Chapter 19 : BUILDING THE LIFELINE
The storage unit smelled like rust and forgotten things.
I'd slipped away during a routine maintenance stop in Nevada—the Bus needed engine calibration after the Malta flight, and the team was scattered between tech support and a nearby diner. Coulson had given me a subtle nod when I mentioned needing some air. He knew what I was doing. He didn't need to know the specifics.
The facility was ten miles from the nearest SHIELD installation, chosen precisely because it was unremarkable. Rows of identical metal doors. No security cameras that worked. A manager who accepted cash and didn't ask questions.
Unit 47B had cost me three hundred dollars from the emergency fund Coulson had quietly authorized. The rest of my personal cache—the sixty dollars I'd started with, plus the first stipend payment SHIELD had finally processed—went toward supplies.
I worked methodically, unpacking the duffel bag I'd filled over the past two days.
Non-perishable food: protein bars, canned goods, water purification tablets. Enough for two people for a week. Medical supplies: antibiotics, bandages, painkillers, a field surgery kit Simmons had quietly requisitioned for "training purposes." Weapons: two handguns with ammunition, a hunting knife, a collapsible baton.
Communications equipment took the longest to acquire. Burner phones purchased in three different states. An encrypted radio that FitzSimmons had built for a project and then "lost" in the inventory system. Backup batteries. Solar charger.
Five thousand dollars in mixed bills, divided into waterproof containers.
I arranged everything in the unit, memorizing positions. If I ever needed this cache, I'd be grabbing things in the dark, possibly while bleeding. Everything had to be exactly where I expected it.
The work took forty-five minutes. When I finished, the unit looked like a survivalist's dream or a paranoid's nightmare. Maybe both.
I locked the door and pocketed the key—one of three copies, the others hidden in locations I'd already scouted.
One cache down. Dozens more needed. And somewhere in SHIELD, HYDRA agents were doing their own quiet work, building their own contingencies for a day they knew was coming.
It was a race neither side knew they were running.
---
The Bus hummed beneath my feet as I climbed back aboard.
May was in the cockpit, running post-maintenance checks. Ward was in the cargo bay, reorganizing equipment with the methodical precision he brought to everything. FitzSimmons had commandeered the lab for some project that involved a lot of excited gesturing and technical terminology I couldn't follow.
Skye found me in the common area, dropping onto the couch with her laptop already open.
"You look tired," she observed.
"Long walk."
"In Nevada? What did you walk to, a casino?"
"Just needed to clear my head." I settled beside her, letting my shoulder brush hers. The contact was becoming natural, comfortable. The copying was progressing steadily—I could feel the incremental absorption, my body slowly mapping the potential locked in her dormant genes.
"You've been doing that a lot lately. Walking. Thinking." She studied me with those sharp eyes. "Something on your mind?"
Everything. Always. The weight of knowing what was coming, the pressure of preparing for disasters I couldn't name, the exhaustion of maintaining a dozen different masks for a dozen different people.
"Just processing Malta," I said instead. Partial truth. "First time I've had to make that kind of choice. Run into danger instead of away from it."
"You handled it well."
"I got lucky."
"That's not what May says." Skye grinned at my surprised expression. "Yeah, I asked her about your training. She said you're 'improving at an acceptable rate,' which is basically the Cavalry equivalent of a standing ovation."
I laughed—genuine, surprised. "I'll take it."
"You should." She closed her laptop and turned to face me properly. "Look, I know you've got secrets. Everyone on this team has secrets. But if you ever want to talk about whatever's making you take long walks in the desert, I'm here."
The offer hung in the air between us. Sincere. Warm. Terrifying.
"Thank you," I said. "I mean that."
"I know you do." She bumped her shoulder against mine. "Now come on. FitzSimmons want to run more tests on your weird detection thing, and I promised I'd watch in case they accidentally blow something up."
---
The lab was organized chaos.
Equipment covered every surface—scanners, monitors, devices I couldn't identify and wasn't sure I wanted to. Fitz orbited a central workstation while Simmons prepared what looked like a medical examination setup, complete with sensors and a chair that might have been comfortable twenty years ago.
"Ah, Jake!" Simmons brightened as we entered. "Perfect timing. We've been analyzing the data from your last few scans, and there are some fascinating developments."
"Fascinating how?"
"Your cellular regeneration rate is increasing," Fitz said, pulling up a graph on the main screen. "Not dramatically, but consistently. Whatever triggers your healing is becoming more efficient the more it's used."
I settled into the examination chair, letting Simmons attach sensors to my temples and wrists. The routine was familiar now—we'd done this a dozen times since my first day on the Bus.
"Is that dangerous?"
"Unknown." Simmons's voice was clinical, focused. "Your body seems to be adapting to its own capabilities. Learning to use them more effectively. It's similar to how muscles strengthen with exercise, but at a genetic level."
"And the detection ability?"
"That's where it gets really interesting." Fitz typed rapidly, bringing up another display. "Your brainwave patterns change when you're actively sensing. Specific regions light up that don't correspond to normal human activity. You're perceiving something outside the standard sensory range."
Skye had claimed a stool near the door, watching with the fascinated attention she brought to everything unusual. "So he's basically got a sixth sense. Like a superhero."
"It's not quite—" Simmons started.
"It's exactly like a superhero," Fitz interrupted. "Well, a minor superhero. A sidekick superhero, maybe."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"Anytime."
The testing continued for another hour. They measured my reaction speed, my pain threshold, the range and clarity of my detection ability. I answered questions, performed tasks, let them poke and prod and analyze.
It was tedious, but useful. The more they understood about my powers, the better I could predict how they'd develop. And the better I could hide the parts I didn't want them to know about.
When they finally released me, Simmons caught my arm.
"Jake, I noticed something else in your bloodwork." Her voice was softer now, concerned rather than clinical. "Your cortisol levels are elevated. Consistently elevated. That indicates chronic stress."
"I'm on a team that fights terrorists and aliens. Stress seems reasonable."
"This is beyond reasonable. You're not sleeping enough. You're not taking care of yourself." She pressed a cup of tea into my hands—when had she made that? "Whatever you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone."
The sincerity in her voice cracked something in my chest.
"I know," I said. "Thank you, Simmons."
"Jemma. After everything we've been through, you can call me Jemma."
I smiled. "Thank you, Jemma."
She smiled back, warm and genuine, and for a moment the weight on my shoulders felt slightly lighter.
Then I remembered what I was preparing for, and the weight settled back into place.
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