Chapter 10 : WOLVES AMONG SHEEP
Reyes's hand moved toward her sidearm.
"—and the spectral analysis shows fascinating properties," Simmons was saying, oblivious to the movement behind her. "The energy signature is remarkably stable for Tesseract-derived technology."
I was already moving.
"Hey, Fitz!" My voice came out too loud, deliberately theatrical. "You never finished explaining why structure matters more than flavor in sandwich rankings."
Reyes's hand paused. Her eyes flicked toward me—assessing, calculating.
I positioned myself between her and the lab entrance, making it look casual, like I was just eager to continue an argument nobody else cared about.
"I said structural integrity is a factor, not that it matters more than flavor," Fitz protested, spinning in his chair. "Context matters. You wouldn't judge a grilled cheese by the same criteria as a Philly cheesesteak."
"But that's exactly my point." I stepped further into the corridor, forcing Reyes to either push past me or wait. "Without objective criteria, your entire ranking system is arbitrary."
She chose to wait. The smile never left her face, but something cold flickered behind her eyes.
"Perhaps we should let the scientists work," she suggested. "They seem quite busy."
"Right, sorry." I backed up, hands raised apologetically, still blocking the optimal angle to the lab. "Fitz, we're continuing this later. With diagrams."
"I don't need diagrams to prove you're wrong!"
I retreated toward the common area, Reyes's attention following me before she turned back to observe FitzSimmons through the lab doorway. One of her soldiers had drifted closer during the exchange—now positioned with a clear sightline to both the lab and the cargo bay stairs.
Too tactical. Way too tactical.
Ward was in the common area, cleaning a weapon with the mechanical precision of someone who'd done it ten thousand times. I dropped onto the couch across from him, keeping my voice low.
"Their positioning is wrong."
He didn't look up. "Explain."
"One near the cockpit. One covering the lab. Two here, controlling the main corridor. That's not how guests relax. That's how assault teams establish control points."
Now he looked up. His eyes swept the room in a single motion—cataloguing, confirming.
"You're sure?"
"I've got a feeling."
The phrase sounded weak even to me, but I couldn't exactly say I watched this episode and I know what happens next. Ward studied my face for a long moment.
"I'll tell May."
He stood, weapon still in hand, and headed toward the cockpit with the casual stride of someone checking on flight status. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that would alert the soldiers watching.
I grabbed a tablet from the table and pretended to scroll through mission reports, my attention locked on the room's geometry.
The soldier nearest the cargo stairs had shifted again—now he could see May's exit from the cockpit the moment she emerged. The one in the common area had positioned himself between Coulson's office and the stairs to the upper level. And Reyes herself had moved to the perfect spot to intercept anyone coming from the lab.
They were almost ready.
---
Simmons emerged from the lab with a coffee pot, heading for the galley.
"Anyone want a refill?" she called cheerfully.
One of the soldiers raised his hand—polite, professional. Simmons poured him a cup with the genuine warmth of someone who saw hospitality as a natural extension of human interaction.
My stomach twisted watching her. She was being kind because that's who she was. And one of these soldiers was going to try to kill her teammates in the next few minutes.
I hated this. Hated knowing what was coming and not being able to stop it cleanly. Hated the calculation that said warning them too specifically would raise questions I couldn't answer.
The best I could do was give them seconds of advantage. Hope it was enough.
Fitz wandered out of the lab, tablet in hand, still muttering about sandwich methodology. I intercepted him before he could drift into the danger zone.
"Okay, hear me out," I said, loud enough to draw attention. "What if we created a weighted scoring system? Flavor gets fifty points, structure gets thirty, and the remaining twenty goes to emotional satisfaction."
"Emotional satisfaction isn't quantifiable!"
"Everything's quantifiable. You just have to find the right metrics."
We argued our way to the galley, where Simmons was cleaning the coffee pot. I positioned us near the wall—solid cover, close to the emergency exit, away from the soldiers' optimal firing lines.
Skye drifted over, drawn by the noise.
"Are you two still going on about sandwiches?"
"It's a matter of scientific principle," Fitz insisted.
"It's a matter of you refusing to admit your ranking system has fundamental flaws," I countered.
Skye rolled her eyes. "You're both ridiculous."
"Thank you."
She leaned against the counter beside me, tablet tucked under her arm. The contact was casual—shoulder to shoulder, comfortable in the way teammates become after surviving chaos together.
My copying ability stirred, tracking the infinitesimal progress. Fractions of a percent. Barely measurable. But present.
"Hey," she said quietly, while Fitz launched into a defense of his methodology. "You seem tense. More than usual."
I glanced at her. She was watching me with that sharp attention I was learning to recognize—the same focus she brought to conspiracy theories and hidden connections.
"Just alert," I said. "First mission jitters still working through my system."
"You handled yourself pretty well back there. For a newbie."
"High praise from someone who froze in a firefight."
"Low blow." But she was smiling. "Fine, we're both works in progress. Happy?"
"Getting there."
Ward emerged from the cockpit, face carefully neutral. He caught my eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Message delivered. May was warned.
Now we waited.
---
The next twenty minutes stretched like taffy.
I kept the sandwich debate going, using Fitz's passion for structured arguments to maintain a cover of normalcy. Simmons contributed occasionally, offering scientific perspectives on bread density and condiment viscosity. Skye took pictures of us for some theoretical "evidence of SHIELD team dynamics" project she was compiling.
The soldiers watched. Bored, apparently. Patient, definitely.
Reyes circulated between the common area and Coulson's office, playing the gracious ally with practiced ease. Her conversation was charming, her laugh genuine, her attention razor-sharp beneath the performance.
My ribs still ached from the debris impact at the temple—a dull throb that spiked when I moved wrong. My shoulder was healing, the accelerated repair doing its work, but the bruise remained tender. I'd have to factor that into whatever fighting was about to happen.
Ward had repositioned near the stairs, weapon assembled and holstered at his hip. Casual. Ready.
May emerged from the cockpit for a water refill. Her eyes swept the room in one economical motion—she'd done the math, seen the geometry, understood exactly what we were dealing with.
She returned to the cockpit without a word.
The waiting continued.
"You know," Skye said, interrupting a particularly heated exchange about whether melted cheese counted as a sauce, "I'm starting to think you guys are avoiding actual work by having this argument."
"This is actual work," Fitz protested. "Cognitive recreation is essential for maintaining peak mental performance."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
I opened my mouth to respond—and saw Reyes check her watch. A tiny gesture. Barely noticeable.
But one of her soldiers noticed. And shifted his weight.
Now.
"Ward!" I shouted.
Everything happened at once.
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