When people described someone as 'intelligent', they usually meant someone who knew a lot of facts, someone who could think complex and creative thoughts, someone who could solve problems, someone with a quick and agile mind.

Phil Coulson wasn't SciTech-smart and he never claimed to be, but he was an intelligent man in his own right. He could analyze scenarios and play them out in his mind with astonishing accuracy. He was not, however, particularly quick. He wasn't a slow thinker by any standard, but he couldn't race down six separate mental avenues simultaneously the way Simmons could, the way Fitz used to be able to do. Instead, ideas formed and percolated in his mind, poking around the edges half-complete and making themselves known in their own time.

He pulled out his hard copy of Grant Ward's SHIELD file to check the date of birth (January 7, 1983) and the date of Academy enrollment (August 25, 2003). Twenty years old. Not a teenager. Of course Raina could have just misspoken. (Raina never misspoke.) Or Ward lied to her. (Why?) Or Raina lied to him. (What possible purpose would that serve?) Coulson skimmed the rest of the background information. He'd read it over more than once before recruiting Ward to the team, and he'd forced himself to revisit it after Ward's true allegiance became known, looking through the details to decide if this was something he should have seen coming.

Ward had grown up in an abusive household, but got out earlier than most by attending a residential high school, a military boarding school. Things were rocky there at first, but he'd apparently settled in and responded well to regimentation and discipline. He graduated in 2001 with a solid B average and awards for sports and foreign languages. After graduation he'd moved to Atlanta where he rented a room in a flophouse and paid the bills as a dishwasher, occasional bouncer, and taker of bets in some kind of unregistered wrestling league. Okay, that sounded a little disreputable, but no worse than anything Coulson himself had done at that age. Ward had looked into military service sometime in late 2002, which put him on SHIELD's radar. He was recruited and enrolled in 2003.

So it was possible, just barely, that someone from SHIELD might have contacted Ward when he was nineteen, though Coulson couldn't at all imagine Garrett in that role. That seemed like the sort of task he would delegate. (Unless he was recruiting a private army of Hydra supporters, in which case it was exactly the sort of thing he'd do.) But talking to a nineteen-year-old was hardly child warfare. Maybe Ward had exaggerated and Raina had misinterpreted. Maybe.

Coulson put the file away.

May and Morse had returned from the Treehouse.

"So," said Coulson, "Ward and Agent 33 tore up a Hydra base, left us a note, and fled the scene." He sounded tired. He felt tired. "I want opposition reports. Morse, you convince me this is a good thing. May, you tell me why it's bad." Coulson had instituted the practice of opposition reports when he took the directorship. It was a way to make sure he considered both sides of an issue, didn't get too stuck in one way of thinking.

Mockingbird put her hands behind her back, the way she always did when giving a report. "Ward took steps to minimize casualties. Most of the dead are suicides. There was enough tech there that he could have easily destroyed the base once he had control of it, but he chose to give it back to us instead, with quite a lot of resources intact. I think he's trying to help Agent 33. I think the term 'Cursed Soldier' refers to both of them, to the way the feel they were used and mistreated by their commanders. When 33's programming began to reactivate, he did what he could to calm her down and then retreated. He wants information on brainwashing so he can deprogram her. He's asking us to do the interrogation only because the science is beyond him."

May took her turn. "Ward has taken control of Agent 33. He's activated her programming and switched the focus from Whitehall to himself. He's building a private army and while it might seem nice that he's taking out Hydra targets, there's nothing to stop him from turning on SHIELD. A lot of people died at that base. There was an innocent woman, forced into Hydra service, and he took no steps to protect her as a noncombatant. I think the term 'Cursed Soldier' shows that takes no responsibility for his actions. He sees it as a curse that someone put on him, not a series of choices that he made. Any or all of this could be a trap. Giving us the scientist? Asking us to conduct an interrogation? Just because we can't see his endgame, doesn't mean that he doesn't have a plan."

"The Cursed Soldiers are from Poland," said Coulson. "They were resistance fighters against the Soviets. Ward was stationed in Poland for over a year." He looked up at his agents. "Wikipedia," he added, before dismissing them both.

Coulson turned the cell phone that his agents had recovered from the Tree House over in his hands. When activated, it provided directions to three different drop sites, all reasonably open and anonymous. There was also a single number available under 'redial'.

What the hell. Coulson hit redial.

