Chapter Text
The security was good, but not good enough for the likes of him. Brock easily hacked into their system and got access to the camera streams. Then he wrote a script enabling him to loop the feeds in the two relevant rooms from his phone. He had observed the security guards during the past four days and realized that while they tried to randomize their patrols, they always had a coffee after the end of their round, which gave him a time window of at least ten minutes. Now Brock was waiting on the roof of the museum, dressed in dark but casual clothes that would allow him to blend into the crowd should he need to make a quick getaway. This was Singapore, after all, and Caucasians weren’t so rare that he would attract immediate attention. Also, he wasn’t 6"7 and blonde like some people he used to work with. Once on the roof, Brock had put on a balaclava and tight gloves, as well as a harness that he had carried in a duffel bag. He was staring at his phone, which was streeming the feeds of four cameras that Brock had placed on surrounding buildings. At the moment, two of the guards were touring the building, but they were almost done. Brock clipped his harness into a hook that he had planted the previous night and crouched on the edge of the roof. Finally, the men reached their office and Brock started the script that would loop the security cameras. Then he took the batteries out of his phone, which he put into his breast pocket before jumping over the edge. Silently, Brock rappeled two stories down and stopped next to a window. He took a small device out of his pocket and pressed a button. There was no noise, but the blinking red light of the motion sensor in the corner of the window suddenly winked out. The EMP had worked. Brock took two suction cups from his bag and attached them to the window, then cut a large circular opening into the glass. Carefully, he cut the circle in half, grabbing each piece by the suction cup and taking them with him as he slipped through the opening into the room. There, he placed the glass gently on the floor, released the suction cups and let them disappear into his bag – thieves, like magicians, didn’t like to reveal their tricks. Then Brock unhooked his harness and strode quickly to the door on his right.
There were five display cases in the windowless room, almost all of them filled with gleaming weapons. Japanese, from a variety of eras, as Brock’s research had taught him. Only one cabinet, in the back corner of the room, held civilian objects. His target was amongst them, a beautiful 19th century lacquer inro, the Japanese men’s version of a purse. It was a stack of wooden boxes that had been worn by hanging it from the sash with a string. A second EMP took care of the display case’s alarm system, a bolt cutter opened the lock on the front of the cabinet, and finally the glass dome could be swung back on two hinges. Brock allowed himself a small smile as he wrapped a soft cloth around the inro and slipped it into his bag.
There was no point in trying to hide the signs of his break-in, the hole in the window would be noticed as soon as the guards went on their next round. So Brock quickly but silently returned to the neighbouring room, clipped his harness to the rope and wriggled out of the window. Rapidly, he climbed back up to the roof, where he stuck the rope and harness into his bag and reassembled his phone. A short glance at the display showed him that the guards were still sitting in their office. Brock grinned, took a running leap to the neighbouring building and climbed down the fire escape. Another day at the office.
An hour later, Brock reached his safe house. He took the inro out of his bag, unwrapped it and took a photo with his phone.
Object acquired.
Message and picture were sent via the private messaging service of a forum on the dark net that specialized in these things, as agreed upon with his client. The first half of the payment, half a million dollars, had arrived on Brock’s Swiss bank account yesterday, and he would deliver the object as soon as the second half was paid. Brock left the phone on the table and went over to the tap, where he filled a glass with water. His head was hurting a little. I spent too much time staring at tiny videos on that stupid phone, Brock thought to himself as he rubbed his temples. I know why I used to leave this part to Miller. He felt a familiar pang of regret. Brock wasn’t made for solo work, he missed his team. Unfortunately, as far as he knew all of them were dead. Even if they weren’t, they’d still be loyal to Hydra. Brock hadn’t just burnt those bridges, he’d nuked them out of existence. Not because he’d suddenly agreed with Rogers or anything stupidly heroic like that, no, he’d simply come to the conclusion that all that was left of Hydra after the Insight debacle was a bunch of psychopaths, sadists and idiots. Being experimented upon could do that to a guy. It was a shame, really, because they’d almost reached their final goal. Almost managed to do what he’d been prepared to sacrifice everything for. If only he’d kept a closer eye on Romanoff on the Lemurian Star. If he’d stopped the elevator sooner, too high for Rogers to jump down into the atrium. If he hadn’t let himself be fooled by Romanoff’s tricks in the shopping mall. If he’d allowed Jack to simply shoot Rogers in the street. If he hadn’t given in to his impulse to make Rogers’ buddy pay for ruining everything.
Brock sighed. It was no use crying over all those what-ifs. What was done was done, his chance to turn the world into a better place was irretrievably lost. Maybe it was time to recruit some new people, start his own criminal empire.
