A/N: Welcome to chapter twenty-one, where everything goes to hell for our favourite scientists. Warning: contains graphic descriptions of wounds and another torture scene. But FitzSimmons have a plan, and where there's a will... you know the rest. Thanks to all my new German readers! Love you long time :*

Props to Neuronerd for the wonderfully comprehensive reviews and for a particular phrase I've been waiting for several chapters to use. Thank you.

I talk to God but the sky is empty.

- Sylvia Plath

Cold, empty silence filled the interrogation room as they sat there in the electric chairs, bound once again by chains and fear. At this point, an extra centimetre of wiggle room could be considered freedom. Fitz and Simmons observed the dirty dishwater grey of the walls and the icy steel of their restraints. The familiar world of darkness and cold had enveloped them entirely, it seemed. They watched in wordless anticipation as Tallis cleaned his rotting teeth with his tongue in glee, while he set up the cables necessary to fry them into submission.

"Do you know what this is?" Ward asked, striding into the room as one might stroll down the road in front of their house with a curious item in hand.

"Mjӧlnir," Simmons breathed in awe, eyes wide like moons.

In his wiry fist he held a large, rectangle-shaped hammer that seemed to glow in the dimness of the room. It was made up of an ethereal blue-silver metal covered in thousands of minute Asgardian carvings. Words and tales from a world they could not fathom or reach. The captive scientists found themselves transfixed by its visual modality; the inexplicable way it shone like the aurora borealis on a clear night.

"I mean, technically it's a replica," he began with no less satisfaction. "The real hammer of Thor is sitting patiently in one of Hydra's most secure and deeply undercover bases – raw potential waiting to be tapped. So naturally, we tapped it."

Ward ignored the burn of Fitz's glare on the back of his head and continued as he paced slowly around the room.

"We were able to scan it into a state-of-the-art 3-D printer that we, uh, borrowed from Stark during a little visit. Turns out that once you copy this thing, you don't have to be the king of Asgard to wield it. And now, we have our own version of it."

"Please tell me you didn't give it a name," Fitz snarked from his chair.

The Hydra director grinned.

"We call it an ӕvilok."

Simmons frowned.

"An? There's more than one?"

"Oh, there will be. I've only had this thing for-"

Ward paused mid-sentence and whistled comically. "Two days? And I'm already in love with it. Do you either of you intelligent people know what ӕvilok means?"

"It means 'end of life'," Simmons replied without missing a beat.

Fitz turned to her in surprise.

"What? I learned Icelandic so I could attend one of Kári Stefánsson's lectures in my Year Nine summer break," she replied.

"Of course you did. And what exactly did he do?"

"You're joking."

"Am I really?"

"Dr Stefánsson founded DeCODE Genetics in nineteen ninety-six to combat privacy concerns – given the nature of the large public healthcare database in Iceland at the time – which led to the discovery of the neuregulin-1 gene's association with schizophrenia," Simmons finished casually, as if it were widely-known.

"Fascinating," Ward responded sarcastically. "But I don't need that gene to make you go mad, Simmons. I know how much you two love technology. It would be a real shame if I were to – oh, decide to hurt you with that knowledge."

He swung the ӕvilok almost playfully, smacking the hard metal into his palm with a slap that echoed around the room. Then he swung it with great effort towards the chairs' control panel. At first, nothing happened. Fitz and Simmons exchanged uneasy looks. Ward grinned as a faint buzzing noise began to fill the air like the sound of a beehive, and thin tendrils of electricity spindled out from ӕvilok. It grew louder and louder, reverbrating against their eardrums and resonating through their chest cavities until it sounded like a thousand deafening airhorns. One by one, Ward strolled past the control panel, flicking the switches one by one until he came to a large red lever and pulled it. Thunder clapped from the ӕvilok and echoed around the room, crackling from its luminous surface to strike FitzSimmons in their chests. They gasped for air and shrieked in agony as the electricity sizzled through every nerve ending in their bodies, burning like a wildfire until every last sensation died screaming in a biological mess of overstimulation. Gradually the convulsions of their bodies died down, the lightning slowing to a trickle, and then a stop. Tallis stepped forward from a dark corner somewhere and released them from their shackles. The scientists tumbled to the ground in a graceless heap, limp and lifeless and empty rag dolls.

