The first section of this chapter contains a mildly graphic description of consensual sex with BDSM elements, so use your best judgment. Or use someone else's best judgment. Or don't use judgment at all. Why would you have to obey me? I'm a writer, not a cop.
Grant and Kara had once stayed at a cheap motel called the McKinley Lodge, between a strip mall and an AME church. It wasn't as nice as their previous accommodations, but Grant was running low on cash and he preferred to avoid his drop points, in case SHIELD had staked them out. The place wasn't too bad – the towels were clean and the walls were thick – but it lacked air conditioning, so they lazed about and fucked each other in the midday heat while they waited for the sun to go down.
Despite all the ways that Kara Palamas and Grant Ward had been perfectly matched, they were sexually incompatible. Not that they hadn't had sex – they had done that quite a bit and found it pleasant – but they were both submissive, sexually speaking.
Kara had liked to be pinned at her wrists. Grant knew enough about Hydra and the Faustus brainwashing technique to know that wrist restraint must have reminded her of her torture at Whitehall's hands. He didn't know enough psychology to understand why she would want to re-experience the trappings of such a miserable moment while they were fucking, but it was clear she did. She had asked him to hold her down, soft and plaintive, and he could hardly be expected to deny her. Grant didn't particularly enjoy the position; he liked to use his mouth and his hands on his partners. It didn't allow for much spontaneity either – he simply pinned her down, kissed her and rubbed against her, let go of one wrist momentarily to guide himself in, and then thrust until they were both finished. But Kara had loved it, and Grant couldn't resist the way her eyes fluttered when she came.
Grant had asked her once to choke him. That was what he liked. And Kara said yes because she always said yes. He had been her king, he knew, and she had wanted to please him. She had seemed willing, interested. She hadn't judged his predilections the way that May had. It was Grant's best orgasm in months and he had promptly fallen asleep afterward. He awoke an hour or so later to find Kara, in the bathroom, wearing only her panties. (This was more concerning than finding her completely nude, because it meant she had begun to dress, but gotten derailed somehow.) Her face was rapidly changing from one image to another and she was whispering promises of compliance to an imagined Daniel Whitehall.
Grant put on boxers and a t-shirt. He wasn't stupid. He knew that something about the sex had set her off and further nudity probably wouldn't help. He wrapped her in her bathrobe and guided her back to bed. "It's okay," he said to her. "We won't do that again."
Kara seemed to take comfort in that. Her face-shifting slowed, though it didn't stop entirely. "I'm happy to comply," she said softly.
She needed something, he knew. Closure. A way to finally purge the hold that Hydra had established on her brain. But he couldn't give that to her right now. He was supposed to just comfort her. How the hell was he supposed to do that? No one had ever comforted him. The closest thing was Skye buying him that drink in Ireland. He had only ever seen it on television. You just hug the other person and say exactly the right thing and maybe sing to them? Something like that? Or was that how you put a baby to sleep?
Grant put his arm around Kara and drew her close. She was rocking back and forth, so he rocked with her. That didn't seem to be accomplishing much. It was terribly stuffy in the room so he opened the porch window in hopes of tempting a breeze. The fresh air seemed to bring down the tension in the room. With the window open, Grant could hear the AME choir rehearsing next door. He sat back down next to Kara, having no better ideas than to hold her hand and listen to the choir while he waited for the episode to pass.
The choir sang, "Oh sinner man, where you gonna run to?
Sinner man, where you gonna run to?
Where you gonna run to?
All on that day."
Coulson lingered outside of the door to Vault D. He'd only told May thus far. He could back out. They could transfer the boy to a civilian facility, a good one. He'd heard that Oregon had some very progressive juvenile detention policies.
No.
Coulson still didn't know what to do, but he wasn't going to hide from a thirteen-year-old boy while he figured it out.
He opened the vault door. The laser grid was engaged around the cell, of course. It was opaque, solid and soundproof. He adjusted the controls to drop the grid in a 2m*1m rectangle, then to reengage after 600ms. He wasn't going to meet his son from behind a screen.
"You knew," said Coulson when he entered the cell. He had considered all kinds of more profound statements, but that was what spilled out of his mouth. The kid knew. He hadn't felt this nervous about conversation since he was a sweaty sixteen-year-old trying to get a prom date.
"I'm not gonna suck your dick," said Curtis, rolling on his heels so he was crouched next to his cot. He looked wary. Then, his expression changed and his voice deepened. "I'm good at it, you know." It was a dare and a challenge and a plea all at once.