Yeah, right. That wouldn’t just exponentially increase the chance of the damn Avengers coming after him, it also... didn’t feel right, much as he hated to admit it. It’s not what I set out to do when I joined Hydra all those years ago. Sometimes, life didn’t care about your well-laid plans. Solo ops it was, then. Until he slipped up one day and– Nope, not going there, Brock. Think positive. You’ve made it for two years, you’ll make it some more. And the world will forget about you sooner or later. Ah well, the payment is good enough that I can allow myself a few months of holidays after this job.
His phone chimed. Frowning, Brock grabbed the device and unlocked the screen. His client had sent a message. God, I hope they didn’t get cold feet. It’s such a bother to find buyers for stuff you’ve already stolen.
No, his client hadn’t gotten cold feet. Brock, however, felt a cold shiver run down his spine as he read the message.
Hello, Mr. Rumlow. This is Phil Coulson. I see that you have gotten our little present.
* ∼ *
This time, Jemma would have nothing to do until the end of the mission. Well, to be exact, there had been quite a bit at the beginning, too. She had been working on the experimental drug on and off for the last three years, whenever she had time or was inspired by whatever other things she came across during her work, but it had only been perfected a month ago. Coulson had smiled at her when she had given him the report, and said that he had the perfect use for it.
Brock Rumlow was one of the few high-ranking Hydra officers that had managed to avoid both the Avengers (Jemma had heard that Captain Rogers had been very disappointed by his former close colleague’s betrayal) and Coulson’s new S.H.I.E.L.D. for more than two years now. He was number four on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s internal most-wanted list. In fact, he was the highest-ranking Hydra agent who also used to be S.H.I.E.L.D., and as such held a special significance for the agency. They’d spent quite a few resources on finding him. There had been a few close calls, but the man was just too good and knew all the tricks in the book, and quite a few that no agency would ever put in the book. He couldn’t know about Jemma’s new work, though.
“That’s just come from Rumlow", Coulson explained with a nod to a large photograph on the holotable as the group assembled in the control room. The image showed a small, delicately painted, cylindrical stack of boxes lying on a black cloth, which had been placed on what looked like a kitchen table. “The museum has called the police because of a break-in twelve minutes ago, so we have to assume the picture’s genuine."
Skye smirked. “Have you written him yet?"
In lieu of an answer, Coulson grabbed his tablet and started typing. On the large wall display, text started appearing.
Hello, Mr. Rumlow. This is Phil Coulson. I see that you have gotten our little present. The air in the display cabinet was contaminated with a poison that we have recently developed. You will soon start to experience pain that will get continually stronger, until you are administered the antidote. We are the only ones who know what that antidote is. Surrender, and we will give it to you.
Even though she was the one who had developed the substance, Jemma had to swallow as she read its effects described so drastically. She could only imagine too well what it must feel like to get a message like this. After all, when she had been infected by the Chitauri virus, she had been desperate for an antidote as well.
The team looked expectantly at the display. For a long minute, nothing happened. Then, there were two single words.
Fuck you.
“I guess that means he won’t surrender. At least not yet", Coulson said dryly. “Skye, what have you got?"
“He managed to avoid most of the traffic and CCTV cameras, but because we were monitoring all of them in the whole city, we know that he has to be somewhere in this quarter." A map appeared on the wall, one part of the city overlaid in red. “There are some residential buildings, quite a few warehouses and also a lot of offices. I’ve started to run all of the company names through the databases to see if there’s something that might be a shell company."
“Excellent. Everybody, gear up, I’m sure we will have him soon."
* ∼ *
Three days later, Brock could barely think straight. His head felt as if there were knifes stuck in it, his bones were liquid fire and his muscles only obeyed sporadically. He had left his safe house immediately after receiving Coulson’s message and visited a clinic run by a known mobster. By the time he’d arrived at the dingy place, his headache had intensified and started spreading to his arms. The blood and urine tests hadn’t shown anything obvious, and the doctor hadn’t been able to identify what was ailing him. So Brock had asked the doctor to take a few more blood samples, which he took with him and later sent via courier to a lab in Bangkok whose head still owed him a favor. Until now, the lab hadn’t found anything, either. It didn’t look good.
But Brock was a fighter. Coulson hadn’t said that the poison would kill him, only that he would be in pain. He knew all about that, didn’t he? Order only comes through pain. Brock still regretted saying that to Rogers’ little friend, in retrospect, it felt too much like tempting fate. But he’d been out of bullets and frustrated with Rogers trying to ruin everything he’d been working toward for so many years that he hadn’t quite been thinking straight. Having the Triskelion collapse on top of him had hurt like hell, only Hydra’s experimental medicine had prevented him from scarring horribly. The success of this treatment hadn’t been enough to make Brock overlook the fact that the ‘doctors’ had tested some other, less benign substances on him, though.
