Location: The Bus - En Route to Peru
Date: September 12, 2013
Time: 1645 Hours
Altitude: 38,000 feet
Antonio had flown in every type of aircraft S.H.I.E.L.D. operated—Quinjets, transport planes, helicopters, even a prototype VTOL that had nearly killed him over the Baltic Sea. But the Bus was something else entirely. The modifications hummed beneath the standard 616 frame like a second heartbeat. Advanced avionics. Reinforced hull plating. Weapons systems that definitely weren't in the original specifications.
Someone had put serious resources into this aircraft.
He stood in the lab—because of course there was a full laboratory onboard—watching Fitz and Simmons work. They moved around each other like dancers, passing equipment without looking, finishing each other's technical explanations in a way that would've been annoying if it wasn't so efficient.
"The energy signature doesn't match anything in our database," Simmons was saying, pulling up holographic displays from a central console. "Not Chitauri, not Dark Elf, not any of the known alien technologies we've catalogued since New York."
"Which means it's either very old or very new," Fitz added, adjusting something on a handheld scanner. "And given that it was buried in a temple that pre-dates the Incan Empire, I'm leaning toward 'very old.'"
Antonio studied the data streaming across the displays. Energy wavelengths. Radiation signatures. Thermal imaging. His training—both S.H.I.E.L.D. and the other kind—allowed him to process the information quickly.
"How dangerous are we talking?" he asked.
Fitz and Simmons exchanged a look.
"Well," Fitz began.
"That depends," Simmons continued.
"On whether it's active or dormant."
"And whether it's a weapon."
"Or a power source."
"Or both."
Antonio resisted the urge to smile. "So you have no idea."
"We have several ideas," Simmons said defensively. "We just don't know which one is correct yet."
"That's what field work is for," Antonio said. "We'll know more once we're on the ground."
The lab door opened. May entered, moving with the controlled grace of someone who'd spent decades learning to kill efficiently. She glanced at the displays, then at Antonio.
"Coulson wants everyone in the briefing area. Five minutes."
Antonio nodded. May's eyes lingered on him for a fraction of a second longer than necessary—assessing, cataloguing, storing information for later analysis. It was what good field agents did. What Antonio himself did constantly.
The difference was, he had much more to hide.
1652 Hours - Briefing Area
The team assembled around the conference table built into the Bus's command center. Coulson stood at the head, tablet in hand, looking every bit the seasoned handler Antonio remembered from mission reports. Skye sat to his right, still wearing her civilian clothes, looking slightly out of place among the tactical gear and professional bearing of the actual agents.
Antonio took a seat between Simmons and May, positioning himself where he could see all exits and everyone's hands. Old habits.
"All right," Coulson began, pulling up a 3D map of Peru. "We're heading to a small town called Llactapata, approximately forty kilometers from Cusco. Two days ago, local police responded to reports of unusual activity at a pre-Columbian archaeological site. They found this."
The hologram shifted, displaying what looked like a metallic cylinder about a meter long, covered in inscriptions that definitely weren't Spanish or Quechua.
"An 0-8-4," Simmons breathed. "Actual object of unknown origin."
"What's it do?" Skye asked.
"Unknown," Coulson replied. "That's why we're going to retrieve it, study it, and determine if it poses a threat. The Peruvian government has been cooperative so far, but we need to move fast. If word gets out that there's unexplained alien technology in a tourist region, we'll have every treasure hunter and militant group in South America converging on the site."
"Not to mention Hydra," May said quietly.
Antonio kept his face perfectly neutral at the mention of Hydra. Inside, something tightened. Hydra. His Hydra. Or what used to be his Hydra, back when orders came regularly and the mission was clear.
"Or what's left of them," Coulson agreed. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has been cleaning up Hydra cells for years, but they're persistent. If they get wind of this 0-8-4, they'll want it."
"So we get there first," Antonio said. "Standard retrieval protocol?"
"Modified," Coulson said. "Agent Ward will meet us on site. He's been running reconnaissance for the past twelve hours. Once we're on the ground, Ward and Velaz will provide security while Fitz-Simmons examine the object. May stays with the Bus in case we need emergency extraction. Skye—"
"Stays on the Bus and definitely doesn't touch anything alien," Skye finished. "Got it."
"You're learning," Coulson said with a slight smile. "Questions?"
"The inscriptions," Antonio said, studying the hologram. "Do we have translation protocols in place?"
