Second Nature (Nature Series #4)
Set after 3.16: Paradise Lost and into the early scenes of 03.17: The Team.
Second Nature: noun; a habit or mode of behaviour so long practiced that it seems innate.
2. May
"Why SHIELD?" Phil repeats. "Because thirty years ago, Nick Fury showed up and asked me to join. And I said yes. That's why."
Hive shakes its head. That sneaking disappointment shows in its eyes again. "That isn't what I meant. Come on, Coulson. Or should I call you Hand? Fury? Carter?"
Oh, that has to be bad news. This hell-beast thinks Phil's the same type of creature as it? Some sort of, of parasite, shifting from host body to host body, gathering strength however it can? More than that, though: shifting from Director of SHIELD to Director of SHIELD, passing down the lineage like an internal badge of office? That's… okay, frankly, that's disgusting.
Simmons had told them as much as she could about Hive, both from what Will Daniels had told her and what she'd observed herself on Maveth. Fitz told them more. He put months of research into the subject after Jemma came back, and months more after Fitz himself returned from the death world with Phil in tow. It wasn't just those two, of course. The team pitched in. A judicious tip from Luther Banks before he died helped immensely. From Hydra's current guise to Distant Star to Johann Schmidt, and further back to medieval rituals and the Monolith and the Kree… it's all far older and far more complicated than anyone would guess. And it's bad news to the bottom of the barrel.
Being trapped in a room for a so-far-civil conversation with a centuries-old demonic entity, even one wearing Grant Ward's skin, is one thing.
The demonic entity seeing Phil as a Gandalf to its Saruman, a Holmes to its Moriarty, a Michael to its Lucifer… as an equal? That's another thing entirely.
His stomach drops. But he doesn't let a hint of dread show in his voice or on his face. "That's not how our leadership works."
"Isn't it?" Hive asks.
"No."
"Are you so sure?"
"Yes," says Phil. "Seriously? Do I look like a six-foot-tall black dude to you? Or an English woman from the 1940's?"
Hive lifts an eyebrow. "Do I look like Will Daniels? Brubaker? Malick? Manzini? No. But I have their memories. I am them, as they are me."
Wait, what? "Malick? Like Gideon Malick?"
"Yes." Hive lifts its head to stare past Phil. It smiles. "You don't know. Now that is interesting."
Ugh. He'll bite. "What don't I know?"
It taps its temple. "Malick, yes. Nathaniel Malick. Gideon's younger brother."
"The monolith ate him, too?"
"In a manner of speaking," Hive says, parroting Phil's words back at him with no more than a faint trace of mockery. "The family is deeply entrenched. They made a religion out of it. There was a ritual. Far more complex than it needed to be. Nathaniel, he… I was going to say he volunteered. But that's not quite true either."
"Let me guess. Whatever the ritual was, he won it."
"Some would say he lost." Hive lowers its gaze and resumes pacing. "He was no true believer. Not until he arrived on Maveth. Gideon, however… yes, Gideon believes. Which, of course, was why he let his brother take the fall."
Phil frowns. "If he believes, wouldn't he want to meet you?"
"No. He is a coward. Or a wise man, perhaps." It meets Phil's eyes, gaze smooth and dark as the surface of still water at night, and chilling to the bone. "One shouldn't call upon demons unless one means what one says."
Oh, help.
Somewhere in the back of Phil's mind, in the overlap between his mother's faith and his father's history books, words form in a stumbling whisper. He's not fool enough to deny what's in front of his eyes.
Natasha murmurs in his memory. "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"
Clint joins her. "Conviction, Coulson. Look after yourself."
And then the voice in Phil's head is only his own, breathing too fast, too loud, shaking with fear and horror. Underneath, though, is a layer of steel. "In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…"
He's not sure why he goes for Latin. It's not like a creature named Alveus won't know the language. He could as easily be saying Our Father as Pater Noster. It's the same words. The same meaning.
And yet.
Latin just feels right. Somehow. He doesn't know how Hive takes over his hosts, he doesn't think he wants to know, but it can't hurt to be prepared. They were all taught mental static techniques at the Academy. Guarding his mind against a creature as old as Hive calls for a language just as old.
Except Hive is probably older than Latin. Oh well.
And to think Clint laughed at him. You're showing your age, Overwatch. You know Latin's a dead language, right?
Yeah, well, Ward's a dead man, but he's standing right in front of Phil.
"Grant Ward wasn't a believer either," says Grant Ward's body. "He never pretended to be. There was a simplicity, an honesty in a way, in what he wanted."
"He wanted to save his own skin," Phil says bluntly.
"Yes. But Grant had another purpose as well."
He hadn't been subtle about it. "Skye."
"Skye," Hive confirms. "And then Kara. To be with the woman he loved."
And look at how far he'd gone to achieve that. Maybe Ward was the Anakin to Phil's Kenobi after all. "Good job."