Right now, Brock hoped that Coulson had lied to him, and that the poison would eventually lose its effect. If the man had told the truth, things would really get ugly. I’ve never heard about a poison like that. Is it possible that S.H.I.E.L.D. has such a powerful weapon? If yes, then it must be fairly new, or Hydra would have known about it. He took a shaking breath. Most of the more unconventional scientists were Hydra. But Coulson has FitzSimmons. I know that they’ve invented some crazy shit, so why not a poison?
Brock was grudgingly impressed. He hadn’t thought that S.H.I.E.L.D. still had it in them to torture someone, not after Coulson’s public promise to respect human rights. And torture was the only word to describe what was happening to him now. On the second day, Brock’s state had deteriorated so badly that he couldn’t keep down food anymore. Twelve hours later, even water made him throw up. Now he was hiding in an abandoned warehouse, out of the sightlines of the windows, with his back to the wall and a gun in his hand. The world was spinning slowly. The painkillers he had taken didn’t have the slightest effect, if anything, they made him even more nauseous. Fuck my life. Brock blinked. He should really try to get some sleep, but he’d quickly found out that lying down only made the pain worse. Well, there was nothing to do but wait – either for a call from Bangkok, or for the poison to stop working on its on. Brock refused to think about other possibilities. He blinked again.
Suddenly, there was a crash and the door flew into the building. Brock was moving before he registered what he was doing. He dove behind a stack of broken crates, aimed his gun at the person in the door and fired. His hand was shaking so badly that the shot went wide, but at least it made the person duck and gave him the few seconds he needed to reach the back door. As he stumbled out, he came face to face with a woman dressed in black. Melinda May, the Cavalry. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Amazingly, she didn’t seem to have a weapon on her. He didn’t have time to think about what that meant. Instead, he raised his gun and – where had she gone? There was a blur of movement, he reacted on instinct, but his body didn’t obey him as it usually did. A kick hit his wrist and the gun went flying. Brock hissed as the sharp pain was added to his already almost overloaded body. He knew that if he wanted to get away, he had to at least knock May out, or she would follow and easily catch him. Without his weapon, that meant hand-to-hand. As he engaged the petite woman in a messy fight, Brock quickly realized that he didn’t stand a chance, not in his current state. But he was too proud to just give up.
A few kicks and punches were exchanged, then May twisted Brock’s arm behind his back and ordered sharply: “Give up, Rumlow."
“Never", he grunted and turned in her hold. The move that had already worked so many times in his career was easily blocked by the smaller woman. She hooked a foot around Brock’s knee and managed to make him fall, then immediately pressed her knee into his back.
“Surrender!"
Brock kept struggling, even though his sight was slowly going dark. May huffed. “As you wish." There was a twisting motion, then a pop as his shoulder snapped out of the joint. Brock screamed, then abruptly went silent as his body finally surrendered to the debilitating pain.
* ∼ *
Jemma was getting antsy. This was the first time the team was on a mission together since their hunt for Garrett and Ward two years ago. She secretly suspected that Coulson had been going stir-crazy from being confined to offices and meeting rooms for that long, and had therefore used the importance of catching Rumlow as a convenient excuse to go back into the field. Not that Jemma was complaining – if she was honest with herself, building up a lab and doing high-level science was fun, but she did miss life on the Bus. However, they’d all thought that, after weeks of planning, the actual being-in-the-field part would be much shorter. Rumlow should have given up after a day, two at most, and even if he was more stubborn than anticipated, Skye’s hacking skills should have provided his location by now. Jemma had told Coulson her poison was safe for two days, after that, she strongly recommended to administer the antidote. It was the third day now. Jemma had never killed anyone before, and she didn’t want to start now, no matter how much a man like Rumlow might deserve it.
Finally, Coulson called the Bus and told them that they had Rumlow in their custody, alive. Jemma heaved a huge sigh of relief. She was waiting for May and Coulson in the cargo bay as they returned to the Bus. May drove the pick-up up the ramp, then opened the trunk as Coulson waved Jemma closer.
“Did everything go as planned?", Jemma asked distractedly as she helped May pull the stretcher onto a gurney. Rumlow looked almost as he had on the photos in the mission briefing, just a bit paler. He was tied to the stretcher by four tight straps and two pairs of handcuffs.
“He put up quite the fight, considering his condition", Coulson said dryly.
“He was awake?", Jemma asked, aghast. “After three days? But that’s impossible!"
