A/N: I was ready to edit and post this earlier this week but with what happened in Las Vegas, I didn't have the motivation. My heart hurts, and I feel sick. My thoughts and prayers go out to the survivors and the victims' family members and friends.
Thank you, Honestly don't you two read, craaazyaboutMalfoy, kfawcett1998, Littlemissmoffey, Afrodity, Firesong23, Dreamsb223, Arcane Charmcaster, setokayba2n, Guest, Margareitha Malfoy-Nott, noellesullivan, fateforgotme, and k8lyn01 for your reviews and comments and questions.
Thank you, Arcane Charmcaster, for your support in defending Hermione's character when she was accused of being a Sue. It got me thinking, though, if there may be others who feel the same way.
Now the term "Sue" can mean different things to different people in the writing world. To me, my definition is pretty basic-a perfect but painfully "flat-character" girl who falls in and out of line at the author's will depending on where the story's going. At a glance of my story, I can understand why someone might think that about my interpretation of Hermione. I know people hate the bracelet. The Hermione they know would never yield to such tyranny, but...she does and she has throughout the entirety of the story because she's a loyal operative to HYDRA. She's going to put the mother-fluffing bracelet on. Even with her memories in tact, she's doing what she's been raised to do. She's the epitome of Stockholm Syndrome, but we're starting to see doubt and then little acts of rebellion, aren't we? Little quakes come before volcanic eruptions.
Another thing I'll just touch on quickly is that my Hermione is not perfect. She never is when I borrow her from Rowling. Even as a child, she acts like a child. She has bits of bravery but for the most part, she's a hysterical and emotional little thing. Her magic isn't perfect, either. Ill-timed and mostly a consequence of anger and fear. When she gets to the Sokovian facility, she's not even unique. There's another girl (54) there who's like her and we find she is actually better at controlling and expressing magic. The Baron liked her more, even, and planned to send 54 to the Red Room as opposed to Hermione. On that note, when Hermione was in the Red Room, she wasn't even the best there despite her talents. It was Natasha who was the best and got recognition and private lessons from the instructors.
*Sigh* All right, now that I've defended my mess of story, please do enjoy Chapter 15 because I enjoyed writing because like you, Firesong23, I love Phil, as well! :) Let's see what Hermione thinks of him, shall we?
Chapter 15: The Traitors Among Us Part II
She doesn't take Agent Coulson's hand right away but gives in when he shows no sign of moving. She shakes it cautiously, and he pulls at her arm, wanting her to follow him to the table. He smiles at her hopefully. "Please eat. You'll feel better."
He lets go of her hand, and she sits down in the chair and then goes to pick up the fork and knife, flinching when she feels a weight fall on her shoulders. Agent Coulson gave her his suit jacket, and she stares up at him, confused.
"The A/C has kicked on. You're going to get cold soon."
She eyes him warily as he circles the table. What game is he trying to play? What's the phrase Americans use? Good cop, bad cop? He must be the good one.
Hermione tucks into the Baltic Sprat with a bit of difficulty, her utensils being plastic and all. Coulson studies her every move but says nothing until her plate is clean. He removes her plate and places it back on the food tray and then takes a briefcase from the tray below and clicks it open, pulling out a recorder and a thin file which she assumes has everything to do with her. It's thinner than the one Sitwell had with him during their first meeting together. The HYDRA file must be separated completely from the S.H.I.E.L.D. file.
"Up until recently, we didn't have much on you, Agent Abegglen. You're remarkable in staying under the radar. It wasn't until Abid Amdaal when you even made a blip." He opens the file and pulls out a photograph of herself from thirteen months ago. It's pixelated and black and white, but there's no mistaking her face.
Hermione is beyond a blushing victim, but the photograph is obscene and must've been taken from an open window with a long-lensed camera. She's naked and on all fours in the picture, wrists cuffed to the headboard of Amdaal's bed. Amdaal at the base of the bed, whip in hand. The entire length of her back and derriere is marked, lacerated. She's looking at her abuser over her shoulder, a perfect mask of pain and fear on her face.
It hadn't hurt that much, and she hadn't been afraid at the time of the photograph. She remembered her feelings well that night. Hate and knowing he'd get his soon. Once she gotten what she came for, sacrificed for, she became the master, whip and all.
Coulson puts the photograph back into the briefcase and replaces it with another, this one in hallway littered with bodies and blood smears. She's standing in the midst of them, armed with an L85A2.
"Sadly, these are the only two photos we have of you," he tells her. "The rest of the information we got, well…came from another source."
Hermione leans forward and rests her forearms on the table, regarding the man coolly. "There are only two people in the world who know my weakness for Baltic Sprat, but only one of them would have the brass to use it against me. You bring Natalia Romanova to me, and I will tell you more secrets about Al Qaeda than you can possibly dream of."