"I've been running them through our linguistic database," Fitz said, pulling up another display. "No matches so far. Not Sanskrit, not proto-Quechua, not any known Earth language."
"Which strongly suggests off-world origin," Simmons added.
Antonio leaned forward, examining the symbols more closely. Something about them nagged at him—a half-remembered briefing from years ago, back in his early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. Something about pre-Columbian sites and unusual artifacts.
"Asgardian?" he suggested.
Coulson's eyebrows rose slightly. "Good catch. That was going to be my next question for Fitz-Simmons."
"Possible," Fitz said, zooming in on specific symbols. "Some of these characters do resemble Asgardian runes we've catalogued, but the syntax is wrong. It's like... similar alphabet, different language."
"Or a dialect," Simmons offered. "Thor mentioned that Asgard has influenced Earth cultures for thousands of years. Perhaps this is a hybrid language—Asgardian structure with local linguistic elements."
Antonio filed that information away. Asgardian technology on Earth, hidden for centuries. The implications were significant. If Hydra got their hands on alien weapons technology...
Stop, he told himself. You're not Hydra anymore. Remember?
But the thought came automatically, trained into him by years of conditioning. Assess threats to Hydra. Identify opportunities for Hydra. Protect Hydra's interests.
Except Hydra hadn't given him orders in seven years.
Except he'd spent twelve years becoming someone else.
Except...
"Velaz?"
Antonio blinked. Coulson was looking at him expectantly. How long had he been silent?
"Sorry," Antonio said smoothly. "Just thinking through security protocols. If it is Asgardian technology, we should expect enhanced durability and possible active defense mechanisms."
"Agreed," May said. "I'll make sure medical supplies are prepped. Just in case."
"ETA?" Antonio asked.
Coulson checked his tablet. "Three hours, forty minutes. I suggest everyone use the time to prep equipment and get some rest. We don't know what we're walking into."
The briefing broke up. Fitz and Simmons returned to the lab, already debating possible Asgardian engineering principles. May headed toward the cockpit. Skye lingered, looking at the hologram of the 0-8-4 with undisguised curiosity.
Coulson caught Antonio's eye as he stood to leave. "Velaz. A word?"
Antonio's pulse didn't change—years of practice kept his physiological responses under control—but his awareness sharpened. "Of course."
They moved to a quieter corner of the command center. Coulson's expression was friendly but assessing. The look of a handler who'd been doing this longer than most agents had been alive.
"I wanted to thank you for joining the team on such short notice," Coulson said. "I know you had other assignments lined up."
"Nothing that couldn't be postponed," Antonio replied. "This seems more interesting."
"Interesting is one word for it." Coulson smiled slightly. "I've read your file. All of it, including the parts most people don't have clearance for. You're very good at what you do."
"Thank you, sir."
"The Prague extraction last week. Twenty-three hostiles, one asset, no casualties. You went in alone and came out with the scientist and a complete copy of the facility's research data. That's impressive."
Antonio kept his expression humble. "The intelligence was solid. Made the job easier."
"The intelligence gave you a ten percent chance of success," Coulson said quietly. "You made it look easy. That takes more than good intelligence. That takes exceptional field craft."
Where was this going? Antonio's mind raced through possibilities. Was Coulson suspicious? Testing him? Or genuinely impressed?
"I'm just thorough," Antonio said. "And maybe a little lucky."
"Luck is what people call skill when they don't want to admit someone's better than them." Coulson's expression turned serious. "I'm building something here, Velaz. Not just a team—a family. People who trust each other. People who have each other's backs, no matter what."
Family. The word hit harder than Antonio expected.
"That sounds like a good thing to build," he said carefully.
"It is. But it requires honesty. Trust. No secrets that could get someone killed." Coulson held his gaze. "I'm not asking you to spill your life story. Everyone has things they keep private. But on this team, when it matters, we're straight with each other. Can you do that?"
For a moment—just a moment—Antonio wanted to tell him. Tell him everything. The Red Skull. The conditioning. The mission. The powers. The twelve years of perfect lies.
I'm the knife in your ribs you'll never see coming, he wanted to say. I'm everything you should fear. And I don't know anymore if I want to be.
Instead, he met Coulson's eyes and said, "When it matters, I'll be straight with you. You have my word."
Coulson studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "Good enough. Get some rest, Velaz. We land in three hours."