"I'm not here to hurt you." Coulson held up his hands – well, his hand and his stump. "Or touch you," he added. "I just want to talk."
Curtis gave no sign of agreeing to a conversation, but he didn't actively resist either. Coulson decided it was the best opening he was going to get. "I've never been a father before," said Coulson, "but I had a very good father, so I hope-"
"You've been a father for thirteen years," said Curtis, "just a really shitty one."
"I didn't know you existed. If I had known..." Coulson trailed off, because he couldn't really imagine an alternate life in which he dropped out of SHIELD or resigned himself to a desk job, a life in which he never met Stark or Skye or Captain America, was never killed, never resurrected. "Right now, I want to do what's best for you."
"Then let me go back with Grant. I like him. He helped me. He took care of me." Unlike you went unsaid.
"I know you don't believe me, but Ward gave you to us voluntarily."
"You're right, I don't believe you." Perhaps aware that he sounded sulky, Curtis changed tactics. "Why not my mom? Just send me back to live with her."
"Curtis," said Coulson, as gently as he was able, "did she ever visit you when you were locked up?" Like a lawyer, he only asked questions to which he already knew the answers.
"It was a long way away, like, a three hour drive."
"Did she ever call you? Write letters? Put money in your commissary?" Records showed that Curtis had received exactly one letter (a Christmas card) during his incarceration, and that his only visits were from the Little Sisters of Charity.
"I understand why Grant hates you so much," said Curtis, cold. "You should execute me. Because if you let me live, I promise I will kill you."
Coulson didn't look afraid, he just looked sad. "I don't know if there was a way I could have changed all of this, but if there was and I missed it, I'm sorry."
Curtis bowed his head and whispered to himself again, too quietly for Coulson to make out.
"Are you praying?" asked Coulson. "Do you have practice religion?"
"It's not that kind of prayer," said Curtis. For once, he didn't sound hostile. "It's more like a story. Do you want to hear it?"
"Yes," said Coulson, "yes, I do."
"Oh sinner man," began Curtis, "where you gonna run to?"
Well I run to the rock
Please hide me, I run to the rock
Please hide me, I run to the rock
Please hide me, Lord
All on that day
"Why aren't you taking a pill?" asked Miles, shifting his weight. Without actually breaking into a sprint, he was trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the fibrous cocoons that now enclosed Joseph, Nevaeh, and Soames.
"It won't work on me," said Ward. "Won't work on you, either. We don't have the right kind of talent."
"Why are we out in the middle of nowhere?"
"Because I don't know what their talents are going to be."
Miles felt his phone buzz in his pocket, two short hums and a long one. A private message on the KaoS message board. He wondered if he would have a chance to glance at it while Grant did whatever creepy unbelievable video game magic he was involved in now. He took another step back, jamming his hand into his pocket.
There was a loud crackling noise, almost like the sound of frying an egg as the cocoons began to vibrate. Ward smiled blithely, seeming wholly unconcerned the he had just called forth some kind of eldritch horror.
Miles very slowly, very quietly, pulled out his phone. Skye must have gotten his message. She remembered their old forays into cryptography. That was good. That was to both of their benefit. …especially given the content of the message.
But the rock cried out
"I can't hide you" the rock cried out
"I can't hide you" the rock cried out
"I ain't gonna hide you, guy
All on that day"
There was a sound like the tearing of rock and the first cocoon opened. It looked empty. Had Joseph been judged unworthy? Were his talents less impressive than Grant had believed? But no, it wasn't empty. Joseph was there, but he was very hard to see. Not precisely invisible, but he and all his clothes were thin and imprecise, as if he were only an afterimage of himself. Grant stepped forward and embraced him as a brother.
Soames emerged next. She stretched her arms and rolled her neck as if emerging from a long car ride. She looked the same as she had before. She scratched at her scalp and hair fell to the ground in thick tufts. The hair loosened from her arms and eyebrows, falling away with a light touch. She pinched her skin. She bit the fleshy part of her palm. She took the hunting knife from her belt and slashed across the inside of her elbow. There were sparks. There was no blood. Grant shook her hand as an equal.
Nevaeh could be heard clawing at the inside of her cocoon. Soames made as if to help her, but Ward gestured for them to wait. Nevaeh could manage full well on her own. The clawing turned to kicking and punching and finally, a small hole emerged. The small hole got bigger and the new woman joined her family.
