Chapter 7 : FIRST BLOOD
The sandwich debate had been going for fifteen minutes.
"You cannot rank a Reuben against a BLT," Fitz insisted, waving a butter knife for emphasis. "They're fundamentally different sandwich philosophies. One is built on the harmony of corned beef and sauerkraut. The other is a celebration of bacon's dominance over all other ingredients."
"But that's exactly why a unified ranking system is necessary," I countered, leaning against the galley counter. "Without objective criteria, you're just describing sandwiches you like. That's not science. That's opinion."
Simmons looked up from the bread she was slicing. "He has a point, Fitz. Your methodology lacks rigor."
"My methodology is perfectly rigorous!"
"You ranked a grilled cheese above a Cuban because you were hungry when you made the list."
Fitz's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "That's... that was a controlled variable."
I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and bit into it, hiding my grin. Three days ago, I'd been a dead man walking in a crappy apartment. Now I was arguing about sandwich science with two geniuses on a flying fortress.
Life had improved considerably.
The galley was small but efficient, designed for a crew that spent more time in the air than on the ground. Everything had its place. The coffee machine—vastly superior to the evaluation facility's—gurgled quietly in the corner. Through the windows, clouds stretched toward a horizon tinged with the orange of approaching sunset.
We'd been airborne for six hours. Peru was getting closer.
"What about structural integrity?" I suggested. "A sandwich that falls apart mid-bite should be penalized, regardless of flavor profile."
Fitz pointed at me. "Now that's a valid metric. Simmons, write that down."
"I'm not your secretary."
"You're the one with the tablet."
"Because I'm working on spectral analysis algorithms, not sandwich rankings."
I finished the apple and tossed the core into the recycling chute. The easy banter felt good—normal in a way nothing had felt since I'd woken up in Jake Mordered's body. But underneath the comfort, my mind kept circling back to what was coming.
The 0-8-4 in Peru was Tesseract-powered. I remembered that from the show—a weapon left behind during the war, HYDRA tech that had been buried for decades. The Peruvian military would show up claiming jurisdiction. There would be a firefight. And somewhere in the chaos, Comandante Reyes would get her soldiers aboard the Bus with intentions far less friendly than her smile suggested.
I knew all of this. And I couldn't say a word.
"You alright?" Simmons asked, studying me with that scientist's attention I was starting to recognize. "You went quiet."
"Just thinking about tomorrow." True enough. "First mission nerves."
"Perfectly natural. Fitz vomited before our first field operation."
"I did not vomit. I experienced stress-related gastrointestinal distress."
"Into a tactical helmet."
"It was cleaned! Thoroughly!"
I laughed—genuine, surprised—and the tension in my chest eased slightly. Whatever horrors were waiting in Peru, at least I'd face them with people I actually liked.
---
The cockpit door was usually closed.
I'd noticed that pattern during the first few hours aboard. May flew the Bus with the same intensity she brought to everything else: complete focus, zero tolerance for interruption. The rest of the team orbited around her closed door like planets around a black hole—aware of the gravity, careful not to get too close.
I knocked anyway.
"What."
Not a question. A challenge. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
May's hands rested on the flight controls, steady as surgical instruments. She didn't turn around. The cockpit wrapped around her like armor, all screens and switches and the endless sky beyond the windshield.
"Agent May. I was hoping we could talk."
"No."
"I haven't even said what about."
"Doesn't matter." She adjusted something on the control panel. "I don't train consultants."
"Good thing I plan to be more than that."
Now she looked at me. The weight of her attention was physical—like standing in front of an oncoming train and trying not to flinch.
"You stopped a mugging in Los Angeles. Moved fast. Didn't panic. That's not nothing." Her voice was flat, clinical. "But fast reflexes don't make a field agent. And one lucky fight doesn't make a soldier."
"I know."
"Do you? Because most people who walk through that door think their abilities make them special. They last about three missions before reality introduces itself."
I held her gaze. "I'm not asking to be special. I'm asking to learn. You're the best combat specialist SHIELD has. I've seen the footage from the Academy archives—the Bahrain operation, the extraction in Kandahar, the—"
"Stop."
The word cut like a blade. Something flickered in May's expression—too fast to identify, gone before I could process it.
