sand, and sea shells. And past those things, the ocean.

"It's so big," whispered Curtis reverently, before he remembered that he was trying to impress Grant.

But Grant only smiled. He knelt down and removed his boots and socks. "You don't have to take off your shoes, but I'd recommend it."

"Are we going swimming?"

"No, far too cold for that." Still, Grant walked right to the edge of the shore and stood like a sentinel with his feet shoulder-width apart. As each wave washed over his feet, sand was shifted and deposited, burying them. He didn't move at all when struck by the waves. Then he did something even more bizarre: he unzipped and pissed into the surf. Shaking off and putting himself away, he said, "Imagine a piece of driftwood. It might think it wants to go one way or another, but it's really controlled by the currents. Or imagine billiard balls. They can't move on their own. They can only bounce." Grant looked back at Curtis. "What are people made of?"

"Cells?"

"And what are cells made of?"

That wasn't a question Curtis had studied in school. "Chemicals?" he guessed.

"Right," said Grant. "Chemicals are made of atoms and atoms are just billiard balls. Just driftwood. That's all people are, floating in an ocean of currents." He straightened himself and stared back at the sea.

"Are you talking about free will?"

"I am. There's no such thing. People might say that they would do something different if they'd been in your place, but they're not you, they haven't been floating in your currents. There's no way that you could have done anything different than what you've done."

Curtis understood this, sort of. The ocean was in charge. People had to embrace fate.

"You asked if I was a serial killer," said Grant. He unearthed his feet from the sand and sat down on a boulder to don his shoes. "That means you think it's possible. But you still came with me. Why?"

"Because anything's better than that place."

"Not death."

"Maybe death."

"You don't really believe that, or you would have killed yourself."

"They take away anything you can use to do it."

"If you want to do it badly enough, you'll find a way." Grant reached out for his second boot and Curtis noticed the scars on his wrists for the first time. "So you knew that I could kill you and you see death as a risk. Why did you come with me?"

"Because…I wanted to make things change."

"Good boy," said Grant. "And now do you understand why I pissed into the ocean?"

Curtis stood in silence for a full minute, organizing his thoughts and assigning them words. "Because," he said, "fuck fate."