1847 Hours - Personal Quarters
Antonio lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling of the Bus, listening to the engines' steady thrum. Around him, the sounds of the aircraft settling into cruise—muted conversations from the lab, the distant clatter of May running systems checks, Skye's music bleeding through thin walls.
Normal sounds. Team sounds.
He closed his eyes and let himself remember. Not the Red Skull. Not Hydra. Not the mission.
Just... before.
He'd been six years old when they took him. Snatched from a London orphanage by men in dark suits who smiled with empty eyes. The orphanage records were altered. The child who'd been called Michael Thompson ceased to exist.
In his place, they created something else.
The training had been brutal. Combat. Languages. Strategy. They'd broken his fingers twice teaching him to disarm explosives. Fractured his ribs teaching him to fight through pain. Locked him in darkness for days teaching him to control fear.
And through it all, the Red Skull had watched. Evaluated. Molded.
"You are not a child," Johann Schmidt had told him once, after Antonio had killed his first man at age fourteen. "You are a weapon. Weapons do not feel. They do not question. They obey."
But weapons didn't dream.
And Antonio dreamed.
The serum had come later—an experimental variant, unstable, untested. Three other subjects had died screaming. Antonio had survived, but something had gone wrong. Or right, depending on perspective.
The speed had manifested gradually. First just enhanced reflexes. Then short bursts of acceleration. By the time he was sixteen, he could move fast enough that the world seemed to slow down around him.
The Red Skull had been fascinated. And terrified.
"No one can know," Schmidt had ordered. "This power makes you valuable beyond measure. But if others learned of it, they would take you from me. Use you for themselves. You will hide this gift until the moment it becomes our greatest weapon."
Antonio had obeyed. He'd hidden the speed. Controlled it. Used it only in micro-bursts, only when alone, only when absolutely necessary.
And then the Red Skull had vanished into the sky over the Arctic, taking the Tesseract with him, leaving Antonio—nineteen years old, more weapon than human—alone with a mission and no handler.
Infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D. Rise through the ranks. Wait for orders.
He'd done exactly that.
And somewhere along the way, the weapon had started feeling human.
His S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued tablet chimed softly. Antonio opened his eyes, reaching for the device. Message from May: ETA adjusted. Two hours forty-five minutes. Prep accordingly.
Professional. Efficient. That was May.
Antonio swung his legs off the bunk and began his pre-mission routine. Equipment check. Weapons inspection. Mental review of the site layout based on satellite imagery.
Normal agent activities.
If you didn't count the fact that he'd already memorized every pixel of the satellite images using three seconds of accelerated perception.
If you didn't count the fact that his reaction time in combat was physically impossible for an unenhanced human.
If you didn't count the fact that he was a living lie.
A knock at his door. "Yeah?"
The door opened. Skye stood in the corridor, looking uncertain. "Hey. Sorry to bother you. Coulson said you speak like twelve languages?"
"Twelve confirmed," Antonio said. "A few more if you count being conversational versus fluent."
"Right. Okay. So I was looking at the inscriptions on that 0-8-4 thing, and I noticed some of the symbols have similarities to ancient Greek, but like, weird ancient Greek. Thought maybe you could take a look?"
Antonio grabbed his tablet. "Show me."
They moved to the common area—a small space with a couch, coffee maker, and display screen. Skye pulled up the images she'd been studying.
"See, here," she said, highlighting a section of the inscriptions. "This symbol looks almost like the Greek omega, but it's got these extra lines. And this one's similar to alpha, but rotated."
Antonio studied the patterns. She was right—there were similarities. But more than that, there was a structure to the variations. Intentional modifications.
"It's a cipher," he said slowly. "The symbols are based on Greek, but they've been systematically altered. Each modification probably represents a phonetic shift or grammatical marker."
"A code?" Skye's eyes lit up. "I can work with codes."
"Different kind of code. Linguistic, not digital. But the principle's similar—pattern recognition, systematic substitution, contextual analysis."
"Could you teach me?"
The question caught him off guard. "Teach you?"
"Yeah. I mean, if you have time. I want to be useful on this team, and right now I'm basically the person who googles things. Learning how to decode ancient alien languages seems way cooler."
Antonio found himself smiling. There was something genuine about her enthusiasm. Something untainted by the cynicism that colored most S.H.I.E.L.D. agents after a few years in the field.
"Sure," he said. "I can show you some basics. Fair warning—linguistic analysis is tedious work."
"Tedious I can handle. It's the shooting people and jumping out of planes stuff that worries me."
