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Once they reached the helicarrier, the agents guarding Akela didn't take her to a cell. They took her to the medical wing. She wanted to protest, but the second shot of painkiller the white scientist girl had given her was already wearing out, and her right eye socket was throbbing.
At least they had the sense to shackle her to the hospital bed, one hand on each side, the top sheet stripped out of the way and two of them standing back, armed and eyes on her. It was a relief to know that if there was a backup control device somewhere in her body, they were ready.
The hospital room was normal, for SHIELD anyway. There was a curtain that could be pulled across the middle, tied back at the moment, and another empty bed sat closer to the door. On her side of the room, there were four tiny portholes showing nothing but blue sky, all bullet-proof and probably too thin to squeeze through, even for her. The walls were pale blue, rather than stark hospital white or gunmetal gray. They'd redecorated sometime in the past few years.
They were just finishing up, one of her guards checking the pulse below her thumbs to see if the wristcuffs were too tight, when Dr. Streiten walked in.
He was older than when she last saw him - whiter-haired, thinner, a little more reserved. He took in the situation for a moment, then asked quietly, "Why is my patient cuffed to the bed?"
"AD Hill's orders," the lead agent said, without even flicking her eyes away from Akela.
Hill? Maria Hill? Assistant Director?
Some things had definitely changed.
Then again, some hadn't. Streiten got that look that said he was about to become very obstinate.
"Please let Hill know that I'd like to speak with her at her convenience." Streiten held out his hand. "The key, please."
There were no old-fashioned keys to her wristcuffs, of course. The locking device was about the size of a golf pencil and had been calibrated specifically to Akela's bonds. Another key could be calibrated, if one knew the frequency of this specific set.
The guard who'd taken her pulse stepped back from the bed and muttered, "You'll put it in your pocket again."
"I'll lock it in my office." Streiten's tone was still deceptively calm.
Out of the corner of her remaining eye, Akela caught movement, a line of black leather just outside the doorway, beyond the angle her guards could see. For a moment she thought it was a test - would the guards refuse to break protocol, even for the man who regularly saved their lives and patched them up?
But before anyone could make a decision, the line of leather swirled and filled the doorway, framing Director Fury himself.
After a long pause, Fury said, "Perhaps I could take it." It wasn't a question.
The guard in charge turned the key over with clear relief, nodding a retreat to her team when Fury gave the signal.
Fury put the key in his pocket.
To his credit, Streiten didn't blink, nor did he leave. Instead, he came to the foot of her bed, careful to show his empty hands, and said, "I need to approach your right side and check beneath the bandages. FitzSimmons are excellent scientists, but neither is a licensed surgeon."
Akela looked at Fury, expecting him to dismiss Streiten, but he simply pulled up a stool and perched on her left side like he meant to stay there a while. She nodded to Streiten, but it was hard to keep both of them in her peripheral vision at once. With a suppressed shiver of unease, she settled her focus on Fury, the more dangerous man in the room. Streiten was a known quantity, a doctor who had cheerfully patched up known double agents before their trials.
That was her, now.
Fury was looking back at her with his one eye, silently assessing. While Streiten pulled gentle on the tape on her forehead, she waited Fury out. Coulson had taught her that. (Wait for him, Akela. He's watching to see if you'll confess something. If you don't speak or look guilty, he'll get to the point eventually.)
It worked.
He stretched his legs slightly, deliberately looking more relaxed, and said, "I recommend a basic black patch, once you're choosing designs. It's quite intimidating, and it doesn't show stains."
"Are you serious?" Akela asked him, the first she'd spoken since she left Melinda May's side.
"You should start listening to people more," he replied. "It's your biggest weakness."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you don't know a damn thing." His glare was piercing for a moment, then he dialed it back, eye flicking to the bandage where her ball and chain used to be. Streiten had it pulled partially up and was inspecting beneath it, making unsettling hm noises.
When Fury spoke next, it wasn't to her. "We have incoming from the op in Philly. You have half an hour to clear five quarantine rooms."
She could see Streiten look up, just on the edge of her vision. "I can give you four."