“That’s what we thought", May said sarcastically. “I had to dislocate his shoulder to knock him out. Don’t worry, we already popped it back in", she added at Jemma’s disbelieving look.
The biochemist shook her head and murmured to Rumlow: “That sounds like you’re going to be a piece of work, huh?"
Of course, Rumlow didn’t answer. With Fitz’s help, Jemma pushed the gurney towards the med pod, then heaved the unconscious man onto the bed. They were watched closely by Coulson the whole time, until they fastened the restraints that attached Rumlow’s wrists and ankles to the bed.
“You got it from here?", the Director asked seriously.
“Of course, Sir. Everything is prepared."
“Good. I will be in my office if you need me."
Jemma nodded absently, her mind already on the task at hand. “Fitz, could you fetch the IV bag from the cabinet, please?" She put a bottle of disinfectant, some tissues and a syringe onto the small table next to the bed, then pushed up the right sleeve of Rumlow’s tight black jumper. Her eyes fell onto the crook of his arm, and she froze. No. That’s not possible.
“Hey, Jemma, do you want me to– Jemma? What’s wrong?"
Wordlessly, her face frozen in a mask of horror, Jemma pointed to Rumlow’s arm. There, just below the elbow, were the words: That sounds like you’re going to be a piece of work, huh? They both would have recognized the handwriting everywhere.
“What the hell?" Fitz was staring at her openmouthed. “But... that means he’s... How?"
Jemma shook her head. “I don’t know!" She realized that her voice was higher than usual, panic was starting to set in. “He’s Hydra, he’s a ruthless murderer and–" Jemma forced herself to take a deep breath.
Fitz put a comforting hand on her arm. “Maybe it’s a fluke? Maybe he got a sample of your handwriting from the S.H.I.E.L.D. databases and wrote it himself."
“Don’t be absurd. He’s been unconscious since he got here", Jemma replied absentmindedly. She appreciated what her friend was trying to do, she did, but unfortunately, it would not help her. In science, you couldn’t make the facts match your theory, you had to fit your theory to the facts. And the fact was that Bruck Rumlow bore her soulmate mark. Jemma took another deep breath. Okay, don’t panic. You can do this. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just– an evil soulmate. A hysterical giggle threatened to leave her lips, and she hastily pressed her hand to her mouth. I need more data, and more time. How do I get more time? By preventing that he dies. Then we can put him in a cell, and I can fix this. Somehow. Okay. First things first.
“Regardless of his possible relation to me, he has to be given the antidote. Quickly. But the Director has to be notified of this unexpected... development. Fitz, could you go and tell him, please?" When he looked ready to protest, she added: “Rumlow’s not gonna wake up for a few hours yet, and he’s restrained. Please, Fitz. I think it will be easier for me if – if I don’t have to tell Coulson myself."
Fitz’s eyes softened. “Sure. But take care."
When the engineer was gone, Jemma forced herself to stay calm. Grab one of the medical wipes, infuse it with disinfectant, swipe over Rumlow’s skin. Insert a catheter into his vein, stick it down with medical tape. Hang the IV bag from a hook on the cabin wall, plug the tube into the catheter. Wrap the arm with gauze. Put away the equipment. And if she had wrapped the arm with more gauze than strictly necessary, effectively hiding the soulmark from view – well, there was no one to see, was there?
“There, all done", Jemma murmured when everything had been cleaned away. Then, and only then did she allow herself to really look at the man in front of her. He was handsome, in a ragged kind of way, she had to grant him that. What she could see of his body in the tight jumper and dark blue jeans spoke of hard physical training. Before his career with STRIKE, he had been a specialist in S.H.I.E.L.D., just like May. And Ward. Thinking of Ward always hurt, so Jemma quickly stopped that train of thoughts. She should be professional and focus on Rumlow’s health, instead. She could see that his skin must usually be quite tanned, but right now it was unhealthily pale and covered by a thin sheen of sweat. Even unconscious, his face was scrunched up in pain, and his breathing was quite labored. Now that she thought about it, it might be a good idea to attach some more monitoring equipment to him, after all, no human had ever gone this long without the antidote. Jemma absolutely did not enjoy pushing up the jumper and the underlying black t-shirt to attach the heart monitor to his (nicely muscled) chest. The beeping was worryingly fast. Maybe she should also check his blood oxygen levels?
There were quick footsteps in the corridor behind her. “Agent Simmons? Are you all right?"
“Director", Jemma forced a bright smile onto her face. “Of course I’m all right. Why ever would I not be?"
Coulson’s pitying face told her clearly that her attempts at acting didn’t fool anyone. “Because you just found out that your soulmate is one of the men who betrayed everything you’ve ever worked for?"