Two rings, then a click as the call connected. "Who is this?" Ward's voice. There was another sound in the background, a woman's voice with a strange echo. Coulson couldn't make out any words.

"How many people have you been giving phones to?" asked Coulson. "I'm starting to feel like I'm not very special."

"What do you want?" asked Ward.

"I'd like to speak to Agent 33."

"No," said Ward. The voice in the background grunted more loudly. "Anything else?"

"Why not?"

"She's sleeping. But if you'd like to give me more details on your location, I'd be happy to have her call you back."

"I'd also like to talk to you," said Coulson.

Ward said nothing.

Coulson rested his hand on the yearbooks he had obtained from Ward's military school. The ones that were suspiciously missing any pictures of Ward. "Where were you living in 2000?" He picked one of the oddly undocumented years at random.

Ward hung up the phone.

Coulson counted to ten, took a deep breath, and hit 'redial' again. "Ward," he said, when he heard the call connect.

"You sold me to my brother, Coulson. And you knew, you knew what that meant. I may understand why you did it, but I will never forgive you."

"I understand why you did it, but I will never forgive you," echoed Coulson. He was starting to feel the same way about Ward.

"I don't want your forgiveness, Coulson. None of that matters now."

"Your family's home burned down when you were fifteen. It wasn't an electrical fire, was it?"

"Great, you decided now was the time to investigate-"

"How old were you when you met John Garrett?"

"Why? Why ask me now, huh? Why does it even matter? I killed in his name. You said I will never be a part of your team."

"How old?"

"Sixteen." There was a catch in Ward's voice, as though the admission had cost him.

"You didn't go back to school."

"Wyoming. He owned land there." And in the background, a cough and a whimper. A woman's voice with a strange echo.

"A cabin?"

"No cabin. Just land."

"For how long? He was working. He couldn't have been there very much. How long did he-?"

Ward hung up the phone.

Coulson sighed. This didn't change everything. It didn't even change much. But sixteen, that was something. Wyoming for years, without a cabin, that was something. And 33 in the background, desperate and unable to speak, that was something else entirely.

Days passed. Weeks passed.

"Hello?" Coulson was receiving far too many phone calls on his encrypted line. He would have to talk with Skye about fixing that.

"Coulson." It was Ward's voice. It sounded thick and heavy.

"Ward," answered Coulson.

"You understand," said Ward, "that she was brainwashed. That she had no control over her actions. That she can't be punished for her actions."

"You're talking about Agent 33?" asked Coulson. "We have no intention of sanctioning her."

"You understand that," repeated Ward. "She was brainwashed." There was a creaky sound, and Coulson realized that Ward was stifling a yawn. In the background, there was a rapid beeping and the sound of sneakers on tile.

"Where are you?" Coulson didn't really expect an answer.

"Hospital." Ward didn't say which one. Given time and effort, Coulson could certainly find out. "Sometimes she's fine. She's an agent. She's strong and sharp. Sometimes she's not. I have to restrain her to keep her from running out in search of Whitehall. I have to take her gun. I have to watch her every minute. I can't watch her every minute. I sleep." Ward said the last sentence like it was an admission of guilt.

Exhaustion, desperation maybe. "What happened?"

"She drank drain cleaner. She's alive, but…" Ward paused and Coulson thought he heard another stifled yawn. "They put her in a coma. Because of the pain and something to do with potassium. I don't know. They put in a pacemaker, a temporary one."

"You brought her to the hospital?"

"Yes. False name, but I couldn't hide her face."

"Thank you," said Coulson, "for saving her."

Ward kept talking as if he hadn't heard Coulson. "I can't do it. I thought I could. I made it out, I thought I could help her do the same thing." There was an audible exhale. "If I give her to you, what will you do to her?"

Coulson hadn't expected the offer, but he could certainly think on his feet. "We'll provide for her medical needs to the best of our ability. We'll only restrict her movements as much as is necessary to protect her safety. We'll do our best to restore her freedom of thought. And we could give you updates, let you speak with her, so you'd know she was being treated well."

"We're at Methodist Hospital in San Antonio." Ward hung up the phone.

Apparently there were two Methodist hospitals in San Antonio. Agent 33 was not at Methodist, but at Methodist Memorial.

"He's toying with us," said May. She had come along to play the role of 33's twin sister.