"Pull Peterson. He's stable."
"Who's the doctor here? Besides, I'm running out of regular rooms, since you insist on hogtying and isolating my patients."
Fury shrugged. "Put him in here, then. Amador can't hurt him."
Amador can't- No. She'd almost taken down The Cavalry, against her will. There couldn't possible be some random agent she'd never heard of who was safe from her, even with these cuffs on and her eye out. She curled her fingers carefully to keep her hands from shaking.
"True," Streiten spoke over her thoughts, "but he needs a stabilizing influence right now. I'm not sure this counts."
"He needs to not be stuck in a room by himself with barely any human contact after being medically cleared, just because everyone on this damn helicarrier is scared of him."
"Who is this guy?"
Fury looked down, pretending surprise that she'd spoken. "Your new roommate. Get along, and maybe you can keep him."
Then he stood and swept out, coat billowing behind him, the key to her wristcuffs still in his pocket.
"You'll like Mike," Streiten assured her as he replaced the bandage. "He's a little stressed, so don't antagonize him. But he's a good man."
"This feels like a setup," Akela muttered.
"Not by me," Streiten replied, but he didn't deny her point.
Who the hell is this guy?
***
"Humor me and let me do my job, Mike."
Voices in the hallway caught Akela's attention. She turned her head to track them, letting her ears stand in for the missing power of her eye. A familiar nurse - Ko, by the voice - was pushing a wheelchair up to her door.
A single, sharp knock. Definitely Ko.
"Come in," Akela said quietly.
"My roommate's a woman?" Mike's voice got louder halfway through the sentence, as Ko swung the door open and pushed him through. "Ah. Hi." To his credit, Mike looked a little embarrassed, ducking his stubbled head.
She took her time looking him over as Ko rolled him up to the bed and let him climb in himself. A tall, black man pushing 40, stooped over in a wheelchair, he looked healthy enough except for a kind of layered fear in his eyes and an exaggerated care about his movements, like he was trying not to break something. He also hadn't shaved his face or his head in at least a couple of weeks. She wondered if they wouldn't let him have sharp objects or electronics.
At least he was wearing flannel, rather than scrubs. If the staff really hated you, they found little ways to make your stay less pleasant. They must have liked Mike well enough, for all that Ko looked annoyed.
"I'll bring your bag in a few minutes. Try to keep your heart rate and blood pressure down until I get the monitors reattached."
"I've been stable for days," Mike protested.
Ko gave him a look that said how much the staff thought that was worth, then glanced at Akela. "Keep him calm."
Akela nodded, and Ko left, shutting the door carefully.
"So," Mike said brightly, "What are you in for?"
Akela raised her left eyebrow.
Awkwardly, he pressed on. "I'm in for almost exploding. Almost actually exploding, I mean. But I'm fine now," he assured her. "They had me in an underground bunker until they were sure."
Well, that deserved something.
"I'm here for turning rogue and killing dozens of people." His eyes widened slightly, and she could see the pulse jump at his throat. Akela cursed herself. "And for almost exploding," she added quickly, "but I'm fine now."
He laughed nervously, a little of the tension bleeding off his shoulders. But his eyes had definitely caught her wristcuffs now, flicking back and forth between them and her face.
"It was me, but it wasn't," she tried to reassure him, so he wouldn't think she was a threat. Even if she was.
"Yeah," he said, relaxing further. "Yeah."
By the time Ko came back with a small gym bag slung over one shoulder, pushing two monitors on stands, Peterson had raised his bed to a sitting position and leaned back, hands moving in emphatic arcs as he replayed for her in graphic detail the Dodgers game he'd taken his son to, over a year ago now.
The question who is this guy didn't vanish from her mind, but it was tempered by the knowledge that he would tell her. He wanted somebody to listen; she wanted to think about something other than her own problems. It was a good match.
It also meant Director Fury probably didn't want her dead. He wanted her to figure out what was wrong with one Mike Peterson, single father, formerly a human bomb. Not that it could have any bearing on her trial, but it was generous of him to let her try to balance her ledger a little bit.
Fury'd said to listen. Well, she could start here.