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WHAT?!"
Phil Coulson's shout shattered the hum of the Airbus's engines. His usually composed face twisted into a mask of raw, unfiltered panic. The blood drained from his skin, leaving him gray.
Next to him, Grant Ward stiffened, his head snapping up from the console, his jaw set so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.
"We'll fly over there to pick you up right away!" Coulson yelled into the comms, turning on his heel to sprint toward the cockpit. "May, lock down the perimeter! Keep pressure on the wound!"
"By the time you fly over there," a calm, almost bored voice cut through the hysteria, "Skye will be a cold corpse."
Coulson froze mid-stride. He turned slowly, his eyes wild and desperate, landing on the girl sitting in the command chair.
Hermione Granger.
In the chaos, the sheer terror of losing Skye, he had momentarily forgotten that he had a god-slayer sitting in his lounge.
His eyes ignited with sudden, blinding hope. "Hermione..."
"May," Hermione said into the open comms channel, her voice steady and authoritative. "Give me the coordinates. Precise triangulation. Now."
On the other end of the line, amidst the sounds of labored breathing and distant sirens, May's voice came through, tight but controlled. She rattled off a string of numbers—latitude, longitude, elevation.
Hermione nodded once. She stood up, raising her hand.
She didn't use a wand this time. She simply sliced the air with her fingers.
KRR-ZKT!
Space didn't just sparkle; it tore open. A ragged, fiery ring of Eldritch magic expanded in the center of the Bus, revealing a dark, dusty cellar in Italy.
Through the portal, the smell of damp stone, gunpowder, and fresh copper blood flooded the command center.
Melinda May was kneeling on the floor, her hands pressed hard against Skye's abdomen. Blood was seeping between her fingers, dark and terrifyingly fast. Skye's face was the color of paper, her eyes squeezed shut, her breath coming in shallow, wet hitches.
"Go," Hermione commanded.
Ward and Coulson didn't hesitate. They rushed through the portal, grabbing Skye's limp form. May helped lift her, her hands slick with red.
In less than ten seconds, they were back on the Bus. Hermione flicked her wrist, and the portal snapped shut, severing the connection to Italy.
The Medical Bay.
"Get her on the table! Now! Now!"
Jemma Simmons was already moving, her movements frantic but practiced. She ripped open a package of sterile gauze, her hands trembling slightly. Fitz was beside her, hooking up monitors, his face pale and sweaty.
"BP is dropping! 60 over 40!" Fitz shouted, his voice cracking. "Pulse is thready! She's crashing!"
The air in the small medical pod was heavy, suffocating with the metallic stench of blood and the sharp tang of antiseptic.
"I need epinephrine!" Simmons yelled. "And the hemostats! I can't find the bleeder!"
Coulson stood by the door, his hands gripping the frame until his knuckles turned white. He looked like he was watching his own daughter die. He took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing himself to be the Director.
"Ward," Coulson said, his voice hollow. "Take Quinn to the interrogation room. Don't... don't let him speak. Just lock him up."
Ward nodded grimly, his eyes lingering on Skye's pale face for a second too long before he turned to drag the handcuffed Ian Quinn away.
"She's going into shock!" Simmons cried, tears of frustration welling in her eyes. "I can't stop the bleeding! The bullet nicked an artery!"
"You all move aside."
The voice was soft, carrying no panic, only absolute certainty.
Hermione stepped into the cramped space. She had entered silently, like a ghost.
Simmons and Fitz froze. They looked at her, then at the dying girl. The realization hit them like a physical blow. Magic.
They scrambled back, pressing themselves against the walls to make room.
Hermione stood over Skye. She looked down at the gruesome double tap in the girl's stomach. She didn't flinch. She didn't look worried. She looked like a mechanic inspecting a minor engine fault.
She drew her wand—the vine wood dark against her pale skin.
"Vulnera Sanentur."
She began to chant in a low, rhythmic singsong voice, tracing her wand over the weeping wounds.
A soft, white light bloomed from the tip of the wand, illuminating the blood-soaked shirt.
The air in the room seemed to reverse.
