A/N: Thank you for such an overwhelmingly positive reaction to the first chapter! I hope you'll enjoy this next part just as much.

Thanks to everyone who reads/reviews/follows/favorites - you're wonderful!

A language warning for the first part of this chapter, and some things that might potentially be triggering for self-harm.

Jemma listened to Skye cry, tucked back under the gurney. For a long series of moments the girl just sobbed. Then the crying slowed, then stopped, and Skye's breathing returned to normal. Shortly after that Jemma heard a series of clicks, and a quick check under the bed confirmed her theory – Skye had fallen asleep; the clicks were from the headphones coming in contact with the tile floor.

Jemma stood and quietly made her way to the door. She opened it and looked out into the hallway. Dr. Coulson and Trip were there.

"How is she?" Trip asked.

"She's asleep," Jemma replied, letting the door close carefully behind her. "I think it's time to talk about our plan."

Dr. Coulson nodded. "Lay it on us, Dr. Simmons."

Jemma smiled. She liked when Dr. Coulson tried to act like he was a "hip adolescent." Somehow it made him goofy, almost like a father figure. "I think while she's asleep we should administer a sedative. She's clearly exhausted; giving her the chance to rest can't hurt, and it will give us the chance to make sure she wasn't injured and transfer her upstairs."

"Good call," Trip said.

"Do we have any way to find out more information about her?" Jemma asked. "Knowing her name and age and that she has autism is useful, but I think there are a lot of other things in play and I'd like to know what we're facing."

"Detective Campbell was the one who contacted us about her originally," Dr. Coulson said. "He's overseeing the investigation at her home and he promised to call when there was more information or any breakthrough in the case. He seems… oddly attached to her."

Me too, Jemma thought, and a quick look at Trip confirmed that he was thinking the same thing.

"I'll put in the order for the sedative," Jemma said. "Trip, will you find our guest some other clothing?"

"I'm on it," Trip said. "I'll grab a clean-up kit while I'm at it."

Jemma wanted to kiss him for not referring to the kits the way the other orderlies and nurses often did, as "rape kits" or "bodily evidence kits" depending on the situation. Even though no patient was present, it showed Trip's gentle humanity. He was always conscientious, always focused on providing care and comfort.

"Thank you," Jemma said.

Dr. Coulson's phone rang and he removed it from his coat pocket. "Coulson. Ah, Detective Campbell. We were just talking about you."

He moved away a few steps to continue the conversation, and Jemma headed for the closest computer to put in the medication order.

Twenty minutes later the sedative had been administered and Trip had found suitable clothing and supplies. He moved the gurney away from the wall and Jemma carefully rolled Skye towards her, giving Trip enough room to step in and pick the girl up.

"Her ID bracelet said she's twenty-one," Trip observed, "but I don't believe it. She's tiny."

"People with autism often have strange dietary compulsions," Jemma said. "I've had patients or read case studies on children who would only eat five or six things, and they'd rather go hungry than eat anything else. Or… it could be something else entirely."

Trip set Skye on the gurney and both medical professionals set about removing her clothing to perform an examination. Trip prepared a sheet to place over Skye's body to provide modesty throughout, allowing Jemma to put gloves on and begin filling out Skye's chart.

Jemma finished initialing the chart and looked up to see Trip frozen, the sheet still in his hands.

"What is it?" she asked him.

Trip shook his head, and Jemma crossed the room to stand next to him, looking down at Skye's upper body.

"Is that…? Are those…?" Jemma couldn't figure out how to end a sentence.

"They are," Trip answered, and though an outsider would have marveled at his steady voice, Jemma had been working with him long enough to know that he was angry and scared.

Jemma swallowed, hard.

All of Skye's exposed skin, from the neck down, seemed to be covered in words. The words had been carved into her with something like a scalpel, something with precision, and each word was old enough to have scarred over into thin, raised lines.

Liar.

Whore.

Slut.

Bitch.

Waste of space.

Head case.

Mutant.

Cunt.

Thief.

Mistake.

"I don't think she did these to herself," Jemma said, trying hard not to vomit. "At least a few of these are physically impossible for her to reach, and people with autism often have difficulty with fine motor control. That means… that means someone had to do this. How could someone do this?"

Trip looked down and gently took Skye's hand in his. His thumb grazed the small word on the back of her hand – devil – and he said, "There's evil in this world, girl."

Jemma nodded.

"Wait," Trip said, looking up suddenly. He carefully tucked the sheet around Skye. She let out a soft whimper and turned onto her side, even in her sleep reaching up for the headphones to make sure she was still in the silence she craved. Finding them in place, she stilled and let out a quiet sigh, fast asleep. "I know who she is."

