"C'mon, Jemma!" Fitz grabbed her arm and tugged her along, as fast as he could go in those boots, giving her quite an unfair view of his pert backside. She was suddenly craving peaches… "Simmons! We can't let them get away!"

They burst into a run, careening through the exit, and looked frantically across the small parking lot. They were in the middle of the city, buildings on all sides, hiding places everywhere. And who's better at hide and seek than a pair of kids? If only they were field agents, they might've been trained for this sort of thing. Thankfully, the activated power source was still glowing, a somewhat unusual beacon in the dark, and Simmons spotted it rounding a street corner a short way off. "There!"

Stumbling a bit over the uneven sidewalk, they took off in hot pursuit. Simmons dragged Fitz behind her, but neither of them had ever been particularly keen on cardio, and the boys had a head start. As they approached the intersection, she craned her eyes up and down the block, with little success. She did, however, catch sight of a policeman standing at the traffic light, and whipping out her SHIELD badge, approached him.

"Officer! Officer, did you see a pair of boys run by here?"

Fitz chipped in. "They'd be carryin' a sort of glow-in-the-dark hockey puck."

The cop's eyes glanced off her ID to linger on Fitz's strange clothing, his make-up, and the mask dangling from her fingers. He shrugged, polite but detached. "Sorry, miss, haven't seen anything like that tonight."

"Oh. Okay." She puffed out her cheeks and used the back of her hand to wipe a strand of hair stuck to her forehead. "Thanks anyway." They looked at each other, dejected, and moved away from the intersection. Struck by a rather unwelcome idea, Simmons hesitated. "Should we split up, do you think? You go down that way and I'll go the other direction?"

"No. No way. What if we got lost from each other? Have y' never watched a horror film, Simmons?"

"Please. This is nothing like a horror film. And if we were in a film, it'd be one of those wild, nighttime romps through the middle of a bustling city."

"Alright, well, those usually involve some shady character with a gun at some point, so I don't know how I feel about that."

"Pssst. Hey, you. Hey."

Fitz jolted, flailing a bit as he turned to pinpoint the source of the interruption. It was a bedraggled old man, leaning against the side of a building, clutching at a bottle in a paper bag. He was haggard, with the look of someone who'd lived long, or hard, or both. He had spiderweb hair and a crushed-glass beard, and his clothes were tinted with dust and doldrums. A shaky arm beckoned at them to approach.

Fitz, still a bit jumpy, hung back and clutched at Simmons' arm. "Do not go over there! He could be a murderer."

"I doubt that," she whispered back. "Look at him - the poor man's so weak he can't even walk over to us!" Fitz's eyes were bright, a function of his distress, so she reached out to give his wrist a quick squeeze. "Besides, we're running out of time."

She moved cautiously towards the old man, wrinkling her nose as the sour smell of a nearby dumpster tapped at the spot between her eyes. "Excuse me, sir? Did you see a pair of kids with a glowing green object?"

"Well…" he pulled on the syllable, "Maybe I did an' maybe I didn't. Memory's a tricky thing, ain't it?"

Simmons looked at him, worry beginning to accordion her brow. "Fitz," she turned slightly, waving him over, "Have you got any cash?" she muttered under her breath.

"'Nope. I spent my last fiver on Raisinets, which, as I recall, you never thanked me for."

"Because I got about three of them before you inhaled the rest!"

"Well you shouldn't have told me to hold the box!"

"Ugh, just-" Simmons turned back, fully frustrated. "Sir, if you can't help us, why did you call us over here?"

"I never said I couldn't help. Might be I know where those youngsters is. Might be I could even tell ya, 'cept my throat's so dry, hard t' git the words out." He tipped his paper sack on its side, and the merest trickle of liquid dripped out, naming it empty.

We don't have time for this. She corralled a pleasant expression onto her face even as she nudged Fitz, leaning closer to speak softly. "Did you bring your flask?"

"And risk gettin' us kicked out of the theater?"

She couldn't help but roll her eyes. "So you'll smuggle in alien-enhanced tech, but not alcohol? Honestly, Fitz!"

"Exactly, Jemma. I'd never work on a potentially harmful device while drinking. It's just not good operatin' procedure."

"Thirsty…" the man groaned, regaining their attention.

"There's a liquor store just there," Jemma observed quietly, bumping Fitz's shoulder and pointing to a sign a few doors down. She continued more loudly, "Sir, we'd be happy to get you something to drink. Any, er," she grimaced, "requests? Some water, perhaps?"

Fitz snorted behind her.

"Tell ya what," the fellow coughed out, fumbling a bit as he tossed his bottle into the alley behind him. "You bring me my favorite," he chuckled coarsely, "libation… and I'll help ya find your friends."

Simmons suppressed an exasperated sigh. "And what would that be, sir?"

He startled her by wheezing out an enormous, misshapen smile. "Oh, you're gonna have to guess." The man seemed inwardly delighted, and her stomach garbled into a mélange of pity and impatience.

"Please," she was starting to lose her careful self-control, fingers twisting together tightly, "those boys could be in danger and we need to find them."

"Then guess fast, girlie. I'll even give you a hint - I'm a little hoarse."

He's crazy. This is pointless. But they had to try. "Okay," she walked a few feet away to stand with Fitz, concern hollowing her cheeks. "Okay, it's like a puzzle, yeah? A riddle. We're good at those…" her hands went up to the sides of her neck.