To the shock of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, two flattened, blood-stained metal bullets slowly levitated out of Skye's abdomen, drawn by an invisible magnet. They hovered for a moment, then clattered into a metal tray.
Hermione didn't stop. She continued the incantation, the wand moving in complex, knitting patterns.
The edges of the torn flesh began to writhe. Muscles reconnected. Severed veins sealed themselves. Pink, fresh tissue grew rapidly, filling the cavity, knitting together like a time-lapse video of a flower blooming.
In five seconds, the angry, fatal wounds were gone.
Skye's abdomen was smooth, unblemished skin. Not even a scar remained.
BEEP... BEEP... BEEP.
The frantic alarm of the heart monitor slowed to a steady, rhythmic pulse. The blood pressure numbers climbed back to normal green digits.
"Cough..."
Skye's chest heaved. She coughed softly, her eyelashes fluttering. She opened her eyes, the glassy look of shock gone, replaced by confusion.
"Where... am I?"
Her voice was raspy. She subconsciously reached down to touch her stomach, expecting pain, expecting a hole. She felt only smooth skin and a sticky residue of old blood.
"Skye! You're awake!"
Simmons broke. She rushed forward, grabbing Skye's hand and bursting into tears of relief. "You're okay! Oh my god, you're okay!"
Coulson slumped against the doorframe, his legs momentarily giving out. He covered his face with his hand, hiding the moisture in his eyes. A smile, shaky but genuine, broke through his stoic mask.
Skye blinked, looking at the weeping Simmons, the relieved Fitz, and finally, her gaze landed on Hermione.
The young witch was calmly wiping a speck of blood from her wand with a handkerchief, looking utterly unbothered.
Skye understood. She remembered the cold, the pain, and then... the light.
She struggled to sit up, ignoring Simmons' protests. She looked at Hermione with eyes wide and swimming with gratitude.
"Hermione..." Skye whispered. "Did you... save me?"
Hermione waved her hand casually, pocketing her wand. "Don't worry about it. Just get some rest. Drink some water."
She shrugged. "How could I let such a beautiful young lady die on my watch? Who would listen to my complaints about the food?"
"Thank you, Hermione," Skye said, her voice trembling. "Really."
Hermione nodded slightly, accepting the thanks as her due. "By the way," she asked, changing the subject as if she hadn't just performed a biblical miracle, "what about the guy you caught? The villain with the bad hair?"
Coulson straightened up, wiping his face. "Ward has him in Interrogation. He knows quite a bit. Miss Wizard, would you like to come along? You have a way of... extracting truth."
Hermione's eyes glinted. "I'd love to."
Ring. Ring.
Coulson's secure line buzzed. He held up a finger, stepping into the corridor.
"Coulson," he answered.
He listened for a moment, his expression tightening. "Understood, sir. We're on the ground."
He hung up and walked back to Hermione.
"I'm afraid the interrogation will have to wait," Coulson said, his tone professional again. "Fury has sent two senior colleagues to secure the prisoner and debrief us. They'll be landing in three minutes."
Hermione nodded noncommittally. "More suits. Joy."
The Tarmac.
Three minutes later, the roar of a jet engine screamed overhead. A black S.H.I.E.L.D. Jump Jet landed vertically next to the Bus.
The ramp lowered, and a black SUV rolled out. It stopped near the cargo bay of the Airbus.
Two men stepped out.
The first was a tall, middle-aged man with a buzz cut and a rugged, charismatic face. He wore a dark leather jacket and exuded the air of a man who had seen everything and found it amusing. John Garrett.
Following closely behind him was a younger African-American agent, sharp-eyed and professional, carrying a tactical kit. Antoine Triplett.
Coulson walked down the ramp to meet them, shaking hands.
"John. Trip. Good to see you."
"Phil," Garrett grinned, slapping Coulson on the shoulder. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or a very angry ex-wife."
Coulson stepped aside, gesturing to the petite figure standing behind him in the cargo bay shadows.
"I'd like you to meet our... consultant."
Hermione stepped into the light.
John Garrett, a Level 8 agent, a legend in S.H.I.E.L.D., and secretly the Clairvoyant of Hydra, physically shuddered.
