Chapter 12 : DEBRIEF AND DRINKS
The Slingshot facility rose from the desert like a concrete finger pointed at the sky.
I stood on the observation deck, watching the rocket that contained the 0-8-4 climb toward the heavens. The trail of fire stretched behind it, a diminishing line that would eventually disappear into the black.
Bound for the sun. One dangerous thing removed from the equation.
"They actually send them into the sun," Skye said, appearing beside me. "I thought that was a metaphor."
"Apparently SHIELD takes its metaphors literally."
"There's something weirdly beautiful about it." She leaned against the railing, face tilted toward the shrinking light. "All that power, all that potential for destruction, just... gone. Burned up in the heart of a star."
"Poetic."
"I have layers."
We watched until the rocket vanished from sight. The desert stretched around us, empty and silent, a landscape that held secrets under every rock and dune.
My ribs protested when I shifted position. The cut on my forehead had scabbed over, pulling slightly when I moved my eyebrows. My shoulder—the original bruise from the temple debris—had almost fully healed, the accelerated repair finally catching up.
But the new injuries would take time. A week, maybe, before the ribs stopped complaining about every breath.
"How are you feeling?" Skye asked. "You took some hits back there."
"I've been better. I've been worse."
"When have you been worse? You've been a SHIELD consultant for like four days."
"I've lived a rich inner life."
She snorted. "You're deflecting."
"Caught me." I turned to face her properly. "Honestly? I'm still processing. My first real fight, first time people were actively trying to kill me, first time I almost watched friends die. It's a lot to absorb."
Her expression softened. "Yeah. It doesn't get easier, exactly. But you get better at handling it."
"Voice of experience?"
"Voice of someone who's been here a few months longer than you." She bumped her shoulder against mine—casual contact, comfortable familiarity. "For what it's worth, you handled yourself really well. That warning you gave Ward probably saved May's life."
"It was just a feeling."
"Must be some feeling." She studied me with those sharp eyes. "You do that a lot, you know. Have feelings about things that turn out to be important."
"Lucky, I guess."
"Mmm." She didn't sound convinced. "Or something else. Something you're not telling me."
The observation was too accurate for comfort. I held her gaze, neither confirming nor denying.
"Everyone has secrets, Skye. Even people on the same team."
"That's not a denial."
"It's not a confession either."
She laughed—surprised, genuine. "Fine. Keep your mysteries. But I'm going to figure you out eventually, Jake Mordered."
"I look forward to the attempt."
---
The Bus had limped to the Slingshot facility for repairs, and the team was taking advantage of the downtime. Someone—probably Coulson—had produced a bottle of whiskey and a collection of glasses, and the common area had transformed into an impromptu celebration.
I eased onto the couch, careful of my ribs, and accepted a glass from Ward.
"Nice work today," he said. "That warning made the difference."
"Team effort."
"Don't be modest. You saw what the rest of us missed." He settled into the chair across from me. "Where'd you learn to read rooms like that?"
The question was casual, but his eyes were sharp. Ward was always assessing, always calculating. Even when he seemed friendly, there was analysis happening beneath the surface.
"Foster care," I said. "You learn to read situations fast when you're the new kid in every house. Who's dangerous, who's safe, who's about to explode. Survival skill."
It was true enough—at least for the original Jake, based on fragmented memories. And it was the kind of background Ward would understand, given his own history.
Something in his expression shifted. Recognition, maybe. Kinship.
"I get that," he said. "Some skills you pick up because the alternative is worse."
We clinked glasses. I drank, tasting expensive whiskey and bitter irony. Here I was, bonding with a man who would eventually try to kill everyone in this room.
But for now, he was an ally. A dangerous one, but useful.
Across the room, Fitz was attempting to explain his sandwich ranking system to Simmons, who was pretending to take notes. May sat in the corner, nursing her drink in silence but present—which was apparently unusual enough that Coulson kept glancing at her with quiet satisfaction.
Skye dropped onto the couch beside me, close enough that our legs touched. "Fitz added you to a list."
"What list?"
"People worth dying for. Apparently it's separate from the sandwich rankings."
"I'm touched and confused."
"That's the appropriate response." She leaned against me slightly, warm and solid. "He said you saved his life at the temple and again during the takeover. Twice in one mission is apparently enough to qualify."
"I was just in the right place at the right time."
"You keep saying that. Right place, right time, lucky feeling." She turned to look at me directly. "How many coincidences before it's a pattern?"
"Depends who's counting."
She held my gaze for a long moment, then shook her head. "You're impossible."
"Part of my charm."
Coulson approached with the whiskey bottle, refilling glasses. He paused at mine.
"Nice work today. Especially the early warning." His eyes lingered on my face. "Especially knowing about the emergency raft."
"I read the Bus specifications during the flight from LA. Seemed like useful information."
"Did you."
"I like to be prepared."
He refilled my glass without breaking eye contact. "Preparation is good. Instinct is better. But the combination..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang. "Get some rest, Mordered. You've earned it."
He moved on, leaving me with the uncomfortable certainty that Coulson was watching me more closely than before. Not suspicious, exactly. But curious. The kind of curious that led to questions.
I'd have to be more careful.
---
May was alone by the bar when I approached.
The whiskey had warmed my chest and dulled the edge of my rib pain. Liquid courage, maybe. Or just the absence of better judgment.
"Agent May."
She didn't look up from her drink. "Mordered."
"I wanted to try again. The training request."
"You got lucky in one fight."
"Two fights. Three if you count the mugging." I leaned against the bar beside her. "And it wasn't luck. It was enhanced reflexes I don't understand, techniques I don't remember learning, and instincts that work when everything else fails. I need to turn that into something reliable."
"So find a trainer at the Academy."
"I don't want a trainer. I want the best." I met her eyes when she finally looked at me. "I watched you during the takeover. You moved before the soldier finished drawing his weapon. Not reaction—anticipation. You knew what he was going to do before he did it."
"Experience."
"Exactly. And I need to learn from experience before I get myself or someone else killed because I'm relying on abilities I can't control."
May studied me for a long moment. The silence stretched, uncomfortable but necessary.
"You won't quit asking, will you?"
"Not in my nature."
Something flickered across her face—not quite approval, but close.
"Tomorrow. 5 AM. Cargo bay." She finished her drink and set the glass down. "You're going to regret this."
"Probably." I couldn't keep the grin off my face. "But I'll regret not asking more."
She walked away without another word. But she'd said yes.
I returned to the couch, where Skye had claimed my spot and was now sprawled across the cushions.
"Did the Cavalry just agree to train you?" she asked, eyes wide.
"Apparently."
"You're either very brave or very stupid."
"Both, probably."
She laughed and made room for me on the couch. I settled in beside her, ribs protesting, exhaustion finally catching up.
The team celebrated around us—Fitz gesturing wildly about something, Simmons mediating, Ward maintaining his perfect composure, Coulson watching over everyone with quiet satisfaction.
My first mission with the team. My first fight. My first taste of what this life would actually involve.
And tomorrow, training with May. The first real step toward becoming something more than a consultant with useful instincts.
I closed my eyes and let myself feel the moment.
This team was starting to feel like something worth fighting for.
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