"There's no need for sarcasm."
"Isn't there? Skye would rather shoot him than look at him, and I mean that quite literally. And Kara? He killed Kara himself." Damn. Definitely more Anakin parallels there than he'd thought.
"And then you killed Ward," Hive says.
Yeah, no. They're not going there. Phil's not going there, not with creepy Zombie-Alien-Ward. "Why did you call me Hand? Fury? Carter? That's not how SHIELD's leadership works. We're not like you."
"You," says Hive softly, "are far more like me than you know, Phillip Coulson."
Phil blinks up at it, bland smile firmly in place. Hive doesn't need to know that his heart's thundering in his chest. "Do tell."
"Coulson. Hand. Fury. The last directors of SHIELD. Those names? They're not a coincidence." He looks at Phil indulgently, like Phil's a misbehaving child who got caught sneaking cookies out of the jar. "I mean, Victoria Hand, really? A coincidence? Even you couldn't believe that."
Nothing feels normal because nothing will feel normal.
The port at the end of his left arm whirs and settles. Somewhere far outside his physical body, the old hand throbs in phantom pain.
"It's a common enough surname," Phil says. "And a common injury. Better to lose a hand than a life."
"Common?" A Ward-like gleam of sardonicism flashes for an instant through Hive's eyes. "Only 10,000 people on your entire planet have the surname Hand. Nineteen hundred in the United States of America. It's most prevalent in England, with the most density on the Isle of Man. That isn't what I would call common."
"And the arm?"
"Below-elbow amputations of the left hand… There are 350,000 people in the United States with reported amputations. 30% of them have upper limb loss, 10% of them are missing hand and wrist, and 60% of that group have a trans-radial amputation. Again, the numbers aren't in your favour."
Phil allows a tinge of incredulity to slip through the amiable mask. "You really think that Victoria Hand had something to do with my missing hand?"
"I don't think. I know."
"She was never officially a director. We didn't have time to swear her into office before Ward murdered her. And speaking of directors in the last thirty years, you've missed one. Not just one — the most important one. So… nice theory, bro, but no cigar."
Hive doesn't look noticeably disappointed. It doesn't look noticeably anything. "It doesn't matter that it was never made official. Her authority was recognised, not just as Senior Agent In Charge but as de facto Director. She was in the lineage."
"And our missing director? Ward wasn't around then. Maybe you've got holes in your intel. And let me tell you, that's a bad thing for the head of an intelligence agency to have."
Hive cocks its head. "I'm afraid I don't… oh. Regency Protocol?"
It seems to be expecting a response. Phil doesn't give it the courtesy.
"After Grant assassinated your Ms. Price?"
Stonewalling isn't the most effective reverse-interrogation technique. And that question, Phil can answer. "She wasn't mine," he says, voice level. "People aren't possessions. Not even — especially not — for something like you."
"Of course not," It says, all suave urbanity on the surface and shark-infested reefs below. "They want freedom. We can give them that."
"Freedom from what? Because freedom from free will — that's not freedom."
Hive waves that aside with a careless hand. "Grant didn't think you'd do it. Enact Regency Protocol. He wanted you alive and hurting, yes, but he needed you in charge, too."
"He tried to kill me."
"With a ten-man ground assault team? That wasn't a serious attempt. He was just… putting you through your paces, so to speak."
So to speak clearly meant so Ward had said. "Can't have it both ways. Either I'm in charge or I'm dead." …et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris… "But he never was the most logical guy."
"He was a suffering soul."
"And you liberated him, I suppose."
"No. You did."
Damn.
"In a way he was grateful for that," Hive continues. "Grateful for the cessation of a painful, confused existence. And his memory lives on."
"Literally," Phil says, deadpan. "As does his body. Which is seventeen thousand kinds of creepy. Why did he want me in charge?"
"Because he knew you." Hive steps closer, close enough to brush knees with Phil. It stares down at him with those curiously dead-alive eyes. "He knew you, Phillip Coulson. Every move and counter-move, every tactical advance, every strategic retreat. How to push your buttons to get what he wanted. He was a better tactician than you gave him credit for."
Phil doesn't roll his eyes. But he projects the thought that he wants to as loudly as he possibly can. "Tactics are short term. He may have been a tactician, but he was no strategist. And don't get me started on his logistics results — he couldn't have resupplied an army if his life depended on it."
"Perhaps not." And again Hive moves on, as if the subject is boring it. "Did you enact Regency Protocol?"
"I did," says Phil. "Ward didn't know me as well as he thought he did."
"He thought it was too personal. That you'd play your… what did he call it… your maverick card. Even if you were clearly unfit for duty."