“If you put it that way..." Jemma’s smile wobbled. She threw a quick glance in Rumlow’s direction, then let her gaze move into the corridor beyond, where Fitz and Skye had caught up with their boss. Seeing Jemma’s distress, Skye threw herself at her and hugged her tightly.
“Don’t worry, Jemma. We’ll help you no matter what."
The lump in her throat prevented Jemma from answering, so she only hugged Skye back in response.
Coulson calmly stated: “This doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to. As soon as we arrive at the Playground, we can make sure that you never have to see him again. He doesn’t even have to know that it’s you those words belong to. I know enough field medicine to check on the IV and the monitors while we’re in the air."
“Thank you, Sir. I– I think I would appreciate some time to decide how I’m going to proceed."
“All right then. Off you go. Agent Fitz, Skye, please take care of Agent Simmons. May tells me it will be another six hours until landing."
* ∼ *
It took awhile until Brock realized that he was awake. His body still felt on fire, the blood was pounding in his ears and it was completely dark. After some time, a beeping registered. He sloggishly asked himself what that meant. God, if only breathing wouldn’t hurt so much. A few more minutes passed until Brock understood that it was so dark because his eyes were closed. With effort, he managed to open them – and immediately closed them again, groaning weakly, blinded by bright overhead lights. He wanted to shade his eyes with his hand, only to realize that it was restrained at the wrist.
“Whathefuck?" It was more of a croak then a question, really.
“Ah, Mister Rumlow. Good to see you’ve joined us again."
Brock knew that voice. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it... But from where? If only he knew what was going on. If only his body would stop hurting long enough for him to think. He slowly moved his head a tiny fraction to the side and opened his eyes a little. There was an average-looking white man in a suit standing over him.Coulson, Brock’s brain supplied helpfully. With that realization came the memory of stealing the inro, getting the message, searching for an antidote and finally being attacked in the warehouse.
With as much venom as he could muster, Brock spat: “Bastard."
“Excuse me?" The man had the audacity to sound mildly amused.
“Was it – cause I – didn’t – surrender?", Brock got out between shallow breaths.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow."
“Antidote..."
Coulson’s face turned serious at that. “We already gave it to you."
“Liar", Brock pressed out.
“No, really. It was in the IV", Coulson said, pointing to a thick bandage around Brock’s right elbow and the tube that ran from there to an almost empty IV bag.
Brock blinked, trying to determine if the man was telling him the truth. He couldn’t be sure, Coulson’d always had a good poker face and he was too exhausted right now. So instead he settled for: “’S not – working."
“It hasn’t gotten better at all?"
Brock shook his head. It was only a small movement, but enough to make pain explode behind his eyes and knock him out.
* ∼ *
Jemma, Fitz and Syke looked up from their card game when Coulson approached them.
“DC! Did something happen?", Skye asked when she saw Coulson’s serious expression.
He nodded. “I’m afraid so. Rumlow just woke up. It seems that the antidote didn’t work."
“What?", Jemma asked aghast. “What do you mean, it didn’t work?"
“His heartrate is still much too high and he seemed to be in a lot of pain before he passed out again."
“Oh, bother", Jemma cursed. The implications of Coulson’s words were running through her head. They had tested the poison first on mice, then on pigs and finally on human volunteers (namely herself and Fitz). The long-term tests had shown that mice passed out after five hours and pigs after a day, but both were fine if given the antidote within five days. After that, their heartrate increased until they suffered from heart failure. Obviously, the substance had never been tested on a human over this timescale, but the reaction should have been the same. If the antidote didn’t work on Rumlow, and his heartrate was already elevated... Then it was quite possible that Jemma would be responsible for the death of her own soulmate.
There was only one reliable way to prevent this from happening.
It would change Jemma’s life forever.
Her brain short-circuited for a second or two. Her possible future unfolded in front of her inner eye, a bright career in the new version of S.H.I.E.L.D., an opportunity to make the world a better place, with good friends at her side and maybe, one day, a husband (a fellow scientist?) and a family... Or being tied to Rumlow until her death, which might come very soon if he decided to kill himself to take out one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best scientists. It shouldn’t have been a hard choice.
But he’s my soulmate. I can’t just let him die.
Jemma lifted her chin and looked Coulson in the eye. “I will do it."
“Do what?", Fitz asked from beside her. Then, as it clicked, the words rushed out of him: “What, no, Jemma, you can’t... But that would mean..."
“It would mean completing the bond, yes."
“But then you will be bound to a murderer forever!" Fitz was clearly horrified. Coulson and Skye were watching silently, letting the two friends talk it out.