I said, "Rock what's the matter with you, rock?
Don't you see I need you, rock?"
Lord, Lord, Lord
All on that day
Coulson recognized to the song, even though Curtis was speaking, not singing. Most Americans his age did. You didn't have to know jazz to know Nina Simone.
It told the story of a sinner who tries to flee the wrath of a merciless God on judgment day. The allegory wasn't particularly sophisticated. Coulson supposed he was supposed to be the sinner and Ward, or perhaps Curtis himself, would play the role of God and cast him into hell. The boy's recitation was fierce and focused, almost frightening in its intensity.
There was a moment in Phil Coulson's youth, soon after his father's death, when he screamed hateful words at his mother, angry at her for not being him. A few hours later, full of guilt, lip trembling, he apologized. He hadn't meant what he said and he felt ashamed. But his mother forgave him and embraced him. She absorbed his overflowing grief.
Maybe that was what Phil had to do. Forget about what was fair and what was rational and just take in all the anger that Curtis wanted to throw at him.
So I run to the river
It was bleedin', I run to the sea
It was bleedin', I run to the sea
It was bleedin'
All on that day
Hunter was sure his shot had landed – the short-haired woman was knocked back – but there was no blood. He had hit her clean. "Something's off about Number Two – she shook off a bullet to the shoulder. Maybe they've got body armor?"
"Did you hear the Kevlar?" asked May's voice through the comm.
"Negative. But I might not hear it at this distance."
There were either three or four intruders in the compound, including Ward. Heat signature said four, but they could only get visual on three. They had planned for this attack, had all but sent Ward an embossed invitation, but that didn't mean they knew what to do with Captain Fucknut McCrazypants and his freak crew when they got there. Hunter could feel his inner critic balk at the characterization. (Fine, I'll apologize. I'm sorry. They're not freaks. They're genetically and morally diverse.)
Hunter heard footsteps and spun around. Nothing. A trick of echoes? He looked up at the ceiling-mounted mirror to see if someone had just ducked around the corner. No, no one.
Damn, thought Hunter, I must be getting paranoid in my old age.
He lowered his weapon and took a step down the corridor before being knocked unconscious with a fire extinguisher.
So I run to the river, it was boilin'
I run to the sea, it was boilin'
I run to the sea, it was boilin'
All on that day
When the alarm went off, Morse forced herself to put on her combat gear, no matter how much her leg didn't want to bend and how much her shoulder didn't want to stretch. She was most of the way through one boot when there was a knock. The door opened without waiting for a response. "Guard these two," said Mack, gesturing for Fitz and Simmons to get into Morse's quarters. "He might come after them."
"It's not that we're not combat trained-" began Simmons.
"I stabbed a man with a pipe. Sort of on accident," said Fitz, in a tone that indicated he was both proud of and bewildered by this achievement.
Bobbi nodded her acknowledgement to Mack, who turned and trotted down the corridor in search of Hunter's bulletproof woman.
So I run to the Lord
"Please hide me, Lord
Don't you see me prayin'?
Don't you see me down here prayin'?"
Mack ran down the east corridor, trying to catch up with Skye. They still hadn't located Ward yet. He saw someone through the cross hallway impossibly fast. What the hell were they dealing with?
He heard a light tap followed by a swishing noise. Someone was trying to walk quietly and not exactly succeeding. He pulled out his phone to give himself an excuse to look back. The passageway was empty. He started to trot forward again and he heard the same tap-swish. He was being followed by the goddamn Predator. There were some people on this base who would find that kind of exciting. Not Mack. He was just pissed. He dashed into the breakroom and grabbed a can of coffee grounds from the shelf. When the tap-swish got closer, he threw it on the ground.
Foot prints.
The invisible man was in restraints. One down.
Mack returned to the corridor to catch up with Skye. She was crawling.
"The fast woman," said Skye, "she's been knocking people over. I think her power is something about friction. It wears off a few minutes after she leaves."
They could feel an explosion, followed by gunfire. They exchanged glances
"Can you stand?"
He helped Skye to her feet. She still looked like she was trying to walk on an ice rink, but she was moving faster that crawling. They turned right, racing toward the combat, Mack practically dragging Skye along. In the northwest atrium, two guards lay bleeding on the ground, surrounded by shattered glass. A white woman with short hair was holding an AK-47 and grinning. She had bullet holes in her shirt, but no sign of blood.