"I don't talk about Bahrain."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Leave."
I left.
The door closed behind me with a soft click. I stood in the corridor for a long moment, heart pounding, replaying the conversation. I'd pushed too hard, mentioned things I shouldn't have known about.
Stupid. Careless. The kind of mistake that got people asking questions.
But underneath the self-recrimination, something else stirred. May hadn't dismissed me entirely. She'd acknowledged the mugging, the reflexes, the potential. She'd warned me about the realities of field work instead of simply telling me I didn't belong.
Not acceptance. But not rejection either.
I'd take it.
---
Skye found me in the cargo bay, pretending to inventory supplies.
"You look like someone kicked your puppy," she said, dropping onto a crate beside the one I was examining. "Did Ward give you his 'you're not a real agent' speech?"
"May gave me her 'I don't train consultants' speech, actually."
"Ooh, worse. Ward's just dismissive. May's dismissive with the added bonus of making you feel like you'll never be good enough."
"Thanks. That helps."
"I aim to please." She tucked her legs under her and pulled out her laptop—that thing seemed permanently attached to her. "Want to see something that'll cheer you up?"
I pushed aside the supply crate and sat down properly. "Is this another conspiracy theory?"
"It's always another conspiracy theory. But this one's relevant." She turned the screen toward me. "Check this out. The Peruvian government officially classified the dig site as an archaeological preservation project. But the funding traces back through three shell companies to a defense contractor that doesn't technically exist."
I leaned in to look at the screen. Our shoulders brushed. The contact sent warmth spreading through my chest—my copying ability stirring, beginning its infinitesimally slow work.
I kept my reaction contained.
"What's the contractor's connection to the artifact?" I asked.
"That's the thing. I can't find one. The money started flowing before anyone even knew there was an artifact. It's like they were funding the dig in anticipation of finding something."
"Someone knew what was down there."
"Exactly." Her eyes lit up with the thrill of the puzzle. "The question is who, and how, and why didn't they just dig it up themselves?"
I studied the financial records she'd pulled. The trail was complex—layers of obfuscation designed to frustrate exactly this kind of investigation. Skye had cut through them like they were tissue paper.
"You're really good at this," I said.
"I know." No false modesty. Just fact. "The Rising Tide didn't recruit me for my charming personality."
"They should have. It's very charming."
She snorted. "Smooth. Does that line work on all the hacktivist whistleblowers?"
"You're my first."
"I'm honored."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she followed another thread. I watched her work, struck again by how different she was in person than on screen. More vibrant. More present. The flat representation of television couldn't capture the way she moved, the intensity of her focus, the quick shifts between humor and seriousness.
The detection ability hummed constantly in her presence—a reminder of what she carried, what she would become. Dormant power waiting for the catalyst that would turn her into Quake.
I wanted to protect her from what was coming. The transformation would be painful. The aftermath would be worse.
But that was months away. Years, maybe. Right now, she was just Skye, conspiracy enthusiast, reluctant SHIELD consultant, and the first real friend I'd made in this strange new life.
"Hey," she said, not looking up. "What's your deal with sensing people? You said you can tell who's different. What does that feel like?"
I considered the question. Considered how much truth I could risk.
"Like a pull. Some people have this... frequency, I guess. Most of the time it's quiet—background noise. But every once in a while, I'll sense someone who practically glows."
"Have you sensed anyone on the Bus?"
The question hung in the air. I felt her attention shift, curiosity sharpening.
"Not really," I lied. "Everyone here reads as pretty normal."
"Including me?"
I met her eyes. "Including you."
She held my gaze for a beat, then shrugged. "Good. I've got enough weird in my life without adding 'secretly an alien' to the list."
My phone buzzed before I could respond. A message from Coulson: Mission brief in ten. Cargo bay.
"Duty calls," I said, standing. "Rain check on the conspiracy deep-dive?"
"It's a date." She winced. "I mean, not a date. Just a—"
"I know what you meant."
Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Go. Brief. Learn things. Don't get shot."
"Solid advice for any occasion."
I headed for the cargo bay proper, Skye's laugh following me down the corridor.
The copying had barely begun—fractions of a percent, microscopic progress toward abilities that would take weeks to manifest. But the foundation was laid. Trust building. Connection forming.
One step at a time.
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