The grin Coulson gifts her is an endeared one. "Where's Bin Laden?"
"Ugh!" Hermione rolls her eyes and sits back in her chair, folding her arms.
"That's what I thought."
She scowls at nothing in particular, her bladder screaming at her, full belly pressing into an already touchy situation. Exhaling, she says, "Before jumping ship, I got wind of a planned attack. Saudi Arabia."
"Specify"
She shrugs. "I might know after I use a bathroom."
Coulson doesn't look so endeared with her anymore. There's fury twinkling in those eyes as he beckons his hand at the mirror. The door opens and armed men shuffle in, including the one from the car. His five o'clock shadow is turning into a beard, and he's doing well in playing ambivalent, but she does catch a jaw tick.
Her wrists and ankles are shackled, and a bag is placed over her head again. She's blindly escorted out of the room and a short distance to a place that has tiled floor and smells of Clorox and men's shaving cream. The surface is cold and goosebumps travel up her exposed flesh.
"We can't leave her alone," says one of the men.
"I'll take care of it," says another, and Hermione searches her memories.
What had he said his name was going to be?
Brock. Robert's name was going to be Brock.
She hears a door click shut, and the bag is being removed. She barely has time to adjust to her surroundings when there's a hand on her mouth and a grip on her neck, and she's being slammed against the stall. Brock's got his face so close to hers, their noses are almost touching. He's furious. Gone is the promise of mischief and adventure she'd caught a glimpse of before. Reality has set in, and it's not like what she or he expected. HYDRA hasn't come for her. She is seemingly suffering for no reason.
"What the hell were you doing at the apartment? Sitwell was supposed to contact you."
She jerks her head to let loose his hand on her mouth. "It was Strucker who contacted me. It was too late when he did."
"Strucker?" He frowns. "The Baron? Why would he contact you?"
"He was my S.O. before Sitwell."
"Why would he contact you?" he repeated, suspicion dripping from his mouth.
"I don't know," she half-lies. Honestly, the call should really have come from Sitwell. "Maybe Sitwell's compromised somewhere or dead or lodged under files of analytics and paperwork. Or all bloody three. Even so. There are others who could pull strings. Why am I still here?"
He lets go of her neck, his thumb lingering a soothing, near-apologetic rub over the skin. "I don't know," he says, stepping back and smearing a hand down his face. "Maybe it's time."
"Time?"
"To get you out of Russia. Twelve years is a long time playing pretend."
She arches a brow. "Whatever happens to me after this, I still will be playing pretend, Robert."
His expression visibly shudders at the mention of his birth name. He likely hasn't heard it in years. Around the same amount of time since she's heard someone call her by her real name.
"Don't," is all he says.
She quirks her lips. "I really do have to go."
He's goes and puts his face in the corner as she pees, but they still talk. He needs to give her the rundown of what's happened. Why Natalia betrayed Russia and her.
"We put a hit out on her," begins Brock. "S.H.I.E.L.D., that is. After what happened at that hospital, it was decided she needed to be put down."
Hermione's fingers hover over the toilet paper. She'd been in Kabul at the time of that and got drift of what happened from the news. She figured it was Russian intelligence to some degree, but she hadn't known it was Natalia.
"Then why isn't she dead."
Brock shakes his head. "Fuck if I know. The agent sent to kill her took pity. Said he saw something in her not worth killing. Next thing we know, she's being taken in and questioned and then offered either to be a double agent or prison for the rest of her life. She chose the former and coughed you up and half a dozen officers."
"They offered her a job." Hermione stands and pulls up her underwear. "She is the epitome and remnants of what's left of the USSR, and the U.S. government offered her a job."
She wrinkles her forehead, massaging an up and coming headache. Okay. Okay, okay, okay. She knew Natalia's heart wasn't in it. She got the drift while in the Red Room, but the woman doesn't need to be awarded a second chance. She needs to be in prison.
"The ones handling Romanova's case are strictly S.H.I.E.L.D. by chance. She got passed along to Nicholas Fury, Level 7 and good friends with The Hub's director Victoria Hand. Plus, Pierce likes him. I wouldn't be surprised if he's elected to be the next Director of S.H.I.E.L.D."
"But he's not HYDRA."
"We pull his strings. For the most part, he complies. Not in this case, though. Word has it, he thinks she's got potential."
Hermione flushes and lowers the toilet lid, waddling over to the sink, her chains clicking on the tile. "I would laugh and roll my eyes, but Natalia's no stranger in getting people in seeing the best in her. Survival tactic. You should've seen her in the Red Room. She had the instructors wrapped around her finger. So what exactly does he think she's got potential for?"
Brock shrugs and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He looks tired and when she sees herself in the mirror, she thinks they make quite a pair. She's exhausted and wants this all over and done with.
