As soon as Garrett had debriefed him, Ward had gone to his bunk and pulled the Berserker staff from under his bed. The gloves helped—it had enabled him to connect with the rage and the power but keep the memories quiet.
Now, though, he didn't want the gloves. If he couldn't remember the hell he came from, there would be no purpose in what he did now. No purpose in losing Skye like he had.
He carried the staff in gloved hands until he reached the location of his next mission.
Garrett had some Hydra agents who had gone rogue and were trying to leave with some of the science behind the Extremis program, in the hopes of selling it to the highest bidder, and it was Ward's job to make sure none of them got away.
What needs to be done, he told himself. He closed his eyes to steel himself for the rage and for the blood that would stain his hands when he came out of it again, but when he closed his eyes all he could see was Skye.
With a low snarl, he ripped the gloves from his hands and grasped the staff in both fists.
The three men who had composed his team looked at him nervously.
"Go back to Garrett," Ward growled. "I can do this alone."
"Sir, there are almost thirty men in their compound"—
Ward felt the back of his hand collide with the man's face, and he stumbled backwards. The other two backed off, eyes widening slightly, but Ward barely noticed.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered but his orders.
"I said," Ward hissed through his teeth. "I can do it alone."
He had said those exact words to Skye once, and what had she said?
"I know you can. I just wish you didn't have to."
Ward gritted his teeth.
He would not think of her.
Not here.
Not when he was preparing to do the only thing he was truly good at.
Hydra agents. High-risk targets. They would have sold dangerous secrets to terrorists, Ward told himself, trying not to think of the fact that Hydra was its own kind of terrorist organization.
Ward clenched his hands tighter around the staff, and felt the memories flood him with rage and desperation and the strength that came from both of them.
It hadn't started with the well.
It had started so much earlier.
He had been six years old when his grandmother died, and the state had decided that his mother was fit to have care of him again.
The first time someone hit him was when he had gotten sick on the carpet. It had been the flu or food poisoning or something—or maybe he had seen something so awful his memories had blocked it out—he didn't know.
His mother had been drunk. His father hadn't been, and maybe that was the worst part.
His older brother, Maynard, had stuck the burning end of his cigarette onto Ward's skin, and when Ward screamed, his mother had told him to shut up.
His father had told him to be a man and stop whining.
Shut up, Grant.
You piece of shit.
Why are you crying, little bro? You pussy.
What, you can't handle this? What about this?
Ward kicked in the door and drove his staff through the guard. Piece of shit pussy be a man be a man be a man. The other guard didn't even have the chance to sound the alarm.
Of course he didn't.
His little brother Jack had been four when Maynard locked him outside. Massachusetts was cold in January, and Ward had cried and begged him to open the door.
Maynard had just laughed and kicked back on the couch with a beer he had stolen from their father's stash.
Ward had hated him, then, but when he tried to open the door, Maynard sent him flying across the room.
All the same, when their father came home and demanded to know why one of the beers was missing, Ward had still stepped up and taken the blame for Maynard—taken the beating that should have been his brother's.
Six of the rogue lieutenants were down, as well as a handful of guards and a scientist.
Ward kicked in another door and sent the two men inside flying with a single sweep of the staff.
The well.
Jack, crying, struggling, calling his name.
Grant.
Grant.
Grant.
"Your name, it means protector," his grandmother had told him before she died. "Great protector."
Protector.
Protector.
Protector.
He didn't throw the rope.
Ward slammed an elbow into the face of the last guard, and sent the last scientist flying backwards into a crate of empty beakers and test tubes. That was the last one. Garrett's mission was complete.
He switched on his earpiece. "It's done," he said, closing his eyes.
Only it wasn't.
The staff usually worked backwards—sending him deep into his memories until he had relived the very worst one at the well, and then he would resurface, exhausted and depleted.
But he couldn't see. Couldn't breathe.
Because this was a different memory that flooded his mind, his bones, his skin.
The house was surrounded by guards, but he was confident. Garrett hadn't issued any kill orders—he would have told Ward if he had, so Skye would be fine. He would find her in a minute, laughing easily because Skye was always, always strong and resilient and going to be okay.
And then there was blood on Ian Quinn's hands.
There was blood on his clothes.
The cellar was dark and suffocating and it was closing in on Ward.
Because there she was.
Bleeding out.
Skye.
Skye.
Skye.
Was he screaming? He couldn't breathe, because this wasn't her, couldn't be her, bleeding in Coulson's arms.
They were lifting her, carrying her—Coulson looked stricken—May shouted at them to be gentle—Fitz was nearly whimpering—and Jemma, tiny gentle Jemma was screaming at them to put Skye into the hyperbaric chamber.
There was blood there was blood there was so much blood on his hands and it was hers god it was hers and she was dying and there was no light in her eyes and the world was ending and he couldn't do this couldn't live in a world without Skye.
Skye, he screams. Skye!
When he opened his eyes, it was to see Garrett striding towards him, his face angry.
"Put the staff down, Ward," Garrett said slowly. "It's over. You've done enough. Come on, kid—it's okay. It's alright. You're not in that well, kid, you're here with me."
But for just a brief second, Ward let himself wonder what it would be like to put that staff through Garrett's heart.
For her. For the memory still so fresh in his mind of Skye, broken, bleeding.
It was a memory that dwarfed the memory of the well. The well may have been the first time Grant Ward had felt hate, but the day Skye was shot was the first time he felt hatred for John Garrett.