"The shooting people gets easier," Antonio said, then immediately regretted it when he saw her expression. "I mean—defensive situations, when there's no other option. Not, like, casual shooting."
"Right. Good. That's... better?" Skye laughed nervously. "God, this job is weird."
"You have no idea."
They spent the next thirty minutes going over basic cipher recognition patterns. Skye picked it up quickly—her hacker's mind adapted well to pattern analysis. She asked intelligent questions, made logical connections, demonstrated the kind of raw intelligence that couldn't be taught.
She's going to be good, Antonio thought. If she survives long enough to learn.
The thought brought with it a protective instinct he didn't entirely understand. Skye wasn't his asset. Wasn't his responsibility. Wasn't part of any mission parameters.
But she was part of his team.
When had he started thinking that way?
"We're approaching the drop zone," May's voice came over the intercom. "Everyone gear up."
Antonio stood. "Showtime. Stay on the Bus, stay safe, and if something goes wrong—"
"Hide in the lab with Fitz-Simmons and let the adults handle it," Skye finished. "I know, I know. Try not to get shot by ancient alien technology."
"I'll do my best."
2134 Hours - Llactapata Archaeological Site, Peru
The night was warm and humid as Antonio descended the Bus's ramp, his boots touching Peruvian soil for the first time. The archaeological site stretched before them—crumbling stone structures, overgrown pathways, and in the center, an excavation area lit by portable work lights.
May remained at the Bus controls, engines idling, ready for emergency extraction. Fitz and Simmons hauled equipment cases down the ramp, already arguing about which scanning protocols to deploy first.
And standing near the excavation, silhouetted against the work lights, was a man Antonio recognized from the mission briefing.
Agent Grant Ward.
Ward approached as the team assembled, his gait confident, his eyes constantly scanning the perimeter. Military bearing. Combat veteran. The kind of agent who'd seen serious action and survived to develop serious skills.
"Coulson," Ward said, shaking the handler's hand. "Good to see you vertical."
"Good to be vertical," Coulson replied. "Everyone, this is Agent Grant Ward. Ward, meet the team."
Ward's introduction to Fitz-Simmons was brief—professional courtesy with underlying skepticism about their field readiness. His greeting to Antonio was different. Assessing. Measuring.
"Velaz," Ward said, offering his hand. "Heard about Prague. Nice work."
"Thanks," Antonio replied, matching the firm handshake. "Heard about your extraction in Minsk. That was impressive."
"We do what we can." Ward's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Coulson speaks highly of you."
"Likewise."
There was something in Ward's posture—a carefully controlled tension, a performance of casual competence that Antonio recognized because he performed it himself every day.
He's hiding something, Antonio thought. Something significant.
But everyone on this team was probably hiding something. That's what made them good at their jobs.
"Status?" Coulson asked.
Ward led them toward the excavation. "Peruvian police secured the site twelve hours ago. Local archaeologist who made the discovery is cooperating. The object is still in situ—nobody's tried to move it yet."
"Smart," Simmons said. "Moving it before proper analysis could trigger activation protocols."
"Or it could blow up," Fitz added cheerfully. "That's also a possibility."
They reached the excavation. Antonio's first glimpse of the 0-8-4 in person made him stop.
The cylinder was embedded in what looked like an altar of some kind, surrounded by the inscriptions Skye had been studying. But in person, those inscriptions seemed to glow faintly—a blue-white luminescence that definitely hadn't been in the photographs.
"That's new," Ward said, hand moving unconsciously toward his sidearm.
"It's responding to proximity," Simmons breathed, pulling out her scanner. "Fitz, are you seeing this?"
"Oh, I'm seeing it," Fitz replied, his own instruments beeping rapidly. "The energy signature just increased by forty-seven percent. Whatever this thing is, it knows we're here."
Antonio moved closer, his enhanced perception automatically cataloguing details. The inscriptions weren't just glowing—they were pulsing, following a pattern. Regular. Rhythmic.
Like a heartbeat.
Or a countdown.
"Coulson," Antonio said quietly. "We might want to expedite this retrieval."
"Agreed," Coulson said. "Fitz-Simmons, how long to safely extract it?"
"Define 'safely,'" Fitz said.
"As in not exploding would be ideal."
"Right. Well. In that case..." Fitz and Simmons exchanged glances, conducting one of their silent conversations. "Twenty minutes? Maybe thirty?"