Jemma made an unhappy face. “I know, Fitz. But I can’t just let him die."
“Maybe the antidote’s too old, it could have lost its potency. We could just make a new batch."
“It’s only four days old, and I tested it on a mouse. That’s not the problem."
“Then we could draw some blood, check under the microscope how his cells react to the antidote. Mabye we have to adjust some of the concentrations–"
“There’s not enough time. Fitz, don’t you think I would have suggested something like this if I thought it would work?"
The engineer deflated. “I’m just worried about you, Jemma. If you do this, there’s no going back."
“I know." Jemma hugged herself. “And believe me, I wish I could avoid it. But I invented this poison, it would be my fault if he died. And I don’t think I could live with that."
Fitz nodded mutely. Then he carefully placed a hand on her shoulder. “I understand. I’ll help you. We will all help you, right?"
Skye nodded emphatically. Coulson gave a brief nod and added: “It eliminates some options, but it also keeps a lot of them open. We can still keep him imprisoned and do a hormone exchange without ever requiring you to be in the same room. It doesn’t mean that you have to live with him."
With forced cheerfulness, Jemma said: “All right then. Let’s go, shall we?"
Together, the group made its way towards the med pod. They could hear the shrill alarm of the heart monitor from the corridor. May was standing in front of the door, watching their prisoner intently. “He doesn’t look good." One glance at Jemma’s nervous face, and May stepped back to let the younger woman pass. Once inside, Jemma stopped dead in her tracks. Rumlow looked bad, really bad. His body was shaking, his face a rictus of pain, and sweat was plastering his hair to his head. He was clearly unconscious. Licking her lips nervously, Jemma stepped closer to the bed. Coulson pushed the small visitor chair towards her and nodded encouragingly.
“Okay. Here goes nothing...", Jemma murmured, and unwrapped the thick bandage from Rumlow’s elbow. Her own neat handwriting greeted her. Carefully, as if she was expecting something to explode, Jemma placed two fingers on the writing. Her skin tingled where it touched the soulmark. She knew theoretically what she had to do, but for obvious reasons this was the first time she was actually trying it. Jemma concentrated on the tingly feeling. At first, it seemed like nothing happened, but then there was a burst of warmth where their skin met and Jemma suddenly felt lightheaded.
“So pretty..."
The words were uttered by a gravelly voice, a voice whose owner was staring up at her from hooded eyes. He was only half awake, the sudden energy burst enough to shake him from his coma and kickstart the antidote, but not enough to overcome the poison’s effect all at once. Slowly, the eyes closed again, his face slightly more relaxed than before. The heart monitor stopped its frantic beeping and returned to normal parameters.
Jemma swallowed, then removed her hand from Rumlow’s arm and stood. The team looked at her. Finally, Skye quipped: “It could have been worse. At least the words are good."
* ∼ *
This time, Brock woke more himself. His training kicked in, he knew immediately where he was and what had happened. Well, almost. He knew that he had passed out from the pain, and that something must have happened in the meantime, because now the pain was completely gone. He had a vague memory of... an angel? Don’t be ridiculous. That can’t be right. Coulson must have been lying, after all, and administered the antidote after he had fallen unconscious.
A quick inventory told Brock that his shoulder was still hurting after being dislocated, but the rest of his body was fine. Well, hungry as hell after more than two days without food, but somebody must have hooked him up to a saline solution because he at least felt hydrated. S.H.I.E.L.D. apparently wanted him alive. If they think I will give them intel, they’re gonna be disappointed. I may not owe any loyalty to Hydra anymore, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has done even less for me. Since he hadn’t really been in his right mind when he had talked to Coulson, Brock decided it made more sense to open his eyes and assess his situation than to pretend to still be asleep. He was alone in a very small hospital room, a heart monitor was blinking quietly in the corner. There was a glass window that opened onto a narrow hallway, no window to the outside. He could hear a low, deep humming in the background. Of course, I must be on the famous Bus.
Okay, so what now? Being trapped in Hydra’s medical center meant that Brock had missed the first five months of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new leadership, but he had read up on it afterwards, and followed the news coverage ever since. Ever since Coulson’s passionate speech at the U.N. General Assembly and the vetting of all remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel by the commission lead by King T’Chaka, there had been a close collaboration between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the different security agencies. Whenever an American native was arrested by S.H.I.E.L.D., they questioned him and handed him off to the CIA, the FBI, the military, or whoever else could make a legitimate claim on them. Afterwards, there was always either a civil trial or a Court Martial, and quite a few former Hydra operatives had been sentenced to death already. That, or lifelong imprisonment at a high-security facility. Some lucky ones had even been brought to the Avengers’ prison, which the media called ‘the Hole’ – not without reason, it had been designed by Romanoff herself and was supposed to be impenetrable.