"I wish there was more time to talk," he tells her, grimacing.
"We do have a lot to catch up on."
He presses his lips together, scratching at his scruff. He clears his throat and says, "Yeah, we do."
Bang, bang, bang! "Hurry it up in there, Agent!"
Hermione turns off the faucet, and Brock throws the bag over her head, escorting her out of the bathroom and back to the interrogation room. They keep the chains and cuffs on her. When the bag is removed, Coulson is right where she left him, his expression both patient and eager. She lets out a soft, self-satisfied sigh and leans forward in her chair, hands resting on the table.
"Riyadh and Laban Valley," she divulges.
"Anywhere else?" he presses.
"Maybe Turkey but no specifics."
He fishes out a handheld notebook and pen. Very old school. He scribbles on the paper. "Any dates?"
"It's likely too late for Riyadh. Laban Valley, you might still have time."
"Hm." Coulson taps the tip of the pen on the table, expression curious. "Romanova sold you out."
Hermione says nothing.
"But not for the reason you think."
"You have no idea what I'm thinking."
"Sure, I do. It's what I'd be thinking. That my close ally sold me out, so the enemy wouldn't kill or imprison her. No, we already got what we wanted from her by the time she gave us your name. She doesn't want you to put on trial or locked up. She wants you to work for us." Coulson puts his pen and pad away, clasping his hands together. "Romanova says you have a talent in getting inside people's heads. You know how they think and why."
"She can do that."
He shakes his head. "Not like you. She plays dumb and weak to prey on the dumber and weaker. According to her, you just…know."
Hermione thinks of her bracelet and the very few times she's been allowed to double tap the clasp, so she could throw herself into someone else's mind. Before she got shipped off to the Middle East, she got a gift in the mail. A new, modified bracelet where she could lower the pulse frequency enough to better perform what the KGB wanted her to do in the first place. HYDRA found a way where she'd never have to remove the strap but still do her job.
She can't teleport, though. Or cover up blemishes and bruises. She can't control someone's mind, but she can read it. Or turn a pen into knife and stab someone with it. That had been interesting to find out she could still shift objects a little on low-power mode.
"That's a skill we'd like to have on our side," adds Coulson.
Hermione shifts her gaze to the table, lazily drawing a pattern on the table with her finger tip. "I'm loyal to Mother," she says lightly in Russian.
"You're German," he accuses.
"It was all the same not terribly long ago."
Coulson sighs, not out of disappointment but impatience. "You know I'm pretty good at reading people, too."
"Well, if that were true, sir, I think you'd be in for a big surprise," she can't help but say, hoping if there's a HYDRA agent on the other side of the mirror that he or she doesn't have a heart attack.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She quickly recovers with a flirty wink and a smirk. "Oh, the things I want to do to you if our roles were reversed, and you were the one handcuffed to the table."
Pink hues his cheeks, and he pinches the knot of his tie. "What I mean is that I don't think you're loyal at all to the KGB or FSB or whatever they're calling themselves now. I don't think you ever were. You were just a kid born into the wrong family who saw an opportunity to toss you out because you were different. Your parents haven't even tried to find you, have they?"
Hermione flicks her eyes up at him, her drawing fingers curling into a fist. "The KGB," she says through clenched teeth, "is my family."
"Isn't that sad?" he replies. "You've been in our custody for over forty-eight hours. The FSB and SVR know we have you and have made no contact of any kind. I can't imagine the kind of hell you went through these past couple years in the Middle East. You served with severe dedication and honor. I admire you for that, but have they ever returned the favor? " He shows her that tasteless photo again. "If I saw one of my own in a situation like this, there's nothing I wouldn't do to get her out."
Hermione stares at him because is this guy for real?
"I think you're a naturally good person, Agent Abegglen," he tells her. "A good person that's had a lot of bad things happen to her and did what she could to survive."
Coulson puts away the picture. "I don't expect you to agree with me or even jump at the opportunity to work with us., but I can't stress enough that we're the good guys. Despite that, we can't let you go, either. You are considered an enemy of the United States government, so we have to take you in and treat this situation like every other apprehended suspect."
The door opens and handful of officers enter the room, one of them carrying a light blue jumpsuit and a pair of blue and white step-ins. He sets it on the table, and Hermione gets the impression HYDRA isn't at all going to be swooping in to make the inevitable transition from KGB operative to S.H.I.E.L.D. easy. Hell, Sitwell should be knocking on the door by now and excusing Coulson, informing him her case is being handled by someone different.
HYDRA hasn't come for her when it'd be so simple which means…they want her to play along.
In retrospect, it makes sense. Secures herself, even, by selling the part. Why would certain S.H.I.E.L.D. agents be bustling into a Russian spy's interrogation room to make anything better for her when she's already got a chance to wipe her slate clean and start over as an intelligence operative for the U.S.