Fitz was the first to roll over slowly, groaning and wheezing for breath, so he could dry retch at the floor. He didn't dare look at his chest for fear of what he might see; but he looked anyway. What he saw had quite the same effect on him as a terrible car crash – he found himself grossly transfixed by the horror, quite unable to tear his gaze from the destruction before him. With an almost inaudible whimper, Fitz raised his trembling fingers to brush over the skin that had been flayed from his chest by the ӕvilok, his hand coming back saturated in dark blood. He gagged and found himself collapsing back into the floor, quivering against the stone uncontrollably in panic.

Simmons pulled herself up with great effort, grunting with the strain as she rested back on her elbows and looked down at the torn, burnt mess of her already tattered shirt. The hole that met her eyes was the size of an arc reactor and revealed a sight that she immediately wished she hadn't seen. In all of her years working with biological diseases, wounds and infections, she had never seen anything quite like the bloody gaping burn weeping with pus that marred the skin where her pleasantly smooth and pale chest had once been. She knew of no conventional device that could have caused such an injury, such a violationwithin the constraints of the current progress of modern science. Her head swam with the onslaught of thoughts, making her nauseous. Simmons laid back down and allowed herself to be dragged out beside Fitz back to their cell.

It seemed Ward had taken it upon himself to renovate their cell, and when they were finally able to look around without wanting to hurl, they realised it was almost twice the size it had been before.

"What on Earth?" Fitz murmured.

Together they took in the shiny steel table that sat patiently in the middle of the room, and the brand new wooden shelves tucked neatly into the corner. A gasp escaped Simmons mouth as she looked to the far left of the room, where two single beds stood fully furnished and looking as comfortable as ever. Ward had allowed them basic items, but it felt like pure luxury.

Meanwhile, the inquiring part of her mind writhed with questions she wished she didn't have. Even the most advanced of technologists in the world had to be approximately ten to fifteen years from anything quite so effective, efficient and elegantly designed to do its job. Secret worlds within a secret world, and Ward had easy access to all of it.

Simmons found herself scheming internally.

Aim: To escape captivity by gaining Ward's trust and using his resources against him, taking whatever useful intel and technology we can find with us.

Equipment: Our wits and a shockingly healthy sense of humour.

Method: Gain his trust and commence work on whatever he's wanting us to do. Gather and record as much information as possible on anything of value without raising suspicion. Use The Secret Weapon. Ensure Fitz is on board with all of the above.

Simmons frowned as Fitz pinched the bridge of his nose habitually in a hybrid of frustration and confusion. They had been whispering intently back and forth so the surveillance cameras wouldn't pick up anything they were saying.

"So you want to do – what, exactly? You want to just do as he says, no matter the cost, no matter the-"

He clicked his fingers repeatedly, searching frantically for the word, but was ultimately unable to find it in the state he was being forced to think in.

"I don't know the word. But it hardly makes sense, Jemma – the man betrays people for a living. It's practically his daily MO," Fitz finished heatedly.

"That may be true, love, but we've got a real chance here. A slim one, mind you, so we've got to agree on all aspects of the plan. Think of the possibilities! We can use our situation, take all this... this pain and this suffering and utilise it for the betterment of SHIELD!" she whisper-shouted.

Fitz shook his head stubbornly.

"You sound absolutely delusional, you know that? This whole operation banks on us being better field agents than actual field agents, as well as us finding a way to not only access information Ward would never expose to us, hide it from surveillance, record it, and somehow communicate it all to the team if at all possible."

She bit her lip. Simmons hated it when he was cynical. As if being the positive one wasn't hard enough already. But she knew as a scientist and as a person, that sometimes cynical is right. Pulling this off was just about as realistic as dinosaurs returning to reign terror on the earth.

"But... it's a solid start, and it's the only real option we have besides murder-suicide or hoping to get saved," he added gently.

A tiny smile spread across her face at his version of positivity.

"You know I trust you, Jemma, you know I do," Fitz continued. "If there's anyone I trust to help get us out of here, it's you. Besides, what do I always say?"

Simmons stifled a small laugh, nearly silent but bubbling and miraculous all the same. His heart soared and nearly stopped at the sound of her laughing again as she completed his sentence.

"Science, biatch."