Brock didn’t plan on following that route. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. knew what he was capable of, his best bet would be to escape now, before they got to any secure base. All right, then. Get out of the restraints, find the way to the cargo bay, steal a parachute, and hope like hell that we’re not still over the Pacific. But even if they were, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s parachutes could be converted to a lifeboat, and somebody would hopefully pick him up sooner or later. He’d cross that bridge once he came to it.
Brock had just started to examine his restraints (handcuffs on the wrists, leather straps with metal buckles on the ankles) when all the lights switched off, along with the heart monitor. Then an alarm sounded and red lights started flashing on the hallway, while a computer voice announced: “Please proceed to the nearest emergency-approved seat immediately. Heavy turbulences, evading actions or an emergency landing are probable. Please proceed to the nearest emergency-approved seat immediately. Heavy turbulences, evading..."
Great. Just what I need, Brock thought glumly. Then he realized that right now, the other passengers had more pressing problems than checking on their prisoner, and corrected himself: Hm. Actually, it might really be just what I need.
He shook his left hand to loosen the muscles, then used the handcuff itself and a quick wrist movement to dislocate his thumb. Fuck, that always hurt like hell. The cuff was really tight, even with the dislocated thumb it was hard to get out of it, and he almost screamed from the additional pain. He’d really had enough of that for the day. As soon as the hand was free, he moved it towards the other side and used the right hand to pop the joint back where it belonged. Ow.
The plane lurched. Brock briefly lifted off his bed, held back by the remaining three restraints, before the plane stabilized and he fell back onto the mattress. Whatever this was, Brock hoped that the Cavalry had it under control. Fumbling a bit due to his hurting and already swelling thumb, Brock pulled the catheter out from underneath the thick bandage (no time to unwrap it now, it doesn’t do any harm, leave it till later) and used it to pick the lock on the second handcuff. There. The restraints on his feet should now be a piece of–
The plane abruptly took a nosedive and Brock hastily grabbed the metal railings of his bed. He held on for dear life as the plane bucked and struggled, but his gut told him that they were going too steep, too fast. He hadn’t survived the poison only to die in a plane crash.
Brock was pressed into the bed as the plane was pulled up a bit, but they were still going down. He had no idea what was going on, the computer voice was still talking, the lights still flashing, but apart from that, he couldn’t hear anything – no gunfire, no shouts, nothing. He didn’t even know how close to the ground they were now.
Apparently very close, because there was a sudden series of loud crashes and screeching, combined with shaking of the plane and a strong deceleration. Then there was a particularly strong blow to something close to him, and suddenly Brock’s world was spinning, the window was no longer looking onto the hallway but something blue– no, something green– no, something–
Brock must have lost a second or two. When he came back to his senses, there was a terrible pain in his abdomen. He was hanging from the restraints on his ankles, the room itself turned by almost ninety degrees such that what had been the door to the hallway was now an inclined floor. A floor which was quickly filling with water. Shit.
Dreading what he wood find, Brock looked down his body. A metal rod, its diameter roughly the same as Brock’s pinky, had embedded itself on the far right of his abdomen. Shit, shit, shit. The water was rising quickly, he couldn’t allow himself to hesitate. So Brock gritted his teeth, wrapped his right hand around the rod and pulled. There was a spurt of blood, but not as much as he had feared. Pulling himself along the metal railing of the bed, Brock managed to reach the restraints around his ankles. The buckles were quickly opened and Brock tumbled into the water. There was medical equipment floating everywhere, the whole room in utter chaos. From what Brock could see, the door had stayed closed during the crash, but the window had partly shattered. The water had stopped rising. Maybe he had landed in a shallow lake or river? Better than the ocean, that’s for sure.
But the remaining air would not last forever, he still had to get out. With one hand pressed to the wound in his abdomen, he used his feet to estimate the size of the hole in the window. Not quite large enough. Brock swallowed, leaned his free hand against what had once been the ceiling and stamped his boot against the damaged window. The glass was damned thick. Brock felt his strength wane as blood ran down his side. Was he imagining it, or was the air getting thinner? Finally, Brock decided that what he had done had to be enough or he would pass out before he actually got to use the hole. Taking a deep breath, he dove into the water. It was so murky that he couldn’t see exactly where he had to go and the hole was rather small, so he cut his hands and his clothes as he wriggled through. Exhaustion was pulling at him, telling him to just let go– but Brock was a fighter. Finally, he made it through and straightened up, breaching the surface of the water.