His eyes locked onto the girl. He had read the files. He had seen the satellite footage of the dragons in London. But seeing the Witch in person—a teenager in jeans who radiated an aura of terrifying, latent power—was different. It was primal.
Triplett was much less subtle. His jaw dropped. His eyes widened like saucers.
"Wait," Trip stammered, looking from Hermione to Coulson. "She... is that...?"
His voice cracked. "Could it be that person?"
Trip had always thought the reports of world-destroying magic were exaggerations. S.H.I.E.L.D. legends.
Now, the Legend was standing there, looking bored.
Coulson smiled, enjoying their reaction. "That's right, Trip. The one you're thinking of."
Trip gasped, instinctively straightening his posture and adjusting his tie. "Whoa."
Garrett recovered quickly. He forced his trademark grin, though it didn't quite reach his calculating eyes.
"I've heard so much about you," Garrett said, stepping forward with his hand extended. "John Garrett. Phil's old S.O. I gotta say, the files don't do you justice."
Hermione looked at his hand, then at his face. Her Legilimency brushed against his mind—just a surface scan—and she felt a chaotic, oily darkness.
"Hermione Granger," she said simply, ignoring the handshake.
Garrett smoothly retracted his hand, not missing a beat. "It is a great honor to meet you, Miss Granger. Truly."
"Likewise," Trip added, nodding respectfully.
Hermione nodded once, then turned on her heel. "I'll be in the lounge. The air out here smells like jet fuel and lies."
She walked back into the Bus.
Garrett watched her go, his smile fading slightly. He turned to Coulson, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Phil... what on earth..." Garrett hissed. "How did you get the Witch on your bus? Fury has been trying to recruit her for months. Did you bribe her? Kidnap her?"
"It's a long story," Coulson explained, walking them toward the ramp.
"When the Bus was infected with the Chitauri virus, the situation was FUBAR. Hermione happened to be nearby—she has a way of showing up. I asked for help. Later, she bonded with the team. Skye and Jemma really took to her. You know how young girls are."
Coulson shrugged. "After the Convergence, she said she was bored. Didn't want to go back to school. Said the 'real world' was more entertaining. When she heard I was chasing Quinn, she decided to tag along for the show."
"I see," Garrett nodded slowly, his mind racing. This complicates things. The Clairvoyant didn't see this. "It fits her profile. Chaotic neutral. Doing whatever she pleases."
The group entered the Airbus.
Garrett exchanged pleasantries with Ward—a secret nod passing between them—and then turned his gaze back to Coulson. He needed to assess the damage to his plan.
"So, Phil," Garrett said casually, leaning against a bulkhead. "I heard you took some heat in Italy. Quinn's security was heavy. I heard you have a player down? Skye, was it? The hacker?"
He feigned concern. "How is she? Two to the gut... is it serious? Do we need to prep a coroner?"
In his mind, Garrett was already calculating. If the girl dies, Coulson is broken. If she's dying, maybe we can use it to push him toward the GH-325 research.
A flicker of residual fear crossed Coulson's face, but he relaxed, a small smile appearing.
"It was Skye," Coulson admitted. "She took two rounds to the abdomen. Point blank."
Garrett shook his head solemnly. "Damn. That's a shame. She had potential."
"But she's fine now," Coulson added brightly.
Garrett froze. "Excuse me?"
"She's fine," Coulson repeated. "Up and walking. Might be hungry."
Garrett's expression cracked. The mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing genuine shock.
"She's alright?" Garrett exclaimed, his voice losing its smooth cadence. "How is that possible? Two shots to the gut? Did she wear a vest?"
"No vest," Coulson said, gesturing toward the lounge where Hermione was sitting. "Magic."
Garrett stared at him.
Magic?
She healed a fatal gunshot wound instantly?
Garrett felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. His own body was failing. His organs were shutting down. He had been hunting the GH-325 serum—the T.A.H.I.T.I. drug—as his only hope for survival.
And now, there was a girl sitting ten feet away who could fix death with a wave of a stick.
Change of plans, Garrett thought, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the Witch. Drastic change of plans.