Careful, careful… Phil tiptoes forward in the conversation, feeling the ground quiver under his feet. Give the creature too much information and it'll decimate them. Not enough, and it won't spill anything in return. Or it will realise it's spilling intel, which would be even worse. He takes a deliberately shaky breath. "I nearly didn't," he admits. "Hand over the reins. It was… close."
Hive studies him. "Why did you?"
Simple. "Because it's protocol." And director or not, at the end of the day he's still a SHIELD agent, governed — as they are all governed — by protocol. By rules. By law, both the letter and the spirit. Even after the shattering of everything they thought they knew, back when Hydra showed its face.
Trust the team.
Trust the system.
Of course, as director he has one small advantage in that, if he decides the system doesn't work, he can change it. Through the appropriate channels, of course. There's protocol even for that.
"Protocol," Hive says flatly.
"Yes."
"Grant Ward murdered Rosalind Price, and you handed over the reins of your beloved SHIELD to another director… because it was protocol."
Phil holds his gaze, communicating yes, that's what I said without so many words.
"You must have trusted… her."
His own words from weeks ago ring in his head.
It's not just taking me out, May. The hard part is what happens after.
Like asking her to kill him wasn't bad enough. The hypocrisy of his own words abruptly tugs at him. If the situation was reversed, he'd never be capable of doing that to her. Even the thought of shooting May… No. Not even if she went the way of Garrett, if there was no trace of the Melinda May he cared for left in her. He'd get her out. Keep her safe. Look after her. Like she'd wanted to do with him.
SHIELD will need leadership. A new director. I trust you — just you — to do this.
"I do," he says.
"Melinda Qiaolian May, Agent of SHIELD. Commander. Deputy Director. The Cavalry."
"Don't call her that."
Hive glides a half-step backwards. "My apologies. She is the missing director, is she not?"
"Yes."
"For the full twenty-four hours of the Regency Protocol stand-down?"
"Yes. She handed over to Mack at the end of it at my request."
"Intriguing."
"Not really," Phil says. A thought occurs to him. "Your line of… hosts. The names you said. They were male at least as far back as Nathaniel Malick, correct?
"Yes."
"And Manzini?"
"Lord Manzini. A young English noble. Another believer, but one whose faith was… shaken. At the end."
Phil snorts. That explains a lot. "I get it."
"I'm sorry?"
"You wonder why people don't like you. Hydra."
"They will," says Hive, unmoved.
"But they don't. You've never wondered why?"
"Enlighten me."
"Because, it seems, not only is Hydra a bunch of racist, ableist, back-stabbing Nazis, but they're sexist as well." He leans forward as much as the restraints will let him. It's not much. "You were surprised that I would give up the leadership of SHIELD to Melinda May. Is it because she's a woman? Because her parents are Chinese? You probably think I'm less effective now, too, because of the hand." He's wondered that himself, privately. If it's a weakness he can't afford. With any luck, today won't be the day he finds out.
"Nick Fury lead us for decades with one eye. I'm going on a year now with one hand." Eleven months, actually. Mack cut his hand off on May 9th, 2015. Giyera took the plane on April 25th, 2016. He hopes it's still the same day. That he hasn't lost more time than he thought. "If you think May is any less capable of leading SHIELD than I am, you couldn't be more wrong. She's worth ten of me."
"Perhaps," Hive allows. "Then again, perhaps not. Why do you say she was the most important director?"
Give and take, give and take. But carefully. "Because," Phil says, "it's the truth."
"In what way?"
"It was a… vulnerable… time. Any attack on the leadership creates waves. She bore the load when I wasn't able to. Carried us through without a hitch. Implemented a few really neat ideas while she was at it."
"She didn't turn you from your path."
Kill him? Ward? That's not like you.
That's not what this is. I don't want to kill him for what he did to Ros.
Don't you?
"No," Phil says. "She didn't. But not for lack of trying."
"She was weak."
He nearly laughs at that. "Melinda May? Weak? Not even close. She was stronger than I was. What Ward did, that wasn't just personal for me. It was personal for all of us. And she was strong enough to take a step back, clear her mind, and take the helm from me before I drove us onto the rocks. She saw what needed to be done and she did it."
"And you?"
"I made a mistake." He's long since accepted that. "More than one. I let myself become obsessed with vengeance, consumed by it. And I nearly lost myself in the process."
Hive nods, its face softening in something that almost looks like sympathy. And then it turns away and presses a panel on the wall. "Speaking of losing yourself…"
The panel slides up, revealing an alcove which contains two very familiar objects.
Phil's gut clenches.
Two prosthetic hands.
One, his current flesh-coloured attachment. The one Hive must have removed before clamping his arms to the chair.
And two… no no no no no… the black hand, solid, clumsy. The one he left beside Grant Ward's lifeless body on Maveth. The one he used to crush the life out of his team's former specialist.
Hive reaches into the alcove and lifts the black prosthetic with something like reverence. "I want to ask you," it says softly, "about this hand."