The treatment team from the LTAPCU (long-term adult psychiatric care unit) met in the conference room near the nurse's station. Skye's examination had been quick but thorough; no recent injuries were apparent. Jemma took several photos of Skye's scars before she and Trip dressed the girl in the borrowed clothes, saving the originals for the police. Trip took charge of the gurney and they rode the elevator up to the eighth floor, then moved Skye down the hallway to the Blue Room.

Dr. Coulson had placed pillows and blankets in the closet of the Blue Room, turning it into a little nest. That was where Trip gently laid Skye, headphones and sunglasses still on, sedative still coursing through her body, fully asleep, before joining Jemma and the rest of the team in the conference room. It hurt him to close the doors on the fragile young woman, despite Jemma's reassurance that Skye wanted a tiny enclosed space. It just didn't seem right.

A policeman was with Dr. Coulson when the chief doctor entered the room.

"Team, this is Detective Lincoln Campbell," Dr. Coulson said, indicating the detective. "He has some information for us, and I'm sure we have questions for him."

"Sir?" Trip raised his hand. "When Dr. Simmons and I were examining Skye, I realized I had seen her somewhere before."

He handed his tablet forward. "She was in the news about five years ago."

"Oh, God," Dr. Coulson said as he read the article Trip had pulled up. "Are you serious?"

Trip nodded.

"What is it?" Mack asked.

Jemma shot him a dirty look.

"Let me pull it up for you," Dr. Coulson answered, and he plugged Trip's tablet into the large monitor at the far end of the room.

The article appeared in stark black and white, its only relief the colored photos dotted throughout. Its message took Jemma's breath away.

"Autistic Girl Discovered in Biomedical Research Lab."

The director of Next Generation Genetics , Jiaying Zi, was arrested Thursday morning following an anonymous call to the authorities. The tipster claimed that human research was being done in the labs there and that a child was at risk. Next Generation Genetics was raided twelve hours later, with Captain Edward Sanchez and Sergeant Rebecca O'Reilly leading a team through the premises. They discovered multiple illegal research projects in progress, including some that violated international bioethics treaties.

A young woman was found in the research laboratories. Two lab techs were with her but chose to remain silent when questioned. Further information discovered in the lab identified this young woman as Skye Johnson-Zi, the daughter of Zi. Research found at the complex shows that over a period of several years, the girl was subjected to inhumane "research" protocols designed, among other things, to test the limits of pain and to search for a cure for aging. Additional information on the research projects has been turned over to the police department for analysis. Johnson-Zi sustained multiple physical injuries, including scarring, burns, and a broken elbow; she was taken to Shield Memorial Hospital for assessment and treatment.

Johnson-Zi is 15 and suffers from autism. She was released into the care of her father, Calvin Johnson, who has been fighting to regain custody of her following his divorce from Zi. Further information on the custody battle can be found in the articles below.

The Times-Lantern will keep you updated on the circumstances surrounding the research, including what charges will be brought against Zi, in the days ahead.

Jemma looked at her coworkers' faces. Trip looked physically ill. The inpatient director and chief psychiatrist, Melinda May, had her "angry face" on; it was steelier than her regular expression. Mack still had his arms crossed, looking skeptical. The detective had his mouth set firmly. Jemma supposed he had done it all and seen it all before.

Dr. Coulson had his hand to his mouth. "How did we not know this?"

"It's not like she told you," Mack pointed out.

Jemma whipped around.

Mack shrugged. "Well, she didn't."

"This correlates with the information we found at the house," Detective Campbell said. He had two grocery bags with him, which he placed on the table. "The big green binder in there is completely full of information on the daughter. Things she likes, things she doesn't, ways to prompt her to do things, medication, allergies – everything. There's a letter from her father in there. It's almost like he knew there would be some sort of situation where he would have to relinquish her care."

"Her father…" Jemma's fingers were itching to get at the binder. She needed to know more.

"He's our chief suspect in the murders," the detective said.

"But he protected her," Jemma said.

Detective Campbell shrugged. "That's very likely. But at the same time, he still murdered two people."

Jemma shook her head.

"The other files in there are on the custody battle. Mr. Johnson spent a great deal of time and money to get his daughter back, and a great deal of the same to protect her from her mother."

"Surely that woman isn't out of prison," Jemma said.

"She was set free by a jury," Detective Campbell said.

"You have to be kidding me," Dr. May said from the back of the room.

"Where is she now?" Dr. Coulson asked.

"We're looking for her," the detective answered.

"What's in the other bag?" Jemma wanted to know.

