Chapter 22 : ROUTINES AND REVELATIONS
May's fist stopped three inches from my face.
For the first time in weeks of training, I'd blocked it. Not just dodged—actually caught her wrist and redirected the strike, using the momentum transfer she'd been drilling into me since that first brutal session in the cargo bay.
Her expression didn't change. But something flickered behind her eyes.
"Again."
We'd been at it for two hours. The cargo bay mats were slick with my sweat—May barely seemed to perspire—and every muscle in my body was registering formal complaints. But I'd blocked the strike. I'd actually stopped the Cavalry from hitting me.
Progress.
The next attack came faster. I caught the first strike, missed the second, and ate the third directly to my solar plexus. The air evacuated my lungs and I folded around her fist like paper around a rock.
"Don't celebrate," she said flatly. "One block doesn't mean anything."
I gasped something that might have been acknowledgment and might have been profanity. Hard to tell without oxygen.
"Your reflexes are compensating less," she continued, circling me as I tried to remember how breathing worked. "You're starting to anticipate based on stance and weight distribution instead of just reacting to motion. That's real improvement."
Coming from May, that was practically a standing ovation and a parade.
"Thanks," I managed.
"Don't thank me yet. We're adding weapons next week."
The training continued for another hour. By the time she finally called the session, I'd managed three more successful blocks and only been thrown to the mat eight times. My personal best.
I lay on the mat afterward, staring at the cargo bay ceiling and cataloguing new bruises. The accelerated healing would deal with them by tomorrow, but right now they announced their presence with every breath.
Worth it. All of it, worth it.
---
The weeks blurred into a rhythm.
Missions came and went—a weapons depot in Morocco, a rogue scientist in Singapore, a HYDRA-adjacent organization in Brazil that made my skin crawl even though I couldn't reveal why I recognized their operational patterns. The team worked together with growing efficiency, our coordination improving with each operation.
I trained with May every morning. I built caches whenever opportunity allowed. I sat with Skye during briefings, our shoulders touching, the copying progressing fraction by fraction. I argued about sandwiches with Fitz and let Simmons run her endless tests and pretended not to notice Ward watching me with those calculating eyes.
The second cache went into an abandoned farmhouse in rural Virginia. Larger than the first—a full week's supplies for four people, medical equipment including a portable surgical kit, weapons enough to outfit a small squad. Encrypted communications gear that would work even if every SHIELD system went dark.
Coulson helped me plant it during a mission stopover, standing watch while I arranged supplies in the hidden cellar.
"You're serious about this," he observed. Not a question.
"More than you know."
"These visions of yours... they're not getting better?"
I paused, hands full of emergency rations. "They're getting clearer. The shadows I mentioned—they're resolving into shapes. I still can't see faces, can't name names. But I can feel them. Everywhere."
Coulson was quiet for a long moment. "And you're certain they're inside SHIELD?"
"As certain as I can be without proof." I met his eyes. "I hope I'm wrong. I hope these caches rot underground forever and we look back on this as elaborate paranoia. But if I'm right..."
"If you're right, this preparation might save lives."
"That's the idea."
He helped me seal the cellar entrance, covering it with debris that would look natural to anyone who wasn't specifically searching. We left the farmhouse exactly as we'd found it—abandoned, unremarkable, invisible.
Two caches down. At least ten more needed before the storm hit.
---
The lab was crowded with data when FitzSimmons summoned me for what Fitz called "a presentation of significant findings."
"We've been analyzing your scans since you joined the team," Simmons explained, pulling up holographic displays that filled the space between us. "Neural patterns, cellular regeneration rates, energy signatures during detection activities. The data set is extensive."
"And weird," Fitz added. "Really, really weird."
"Thank you for that scientific precision, Fitz."
"You're welcome."
The holographics resolved into a complex diagram—overlapping systems, interconnected pathways, biological processes I couldn't begin to understand.
"Here's what we've discovered," Simmons continued. "Your powers aren't a single ability. They're multiple systems sharing one framework. Think of it like—"
"Like apps running on a phone," Fitz interrupted. "Same hardware, different programs. Your detection, your reflexes, your healing—they're all separate functions operating through the same biological platform."
I kept my expression carefully neutral. This was exactly what I knew about my powers—the trinity of detection, replication, and adaptation working in harmony. But I couldn't let them know I already understood.
"What does that mean practically?" I asked.
"It means your abilities might be more extensive than we initially thought." Simmons pulled up another display—projections and possibilities. "The platform could potentially support additional functions. If you were exposed to the right catalysts, or if the existing systems developed further..."
"You could get new powers," Fitz summarized. "Not guaranteed, but possible."
"And the systems I already have?"
"Growing stronger with use." Simmons pointed to a graph tracking my healing factor over time. "Look here. Your regeneration rate has increased fifteen percent since your first scan. Your reflexes have improved similarly. The more you use these abilities, the more efficient they become."
I absorbed the information, filing it away. The copying was working exactly as I'd hoped—slow but steady, building capacity for the powers I'd eventually absorb from Skye and others.
"This is fascinating," I said. "What happens if I push too hard? Are there limits?"
"Unknown." Fitz shrugged. "We've never studied anyone quite like you. Your biology is human-adjacent but not standard human. Some systems might have hard limits; others might not. We need more data."
"Which means more tests."
"Which means more tests," Simmons confirmed cheerfully. "I've scheduled your next session for Thursday."
---
Movie night was Skye's invention.
She'd insisted on it after the Belarus mission—something to decompress, she said, something normal in a life that was anything but. The team had resisted at first, but she'd worn them down with a combination of persistence and carefully selected film choices.
Now it was tradition. Every Friday, weather and missions permitting, we gathered in the common area for whatever Skye had curated that week.
Tonight it was something from the eighties—all synthesizers and neon and actors who took themselves very seriously. I'd lost track of the plot somewhere around the second act, distracted by the warmth of Skye pressed against my side.
The couch was crowded. Fitz had claimed the spot on my other side, leaving Simmons to share the adjacent chair with a bowl of popcorn. May had declined to join—no surprise—but Coulson had appeared with a vintage Captain America throw blanket and an expression that dared anyone to comment.
Ward sat in the corner, watching the screen with the same analytical attention he brought to everything. Separate. Observing.
I noted it. Filed it away with everything else I knew about him.
"This part is completely unrealistic," Fitz muttered as the hero performed some gravity-defying stunt. "The physics alone—"
"It's a movie," Skye countered. "Physics don't apply."
"Physics always apply. That's the point of physics."
"Shush, both of you." Simmons threw popcorn at them. "Some of us are trying to watch."
The bickering continued at a whisper. I tuned it out, focusing instead on the simple pleasure of the moment—surrounded by people I cared about, warm and safe and comfortable.
The copying was progressing. Every time Skye leaned against me, every casual touch, every moment of proximity—my body absorbed a fraction more of her dormant potential. Three percent now. Maybe three and a half. The process was glacially slow, but it was working.
More importantly, the connection we were building had nothing to do with powers. This was real. Genuine. Something I'd fight to protect.
The movie ended. Arguments about its quality continued. Coulson retreated to his office. May emerged briefly to collect Simmons for something mission-related.
Ward left without saying goodnight.
I reviewed the cache locations on a mental map as the others drifted away. Two established. Need at least ten more before HYDRA moves.
Time was running out, even if no one else knew it.
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