"Amen to that, sister," he reassured. "Okay. What was the clue?"

"He said he's hoarse. And thirsty. All right." Jemma went into analytical mode. "Hoarseness can be caused by a number of factors- it could be acid reflux, laryngitis, physical deformities of the vocal cords, nodules, cysts-"

Fitz was beginning to look a bit green when she mentioned cysts. "Well, are you sure it's an illness we're talkin' about? He wants us to bring him something to soothe his throat. Y' think we need to find him the right cough medicine or something?" He'd started pacing, hands pressing against the back of his waist. He stopped, snapped his fingers, and pointed. "The word he used was libation, which if I'm not mistaken, has somethin' to do with offerin' up sacrifices to gods and such… Jemma," Fitz's eyes had gone round with horror, "what if he wants us to bring him a horse to sacrifice?"

"Hey, Sherlock and Watson," the man deadpanned, his raspy voice carrying. "It's Colt 45, okay? It's got a horse on the label." He pointed to an advertisement in the liquor store window. "See?" He scratched at his patchy white stubble before a racking cough shook through him. "Freakin' morons," he wheezed out.

FitzSimmons bustled to buy the drink in question, both kicking themselves for failing to see the answer. "I can't believe it was right in front of us," Simmons fretted, indicating the poster on the glass.

"Well, it's not our fault he was bein' so literal… c'mon, Watson."

"Me, Watson? I hardly think that's accurate," Simmons scoffed playfully, from under mock-dismissive eyebrows. "I've always pictured you as the sidekick."

She turned swiftly towards the alley before she could see the daggers Fitz was burning into her back.

-o-

The old man grabbed eagerly for the bottle.

"First things first." Fitz held the prize just out of reach. "Tell us what you saw."

"There were these two kids, see, sounded pretty much like you told that cop. Looked like they were running from someone." At Fitz's get-on-with-it gesture, the old man leaned his head back against the building. "They went down that alley," he gestured ambiguously backwards before claiming his liquid prize, "and I think they went into the hot pink door."

"Oh, that's just-" "Thank you for your help." They called simultaneously behind them as they charged into the narrow street, beelining for the highlighter-colored entrance. They were drawing near when the door in question flew open, exploding outward with a loud blare of throbbing music and spilling a multitude of patrons into the darkened street. They milled around, laughing and swaying, some still dancing, some humming or singing, most in the throes of various forms of intoxication They were all young, in their twenties, and they laughed with the carelessness that stems from perceived immortality and the capacity to stay awake for days. It was a bit odd, knowing she must be one of the oldest in the crowd, when she'd spent most of her life feeling like the youngest person in the room. Well, except for Fitz. But they'd never been young quite like this. These people, in their freedom, their faces awash with pure enjoyment of each moment... it was this sort of innocence that SHIELD existed to protect. It was youth, and it was ignorance, and it was beautiful. A trio of girls sidled up to Fitz and petted his wig and his coat, much to the Scotsman's dismay.

"Please don't- that's- I'd prefer if you didn't-" he attempted, unsuccessfully, to reason past the wide-eyed affections and glassy ooohs and ahhhs of the women and men surrounding him.

Well, if they were going to touch her lab partner up - jealous - Simmons could at least get some information for his trouble. "Excuse me! Hello? Has anyone seen a pair of brothers carrying a glowing green cylinder?"

A wiry, spiky-haired girl with dark purple lipstick, not quite as tall as Jemma's nose, stopped her with a hand to the shoulder. She instinctively drew back, but the young woman didn't seem dangerous, just confused. "Wow..." Keeping a hand on Simmons, she began to drag her fingers over Fitz's cheeks, ignoring his attempt to recoil. "Face glitter... neat… you guys dressed up for a party? You lookin' for your friends? Why don't you hang out with me and my friends? We're," she nodded, comically serious, "awesome." She'd positioned herself in a way that was making it impossible for FitzSimmons to get past.

Despite her suspicion that this person, too, was under the influence of a mind-altering substance, Simmons decided to take a chance. She seemed friendly, after all, and might be able to offer some assistance. "Oh, thank you, we couldn't possibly, but can you help us find a couple of kids who took something of ours?" She explained the situation, describing the boys in the most specific detail she could, while the girl rocked languidly back and forth on her toes.

"Yeah, relax… no problem! I've got lots of friends." The girl, who'd introduced herself as Didi, hoisted herself up on a discarded crate, cupped a fingerless-gloved hand around her mouth and shouted above the noise, "Yo, people! These guys are lookin' for…" she remembered, "a pair of bros named Trey and Cody! They're like… carrying a bomb or something and don't even know it! Anyone see anything? Let's help 'em out, guys!"

Simmons had to give Didi credit, she'd misgauged how coherent the woman would be, and found herself a tad impressed by the authority in her high-pitched voice. The nearest people started to pass the message on, and before too long, small bursts of chatter had sprouted among the throng as everyone acquainted themselves with the situation.

"Should you need us…" Didi pulled out her phone and handed it to Simmons so they could exchange numbers, "my friends and I are hanging out downtown for a few more hours. We'll, you know, keep our eyes open and text you if we see anything."

So… that was some premiere, huh, guys? Here. Here you go. Shhhh...

Read a little bit about baby science babies traipsing around the city in costume, getting up to all sorts of shenanigans. It'll make you feel better (I hope? Maybe it was so horribly written that it made you feel worse, I dunno, I'm not your mom.)

Next chapter will be up on Friday! :-)