Her status as a double agent isn't over yet.
Coulson's suit jacket is taken from her and the manacles are temporarily removed, so she can don the jumpsuit, socks, and shoes. The foot and ankle manacles are put back in place as is the bag over her head. She's guided back out into the hallway and then outside, and she senses it's night. She's only outside for a few moments before being put in a vehicle where she stays for at least an hour. When the car pulls over, and she gets out, she hears the sound of helicopters in the distance and small craft airplanes taking off.
She's led up a ramp and then a metallic flight of stairs and down what she senses a narrow walkway before being coaxed to sit down. She hears the sound of cuffs being clicked open and closed, and feels her chains being tightened. The bag over her head isn't even removed until takeoff and that's when her suspicions are confirmed. She's harnessed to the seat. So tightly in fact, she can barely move.
Coulson sits across from her, a self-satisfied smile in place.
"I have to go to the bathroom," she tells him, cracking a smile of her own.
"You should get some rest," he tells her. "We're going to be in the air for a few hours, so you've got time."
"Where are you taking me?" And she really is curious. She's trying to think what basic S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol would be, but it has never been her job to know. She doubts they're taking her directly to Washington D.C. or even the U.S. for that matter. They're likely taking her to another base where they can hold her for an extended period of time.
"A safe place."
She can't resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Will Romanova be there?"
"She'll be keeping her distance." Coulson then adds, "But she does want to see you."
Hermione smirk wickedly. "The feeling is mutual."
"Get some rest," he repeats, maneuvering his food tray into place and flipping open his briefcase which occupied his neighboring seat. "I've got to catch up on Judging Amy"
She frowns, watching him remove a portable television from briefcase and setting on his tray. He pushes a button on the device and then elongates and fiddles with the antennae. Another button push here and there, and music cracks through the sound of white noise.
Who the hell is this man?
Hermione couldn't have been asleep more than an hour when she's waking up to Coulson hitting his little television against his tray.
"Dammit," he curses. "Signal went out." He turns off the device and tosses it aside, catching her eye in the process. He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, I woke you."
She shrugs, swallowing and wetting her mouth. It's dry. She's thirsty, and she feels both hot and cold at the same time. The air-conditioning is blowing directly on her face, but the jumpsuit is warm and itchy.
"Hey, Coulson." A short, attractive Asian woman comes bounding down the walkway, a spunky spring in her step. "The guys are playing Scrabble up here. Come show them how it's done."
"Are you going to stay with the suspect?" he asks expectantly.
She snorts. "Yeah, right? Rumlow said he'll take over. He's getting his ass handed to him."
Coulson stands up and makes a mildly perplexed face. "He's usually not that bad. All right, we'll switch off."
The two disappear down the walkway passed a curtain where a few moments later, Brock passes through. He's got a full-wired com in his ear which he taps, letting her know they can't speak freely.
"I'm thirsty," she tells him.
"Don't press your luck, kid." He falls into Coulson's abandon seat with a heavy sigh and then clocks behind him before reaching down to one of the flaps of his cargo pants and removing a silver pouch. There's a yellow straw attached to the back of it which he rips off and jams into the top of the pouch on the opposite side. He reaches over and puts it in her cuffed hands.
Capri Sun, it reads.
The juice is sugary and fruity and instantly clears the fog mucking her brain. Absentmindedly, she contemplates the sturdiness of the straw. Potentially, if needs be, she could use it as means to defend herself if necessary. It's as if Brock reads her mind because the second the pouch is empty, he's taking it and the straw away from her.
"You think too loud, sweetheart."
"I'm hungry."
He looks at her like she's crazy, his eyes asking, 'What do you want from me?'
"Please." She widens her eyes a bit and tucks her in chin, biting her bottom lip, as well.
"You just ate," he grumbles, fishing at another flap in his pants, tossing a granola bar into her lap.
"I'm bored," she tells him, once she finishes her last bite of granola bar. He's already rubbing the bridge of his nose, and when she speaks, he lets out a manic, exhausted chuckle. She wonders when he slept last? She pictures him sleeping, sprawled and selfishly like he had done as a child so long ago on that boat. But she also tries to picture him matured and not always alone. He looks like the type of man who prefers a leggy, blue-eyed blonde.
"So Germany, huh?" He resettles himself in his seat. "Which part?"
Hermione arches a brow at him, and shrugs one shoulder and mouths, 'What else are we going to do?'
"Like I would tell you," she counters haughtily.
"We have three hours," he tells her. He leans back his head, looking at the cabinets above them. He gets up and opens them, moving and touching things she can't quite see before offering her a book.
'I remember you liked these,' he mouths.
She reads the title and lets out a chuckle. Red Rabbit. How ironic, she thinks.
To Be Continued...