"You have fifteen," May's voice crackled over comms from the Bus. "We've got company. Three vehicles approaching from the east, moving fast."
Antonio's combat instincts activated immediately. "How far?"
"Four kilometers and closing. ETA eight minutes."
Ward was already moving, pulling a rifle from his pack. "Hostile?"
"Unknown. But at this hour, in this location, probably not friendly."
Antonio looked at Coulson. The handler's expression was calm, but his eyes were calculating odds, running through scenarios.
"Ward, Velaz—perimeter security. Stop anyone who tries to interfere. Non-lethal if possible, but protect the science team. Fitz-Simmons—get that thing out of the ground and onto the Bus. Now."
"But we haven't finished the preliminary—" Simmons started.
"Now, Simmons."
"Right. Yes. Okay." The two scientists scrambled toward the 0-8-4, deploying equipment with practiced efficiency despite their obvious nervousness.
Antonio and Ward moved to defensive positions, using the crumbling stone structures as cover. In the distance, Antonio could hear vehicles approaching—the sound carrying clearly through the still night air.
Closer than May had estimated. Five minutes, maybe less.
"You good with that ICER?" Ward asked, checking his own weapon.
"Good enough," Antonio replied, his Glock steady in his hands. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s non-lethal incapacitation rounds—effective, clean, humane.
Unless things went really bad. Then he had regular ammunition as backup.
"Stay sharp," Ward said. "If this is who I think it is, they won't play nice."
"Who do you think it is?"
Ward's jaw tightened. "Peruvian rebel group. Been tracking them for months. If they got word about alien tech, they'd want it for leverage."
The vehicles burst into view—three pickup trucks, armed men visible in the beds. At least fifteen hostiles. Military-grade weapons. No uniforms, but coordinated movement.
Not random treasure hunters.
Professionals, Antonio assessed. This is going to get messy.
The trucks skidded to a stop fifty meters out. Men poured from the vehicles, taking cover, weapons aimed at the excavation site.
A voice called out in Spanish: "S.H.I.E.L.D.! You are trespassing on sovereign territory! Surrender the artifact and leave immediately!"
Antonio glanced at Ward, who shook his head slightly. Not negotiating.
Coulson stepped forward, hands visible, voice calm. "We're here with the cooperation of your government. We mean no harm. We just need to secure—"
Gunfire. Not aimed to kill—warning shots that kicked up dirt near Coulson's feet.
The handler didn't flinch. "I'll take that as a no to diplomacy."
"Fitz, Simmons," Antonio called out. "How's that extraction going?"
"Working on it!" Fitz's voice was strained. "The housing mechanism is more complex than we thought!"
"Work faster!"
More gunfire. Closer this time. The rebels were advancing, using cover, professional suppression tactics.
Ward returned fire—precise ICER shots that dropped two hostiles immediately. Antonio followed suit, his enhanced perception letting him track multiple targets simultaneously. Three shots, three drops.
But there were too many. And they were spreading out, trying to flank.
This is exactly the situation where my speed would be useful, Antonio thought. Ten seconds at full acceleration and I could disarm half of them.
And expose myself completely.
Risk the mission. Risk the team.
A grenade sailed over their cover. Antonio's enhanced perception caught it in mid-flight—saw the trajectory, calculated the impact point.
Right behind Fitz and Simmons.
No time to shout a warning.
No time for anything except—
Antonio moved.
To anyone watching at normal speed, he simply dove, covering the distance to the scientists in an impossible sprint, grabbing the grenade mid-bounce and hurling it back toward the rebels with enough force to send it fifty meters in the opposite direction.
The explosion lit up the night. Screams. Chaos.
Antonio found himself on the ground near Fitz and Simmons, his heart hammering, adrenaline singing through his system.
Too fast. That was too fast. Someone must have—
"Holy hell," Ward breathed, staring at him. "Did you just—"
"Got lucky," Antonio said quickly, forcing his breathing to normal, his pulse to slow. "Saw it coming. Trained reflexes."
Ward's expression said he didn't buy it. But before he could ask questions, more gunfire erupted. The rebels were regrouping, angrier now.
"We need to leave!" Simmons shouted. "Now!"
"Got it!" Fitz yanked the 0-8-4 free from its housing. The cylinder came loose with a sound like tearing metal, and suddenly the blue glow intensified, spreading from the inscriptions across the entire surface.
The object began to hum. Low. Resonant. Growing louder.