Brock was greeted by a dense tropical forest and warm, humid air. That’s... unexpected. Dizzy from blood loss, Brock waded to the river bank. Who knew if there were dangerous fish in the river that got attracted by his blood. Or hell, with his luck, there might even be crocodiles. He made it onto the dry land. There, he allowed his trembling legs to fold and landed heavily on his knees.
Tiredly, Brock thought: Okay, this is my chance. The med pod seems to have detached from the plane, at least I can’t see it anywhere. So if I hurry, I can get far enough away that they won’t be able to find me in this forest. Now that the poison’s been neutralized, I can handle things on my own. Right? It can’t be too far to the next village or some other place where I can steal a ride. And find out where the hell I even am.
Brock’s thoughts were a lot more optimistic than his weak, hurting body justified. He should probably try to put a tourniquet on the wound in his abdomen, or he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere. But he was so tired... Brock’s eyes fell on the wet, slightly muddy bandage around his arm. Better than nothing. With hands that were shaking from pain and fatigue, he unwrapped the bandage. Wait, what? There was something on his skin. His vision was swimming, but he forced his eyes to focus and made out neat, feminine handwriting. That sounds like you’re going to be a piece of work, huh?
“What the fuck?" Brock blinked stupidly at his arm. Is that a soulmark? It can’t possibly be...
He was shaken out of his stupor by a bolt of pain from his abdomen, and tried to start wrapping the bandage around his torso. With a grunt of pain, he froze. Moving his arm hurt. Maybe he could... He should... His mind was refusing to work properly, and he lost another few seconds just staring at his shaking hands. Then there was a voice from behind him.
“Freeze!"
Brock blinked. Coulson, that voice belonged to Coulson. He felt strangely calm about that.
“Put your hands behind your head, slowly. And then get up and turn around to face me."
“I didn’t know you had my soulmate", Brock rasped without moving. “Who is it?"
“I said, put your hands behind your head."
“It can’t be May, I talked to her before. And it sure as hell isn’t you." Brock felt light-headed. The whole situation seemed completely surreal.
“I have an ICER gun. I don’t know what the toxin is going to do with the rests of the other poison still in your system, but I will use it on you if you don’t do as I say."
Brock could hear Coulson step around him. He knew that he was close to fainting. It seemed like the shock of finding out he had a soulmate, and she was here, combined with blood loss and all the other trauma of the past few days, was too much even for someone like him. “So it must be FitzSimmons, or your famous hacker." Brock huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh, then regretted it as pain shot through him. He groaned and pressed a hand to his wound.
“Oh damn", Coulson cursed. He must have put away the gun, because he was suddenly right in front of Brock, pushing his hand away and examining the wound. “How did that happen?"
“Got impaled on some medical equipment", Brock grunted. It felt almost natural to report to Coulson. Well, they had been working for the same organization for a long time. “Then had to dive out of the med pod." Brock groaned again as Coulson balled up his handkerchief (Really? Who even used those anymore?), pressed it to the wound and secured it with the bandage. Then, after a minimal hesitation, Coulson pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jacket and bound Brock’s hands in front of his body. Brock knew better than to put up a fight in his current condition.
“So who is it?"
Coulson sighed. “You will find out soon enough. Let’s get you back to the others, first." Then he stood back up, turned towards the direction he had come from and shouted: “Skye! Over here!"
It didn’t take long until Brock heard the crashes of someone not used to it breaking through the undergrowth. A young female voice asked: “Sir?"
“He’s injured, I need your help getting him back to the Bus."
Then she stepped into Brock’s line of sight. “Not you", he mused, “not my type."
“What?" She sounded slightly affronted. “Walk by yourself, then."
“He means that you’re not his soulmate", Coulson explained mildly. “He found the soulmark on his arm."
“Hmpf", the woman – Skye, apparently – conceded. Then they each grabbed one of Brock’s arms and pulled him up. He couldn’t prevent himself from giving a small shout of pain as the movement pulled on his wound. Coulson seemed rather worried, which in turn worried Brock, because the man had a reputation as being remarkably unshakable.
The three slowly made their way through the dense jungle. It was easy to see where the med pod had mowed down smaller trees before ending up in the river. But since the pod had detached from the much heavier plane while still in the air, the group now had to go almost at right angles to this trail until they reached the larger swath of destruction left by the plane. Amazingly enough, the plane seemed to have stayed in one piece, albeit a rather scratched and battered piece whose belly had been ripped open. Smoke was coming from the cockpit and one of the turbines. Through half-closed eyes, Brock could see three people in a natural clearing some hundred meters from the plane. As they got closer, the three looked up.