"It's possible," Coulson acknowledged. He didn't expect Ward to still be at the hospital, of course, but he didn't expect this to be a trap either: despite its obvious convenience, a hospital was a terrible place for a fight.

They stopped at the information desk. They already knew where Agent 33 was, of course, but it was always best to keep up appearances. They were directed to the sixth floor and found the relevant elevator. It had been a very long time since either of them had been in a regular hospital. SHIELD agents relied on SHIELD med techs, not the civilian medical system.

And then they were there, the intensive care floor.

Agent 33 had a private room, under the name Rosemary May. (So Ward must have planned for this eventuality when he checked her in.) She looked fragile and flimsy, like she no longer fit together quite right. There was a tube down her throat and a wire in her chest. An IV was taped to her arm and another plastic tube ran under the bedsheets, obviously a catheter. It wasn't that long ago that this woman had been a powerful asset in her own right. Whitehall had taken that from her.

Coulson suddenly felt very aware of the responsibility he was taking on by assuming custody of Agent 33.

"I'm going to speak with the nurses," said May. "I'll have to fill out paperwork to transfer her."

Coulson nodded. With Skye's help they had created a false paper trail, so 'Rosemary May' appeared to have previous admissions to her (fake) hometown hospital in Oklahoma. They would arrange for transport, then have her passed off to SHIELD agents posing as paramedics. It was overly complicated, but it avoided any possible mystery or conflict with the hospital. They had to stay below the radar as much as possible.

Coulson walked to the other side of 33's room. It was small, but it wasn't uncomfortable. They had crappy, repetitive paintings on the walls and colored floor tiles. There was a television (off) mounted to the far wall and an oversized calendar announcing the day's meals. There was a small nightstand next to the bed, and on it, there was a paperback book, propped open to hold its reader's place. But 33 was in an induced coma; she wouldn't be reading anything. He looked at the cover: Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy.

"Ward," he said aloud.

"Took you that long?" asked Ward, stepping out from the attached bathroom.

"Why were you hiding?"

"Some members of your team are quite clear about wanting to kill me."

There wasn't much Coulson could say to that.

Ward held out a plastic grocery bag full of little bottles and baggies. "Here," he said. "It's everything she's taken since we've worked together. Obviously none of it was that effective, but feel free to test it for impurities."

Coulson looked in the bag. Some of the medications were familiar: sedatives, painkillers, antidepressants. He pulled out one of the baggies and looked at Ward with an eyebrow raised. "Cannabis?"

"She had no appetite. It helped with that, but it made her paranoid, so we didn't repeat the experiment."

Coulson dug through the bag and pulled out another Ziploc. "Is this cocaine?"

"Ketamine. I read in the news that research says it helps severely depressed people. She's not depressed, just suicidal, but…" Ward shrugged. "Obviously it didn't work." He handed over a spiral bound notebook. "That's all my observations, all my records." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then said, "Good luck with her."

"Are you working with anyone else?"

"I wouldn't tell you if I was."

"You could come too," said Coulson, "come in out of the cold."

"Back to my old cell?" asked Ward with no trace of irony.

"Yes, at least initially. But if new information about your recruitment is corroborated, I'm willing to at least reconsider your sentence."

There was a very faint smile on Ward's face. He shook his head, saying nothing.

"You spent quite a while alone," said Coulson. "I think it was good for you to have a partner."

"Thanks for the advice." Ward sounded dismissive.

Coulson extended his hand to shake Ward's. "Thank you for what you've done for her."

"Goodbye, Coulson."

Epilogue

Ward glared at the man. "Are you going to try to take me in to SHIELD? Because that's not going to go well for you."

"I'm not SHIELD, mate," said Hunter, hands up in a half-assed surrender pose. "I'm an independent contractor."

"A contractor."

"That's right. I worked for SHIELD for a while, but they kept putting me on missions with my ex-wife. My ex-wife! Can you believe it? That's bloody inhumane." Hunter shook his head at the incomprehensibility of it all. "Coulson said you could use another pair of hands. Mine don't come cheap, mind you."

"I'll pay you fifty dollars a day."

"Fifty dollars?! I could make more waiting tables!" Hunter protested.

"No, you couldn't," said Ward. "You're obnoxious."

"Look, I don't care who you are or what you've done, if you're taking down Hydra bases. I've got a grudge against Hydra. They killed some good friends of mine."

"So you've got a personal stake?"

"That's right."

"Then I'm offering you forty dollars a day."