"It's some sort of computer," Detective Campbell said. "It's broken, but one of my officers thinks the girl may have been using it to communicate."

He pushed the bag towards Jemma. She leaned in, seeing absolute mechanical chaos.

"It was on the floor," the detective went on. "During whatever went down in the kitchen, it was knocked to the floor."

"We can fix it," Trip said, then turned to Jemma. "We can fix it, right?"

"I think I know someone," Jemma replied.

"Leo? It's Dr. Jemma. May I come in?"

The voice was soft, the accent Scottish. "Yes."

Jemma opened the door to the Green Room. Leo Fitz was in his usual position, seated at the desk in the corner of his room. He had a pad of paper, a felt-tip marker, and his collection of tiny monkey statues in front of him.

"How are you today, Leo?" Jemma asked.

Leo had his fingers pressed against his forehead. "Tired," he said shortly.

"I have a favor to ask of you," Jemma said.

She stood next to him, resisting the urge to put her hand on his shoulder. Leo Fitz had been on the unit for six months. He suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and obsessive compulsive disorder, the former coming after a car accident where he had been trapped underwater in his vehicle. He had also suffered mild brain damage in the accident, and often had difficulty finding the words he wanted in conversation. His frustration at the entire situation, coupled with severe depression, had led him to attempt suicide, which had brought him to Jemma.

They had been in treatment for three weeks when the clock in Jemma's office stopped working. It was a gift from her mother, and she hated to throw it away. She'd mentioned something about it in passing to Leo, and within five minutes he had the back of the clock off and his fingers in the workings. Five minutes later he'd fixed the mistake, changed the battery, and put the entire thing back together. He was a miracle worker.

"Ask," Leo said. Jemma knew that when he was feeling upset or useless, he tended to make his sentences as short as possible.

"We have a new patient," Jemma said. "She uses this computer to communicate, but it was broken. I can only imagine how scared she is to be away from her family, and it must be terrible not to be able to communicate on top of that. Would you be willing to take a look at it? See if it's something you can fix?"

Leo put down his felt-tip marker and held his hand out. He wouldn't look at Jemma.

Jemma stepped forward and handed him the plastic bag containing the remnants of Skye's computer. Leo took it and peered into the bag.

"Anger," he said.

"Anger? Are you angry?"

Leo shook his head. "Someone who was… who was angry… broke this."

"Yes," Jemma agreed.

"Will need… that is… I will need… tools," Leo went on. He still didn't look at Jemma, but she knew he was making an effort. One of their "homework items" from therapy was for Leo to use full sentences, no matter how long it took him to get them out.

"I have some here," Jemma said, and she passed him a plastic box that Dr. Coulson had scrounged from Sitwell in facilities management. "I can leave this with you, but they can only be used in here, away from other patients, and I need to collect them at the end of the day."

"That's fair," Leo said. He reached into the bag and began taking out parts. "Also… duct tape. I will need duct tape. And a permanent marker."

"I'll see what I can do," Jemma told him. "Thank you, Leo. This is very important to me."

He muttered something as she left. She wasn't sure, but it sounded like We all are.

Skye's eyes flew open and she screamed. For the third or fourth time in less than a day, she was in a different place. Her hands went out immediately, trying to figure out where she was. Her fingers found walls, close to her, and then a door, in front of her.

Closet. Closet. In a closet.

Safe. In a closet.

Headphones. Yes.

Dad? Dad?

She was still panicked, though, and could feel herself losing control.

Too much. Too much. NO. NO!

She screamed again, beating her head with her hands. Tears filled her eyes and her mouth tasted like pennies. Her chest burned and her hands and arms felt numb.

Can't breathe. Can't breathe.

"Skye." Her mother's voice was back, curling down her spine like a poisonous snake. "Skye, you should have stayed with me."

No! NO! NEVER going back!

"Skye…"

HURT ME! YOU HURT ME!

Skye screamed again, her hands pounding against her head. She was choking, unable to breathe, her mouth full of the penny-taste.

The closet doors flew open but Skye couldn't be bothered to look up. She had to make the voice stop.

"Skye, it's Jemma."

The careful, gentle voice filtered through the headphones and the head-slapping and Skye nearly stopped.

Can't. No, can't. Can't.

"I'm sorry that you're upset."

Skye choked on a sob and her fists slowed against her head.

"I want to help you."

Dad. Dad. I want to go with Dad.

Go home. I want to go home with Dad.

"I have a book about you," Jemma said, crouching down in front of the closet. She showed Skye a thick green binder. Her picture was on the front, and her father's careful, elegant handwriting underneath it spelled out her name.

Dad.

Skye reached out and touched her father's handwriting.