"That's bad," Fitz said. "That's definitely bad."
"Move!" Coulson ordered. "Everyone back to the Bus!"
They ran. Antonio grabbed one of Simmons' equipment cases, Ward took the other. Fitz clutched the 0-8-4 like his life depended on it—which it probably did.
The rebels gave chase, firing wildly now, discipline breaking down into desperation.
"May!" Coulson barked into comms. "We're coming in hot! Prep for immediate takeoff!"
"Copy that!"
They reached the Bus's ramp. Antonio turned, laying down covering fire—carefully aimed ICER shots that kept the rebels at bay without lethal force.
Ward did the same from the other side of the ramp. "Go, go, go!"
The team scrambled aboard. Antonio and Ward backed up the ramp, still firing. The rebels were fifty meters out. Forty. Thirty.
"We're clear!" Antonio shouted.
The ramp began to close. The Bus's engines roared to full power. And as they lifted off, Antonio caught Ward's eyes on him again—assessing, questioning, suspicious.
Damn it.
2156 Hours - The Bus, Ascending
The team collapsed in the command center, adrenaline still high, breathing hard. Fitz carefully set the 0-8-4 on the examination table, his hands shaking slightly.
"Is everyone okay?" Coulson asked, checking over his team with practiced concern.
"Define 'okay,'" Simmons said shakily. "We were shot at. There were grenades. I think I need to sit down."
"You are sitting down," Fitz pointed out.
"Then I need to sit down more."
Coulson looked at Antonio and Ward. "Good work. Both of you."
Ward nodded, but his eyes were still on Antonio. "Yeah. Good work. Great reflexes, Velaz. Really great."
"Thanks," Antonio said neutrally.
May's voice came over the intercom. "We're clear of Peruvian airspace. Setting course for the Hub. ETA six hours."
"Copy," Coulson replied. He turned to the scientists. "All right. We've got time. Let's figure out what this thing is before we deliver it to S.H.I.E.L.D."
Fitz and Simmons moved to begin their analysis. Coulson headed to the cockpit to confer with May. Skye emerged from wherever she'd been hiding, eyes wide.
"That was insane," she said. "I heard everything on comms. You guys are crazy."
"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.," Antonio said.
She laughed nervously, then headed toward the lab to watch the scientists work.
That left Antonio and Ward alone in the command center.
Ward crossed his arms, leaning against the bulkhead. "So. Prague."
"What about it?"
"Twenty-three hostiles. Solo infiltration. Perfect execution." Ward's tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "What's your secret?"
"No secret. Just training and preparation."
"Right. Training." Ward nodded slowly. "And tonight. That grenade. You covered about fifteen feet in less than a second. That's... impressive training."
Antonio kept his expression neutral. "Adrenaline. Does interesting things to perception. Time slows down, you move faster, everything becomes clear. You've experienced it."
"I have," Ward agreed. "But not like that."
They stood in silence for a moment. Two agents, both hiding something, both recognizing the performance in the other.
"Look," Ward finally said, "I don't know what your deal is, and honestly, I don't care. You did good work tonight. Saved Fitz-Simmons. That's what matters."
"Agreed."
"But if you've got something you're hiding—something that could compromise the team—Coulson needs to know."
The irony of Grant Ward—who Antonio increasingly suspected was hiding his own significant secrets—saying this wasn't lost on Antonio.
"When it matters," Antonio said, echoing what he'd told Coulson earlier, "I'll be straight with you. You have my word."
Ward studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "Good enough."
He pushed off the bulkhead and headed toward his bunk, leaving Antonio alone in the command center.
Antonio let out a slow breath. That had been too close. The grenade, the impossible sprint, Ward's suspicious stare.
He'd gotten sloppy. Let adrenaline override caution. Let his instinct to protect the team overcome his need to stay hidden.
It wouldn't happen again.
*Can't happen again,*he thought.
From the lab, he heard Fitz exclaim something about "temporal distortion fields" and Simmons respond with "Don't be ridiculous, it's clearly a spatial compression matrix."
Normal sounds. Team sounds.
Antonio closed his eyes and tried to remember why staying hidden mattered more than protecting them.
He couldn't.
And that terrified him more than any grenade.
END CHAPTER 2
NEXT: Chapter 3 - "The Asset"
In which the 0-8-4 proves more dangerous than expected, Antonio's careful control continues to slip, and Agent Grant Ward becomes a problem.