"May," said Skye into her communicator, "I think we found Hunter's invulnerable woman."
On the other end of the connection, May grunted. She was grappling with a relatively untrained warrior who was alternately making her slip and stick to things. May rolled her eyes. This was getting out of hand. She drew her backup pistol from her left boot and shot the woman in the kneecap.
"Shake her head," said May, knowing full well that this would be a difficult command. Skye still didn't have full control over her powers, and while she had killed in combat, she'd never done so in such a visceral way. Still, they weren't messing around. That woman was the only one who was carrying an automatic weapon. She was there to kill them, which meant they had to take her out first.
"You have to hold me steady," said Skye to Mack. She leaned back against his arms, unsure whether her stance actually had anything to do with her powers but unwilling to risk it at the moment.
The woman leveled her gun at them just as Skye raised her hands. 'Aim inside' thought Skye, chanting to herself, 'aim inside, aim inside.' The woman began to vibrate, head slamming backward and tongue rolling out. Her left arm dropped limply and she fell to the ground in a seizure. Then her right side went limp and her breathing stopped.
But the Lord said, "Go to the Devil"
The Lord said, "Go to the Devil"
He said, "Go to the Devil"
All on that day
Curtis was gradually widening his stance, tightening his muscles, baring his teeth. There was a ferocity in his words. He made eye contact with Coulson as he recited the sinner's banishment by the Lord, and in that moment, Coulson realized he was not being cast as the sinner, but as the neglectful and distant God who abandoned his supplicant to Satan's tender mercies.
"So I ran to the Devil," yelled Curtis, "He was waitin'." His hands formed into fists. "I ran to the Devil, he was waitin'." The boy took a step forward while Coulson found himself curiously unable to move. "I ran to the Devil, he was waitin'…All on that day." Curtis finished his recitation in a whisper before launching himself at his father, a whirl of fists and feet.
Curtis weighed ninety three pounds and had only been formally trained in combat for less than a year. Under normal circumstances, Coulson would win any physical altercation handily. These were not normal circumstances. Firstly, Coulson was getting older and spending less and less time in the field – he wasn't as agile as he used to be. Secondly, he had been trained as a two-handed combatant and had yet to retrain in one-handed techniques. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, he could not bring himself to hit or harm his son in any way.
So Curtis's blows were landing. Hard. Across Coulson's ribs, his gut, his face, his groin. He could feel a fist connect with his eye socket, hear the bone fracture. Coulson deflected the attacks where he could, but for every one he turned away, another met its mark. He stumbled backwards.
Curtis seemed prepared for this. He grabbed the thin blanket that lay on his bed and spun around behind Coulson, wrapping it around his neck. He stood on the bed to give himself leverage. He couldn't generate enough force to lift Coulson off the ground, but he could block blood and oxygen from-
"Curtis." Grant Ward stood at the entrance to the vault. He had no weapons in his hands, though he probably had quite a few on his person. Fate had brought him to this place at this time. Fate had given him the false message through Miles (who was currently handcuffed to a bridge, but that was neither here nor there). Fate had transformed his followers into the distractions he needed to get inside. These things were signs. It didn't matter if they were 'true'. He was supposed to be here and now.
And if it was given that he was supposed to be here and now, then there were only two possibilities: Grant was supposed to help Curtis or stop him. Fate remained silent on the subject.
All Grant knew was that he didn't like the way it looked, the boy strangling the man. It was something he had fantasized about almost continuously as a child – killing the people who had wronged him – but this scene before him didn't have the same sense of satisfaction attached to it.
Because Curtis didn't look dominant. He didn't look strong, even though he had nearly killed one of the most powerful men in the world. He looked like a thirteen-year-old kid. Grant wondered what he looked like when he killed people.
"Stop," said Ward.
"I have to-" began Curtis.
"No, no you have to stop."
"Why?" asked Curtis as he dropped the blanket. "We planned this. We talked about this. We were going to-"
"Eres fuerte," said Ward, 'you're strong'. "No eres malo." 'You're not evil'. The vault door was opening behind him. Whatever distraction time his followers had bought him was obviously coming to an end. Ward knelt on the ground, fingers laced behind his head.
"Somos fuertes!" We are strong! "Juntos!," Together!" Curtis cried out plaintively, almost desperately.
Ward just smiled and shook his head as the dendrotoxin round took him down.
Very long chapter is over. Only one chapter left.