"The book says you like to eat apples and pretzels and peanut-butter sandwiches. I have some here for you. Are you hungry?"

Apples. I like apples. Cut into slices. And pretzels. Thin pretzels. Little rod pretzels. Sandwiches cut in fours, crust left on.

Skye's fingers trailed over her father's writing. She wasn't sure how to tell the doctor in front of her that she was starving. That she wanted apples and pretzels and a sandwich.

Jemma reached into the pocket of her doctor's coat and took out two pictures. One was a smiley face; the other was a red "X."

"Can you use these to tell me?" Jemma asked.

Computer. Type. I want to type.

Skye's eyes darted between the two cards.

I am not a child.

I am hungry.

Look like a child. Think like a child. Can't speak like a baby.

Hungry.

She hesitated, feeling the doctor's eyes on her. Carefully, oh-so-carefully, she brought her hand up and touched the smiley face card.

Computer soon. Then no more cards.

Have no way of making that true. Computer is at home. At home. At home. Broken at home.

"Good," Jemma said. "Thank you for answering."

She took the cards away and stood up, leaving Skye with the thick binder.

Skye didn't want to look at it, but her father's writing was like a magnet. She flipped open the cover and began to read.

Daisy Skye Johnson-Zi is to be referred to by her middle name at all times. She is not to have any contact with her mother, Jiaying Zi. If Jiaying attempts to contact or take Skye, the proper authorities should be called immediately. DO NOT allow her mother to be alone with Skye or to take her anywhere.

Skye has autism. She does not speak, though she does scream, cry, and make repetitive noises. She engages in stereotypical autistic behaviors, including hand-flapping, rocking, and self-harm. She has behavioral outbursts that stem from her inability to communicate. During those outbursts she may pull her hair, slap or punch her head, bite her arms, or hit her head on a wall.

Skye is not responsible for the scars on her skin. Please do not address her as though she was involved in their creation.

The next few pages had other information on her, some that Dr. Jemma obviously hadn't seen.

Skye is extremely intelligent. Her IQ was tested at 175. She can read but is unable to write well due to a lack of fine motor control. She does complex math in her head. She was homeschooled after being released from captivity and did very well. She loves Legos, computers, coloring, and making bracelets.

It was strange to read about herself. All the things were true, but it seemed like the person on the page was a stranger.

Skye eats apples, pretzels, peanut-butter sandwiches, Cheerios, grilled cheese, and chocolate cupcakes. She will drink water, milk, and apple juice. She likes Sprite but doesn't get it often.

That was because her father was broke, not because he was concerned about the effects of sugar on her system. After living through five years of torture at the hands of her own mother, he would have gladly sold his kidneys to buy Sprite for her. Unfortunately – and she knew this was a joke, because he laughed when he said it – no one wanted to buy his kidneys.

Skye prefers to wear headphones whenever she is concerned about loud noises. She is easily overwhelmed in social situations, such as shopping malls or supermarkets, or anywhere that is new to her. She prefers instructions to be given slowly, in short sentences, and is generally compliant when the requests are possible for her to complete. Among people she knows, she is comfortable enough to remove the headphones. This is seen as a sign of trust.

How long had it taken her father to compile all this? Why had he compiled all this?

"I have dinner for you," Jemma said, and Skye's head jerked up. She hadn't heard the doctor come back in.

Skye looked at the plate the doctor held in front of her. Apples in slices. Thin pretzel rods. A sandwich cut in fours. And a plastic cup of milk.

"Is it… is it all right?" Jemma asked, obviously thinking Skye was upset about the food.

Skye closed the book and put it aside. She leaned forward and stuck her hand into Jemma's coat pocket, pulling out the cards. She held up the smiley face card.

"Oh, good," Jemma said, sounding relieved.

Makes her feel good, I will use them.

Type. TYPE.

Soon. Don't know how. But soon.

Skye handed the cards back to Jemma and took the plate from the doctor. She crossed her legs and set the plate on her lap.

She moved her way around the plate. A bite of apple. Two pretzels. A bite of sandwich. A drink of milk. Repeat.

"We are going to take good care of you, Skye," Jemma said.

Skye looked up. The doctor was sitting on the bed in front of the closet, studying her with worried eyes.

"You are safe here."

Skye couldn't use the cards to tell her that couldn't possibly be true, since her mother was somewhere out there, two men were dead in the kitchen at home, her father was gone, her computer was broken, she was in a hospital, and, above all else, the cards were in Jemma's coat pocket, but instead she reached up and took off the headphones.

There were more ways to communicate than speaking and picture cards. She just hoped Jemma spoke her language.