Chapter 6: Enough is Enough

Director Coulson's fingers drummed against his desk as he watched the live feed from Bruce’s lab. His jaw clenched at the sight of the makeshift sleeping arrangement—a hospital cot wedged between towers of diagnostic equipment, enclosed by temporary barriers. It looked far too much like the holding cells on the Raft for his liking.
 
You lay there, unconscious, vital signs dancing across nearby screens while tubes and sensors mapped your existence in cold data points. The sight stirred something in his chest, though he couldn’t quite explain why. Or, to be more accurate, didn’t want to face why.
 
Coulson reached for his secure line to Agent Simmons, then paused, his hand hovering over the phone. He caught sight of the subtle tremor in his fingers. The same tremor that always emerged when protocol warred with his instincts.
 
With a deep inhale, he made a decision and dialled Simmons' extension. “Get Fitz and meet me in your lab in ten.”
 
As Coulson made the trek from his office down to the lab level, he held the thick batch of reports close to his chest, each step echoing his racing thoughts. He'd handled hundreds of cases involving unknown individuals, each one filed away with clinical precision. But this was different. Why couldn't he let this one go? Why did your face on the monitor stir such unease in his gut?
 
Nick would have scoffed at his involvement. He’d have trusted Stark and his team to handle it, moved on to the next crisis without a backward glance. Would have slept soundly, unburdened by the image of you lying there, surrounded by machines instead of walls.
 
The lab doors parted with a soft, pneumatic hiss. Coulson performed the sweep automatically. A quick arc of his gaze taking in every corner, every shadow. Finding only the familiar sight of FitzSimmons at their stations, he let the thick stack of reports fall onto the counter with a heavy thud.
 
"These are Banner's test results," he said, his tone suggesting this was more than just a run-of-the-mill assignment. "I want you two to find me something. Anything. Whatever they might've overlooked."
 
Jemma and Leo exchanged glances. It wasn't just curiosity in their exchange; it was recognition of the edge in their director's voice, the one that said this case had gotten under his skin.
 
“The tiniest abnormality,” Coulson continued, spreading his palms across the stack of reports. “Run a simple tox screen, I don’t care. Just find me something by morning.”
 
Leo's eyes darted between the reports and Coulson. “You… want us to find something that Dr Banner and Tony Stark may have overlooked? They’re arguably the greatest minds of our generation and you want us to…” His words trailed off into bewildered silence, his Scottish accent more pronounced with his confusion.
 
Coulson leaned forward until his tie brushed the reports, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yes, okay? Yes. They’re brilliant. Honest-to-God geniuses. The Einsteins and Teslas in this Age of Intelligence. But they both have blind spots the size of Jupiter.”
 
"Blind spots?" Leo's brow furrowed as he shifted closer, curiosity overtaking his earlier hesitation.
 
"Stark, God bless him, is almost always driven by his ego. His focus is on the 'bigger picture', finding the ultimate solution." He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if indicating Tony's typical grandiose approach. "He's seeking a single answer that can resolve everything in one go. And my guess is that he's quick to dismiss smaller details as irrelevant."
 
A soft snort escaped Jemma as she tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear. "You had me at 'driven by his ego'."
 
"Alright, can't argue with you there," Leo conceded, reaching for one of the reports. "But Dr Banner? He's–"
 
"Over-cautious," Coulson cut in. "He understands the risk of provoking repressed trauma, so he's avoiding questioning the girl in ways that could reveal conditioned responses or clues to her true identity."
 
Jemma's eyes widened slightly as understanding dawned. "You're looking to explore triggers..."
 
"I'm looking for this poor girl's identity." Coulson rectified, his voice softening. Something in his expression shifted. A flash of paternal concern breaking through his usual professional demeanour. "Her family, boyfriend, second cousin twice removed. Someone has to be looking for her." The last words carried an edge of desperation that made both scientists glance at each other. It was rare to see their director this emotionally invested, and rarer still to hear it so plainly in his voice.
 
"You can count on us, boss," Jemma said softly, her determination and empathy reminding Coulson why he recruited her in the first place. She was already reaching for a tablet, mentally mapping out test protocols and analysis parameters.
 
As Coulson paused at the door, the monitor displaying the live feed from Banner's lab drew his attention. Through the night-vision filter, your unconscious body appeared. A mystery wrapped in medical sensors and institutional lighting. He stood there for a moment, framed in the doorway, silently watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.
 
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving Jemma and Leo immersed in their work, while you remained under watchful surveillance. The two moved through the lab with Banner-Stark-level synchronicity. Intuitive, productive, falling into their familiar rhythm of collaborative problem-solving. Pages rustled as they divided Bruce’s reports between them, sticky notes appearing at the corners of promising sections.
 
"First things first," Jemma said, tapping her pen against her lower lip. "We need baseline readings that aren't clouded by sedatives or trauma responses." She reached for her phone, muscle memory finding the right contact.
 
"May's team is still out of town," Leo added, not looking up from the chemical analysis he was scanning. His fingers traced down columns of numbers, pausing occasionally to mark potential anomalies. "She could have oversaw a polygraph. Ensure it's done properly."
 
"And by properly, you mean–"
 
"Without Stark turning it into an interrogation, yes." Leo finally glanced up, meeting Jemma's knowing look. They both understood how quickly things could escalate at the compound, especially with tensions already running high.
 
Jemma's fingers flew across her phone's keypad, composing a message to a substitute. "Early tomorrow morning, before anyone has a chance to object."
 
“Or launch experimental tests.”
 
"Right... Now, about these protein markers Banner flagged..."
 
They bent their heads over the reports again, the quiet sounds of scientific investigation filling the lab while somewhere across upstate New York, you slept on, unaware of the plans being made.
 
 
The LED lights overhead emitted a cold, unsettling glow. Somehow different to the ones in the lab you’ve grown accustomed to. There was no gentle whir of centrifuges here. No familiar scent of Tony’s morning coffee.
 
The agent to your left, Agent Wyatt, according to her badge, maintained a grip on your elbow that was just shy of uncomfortable. Her colleague walked three precise steps ahead, his shoes clicking out a metronomic rhythm that made your skin prickle. Neither had spoken a word beyond "Come with us" when they'd appeared at your cot at 5:47 AM.
 
The door they led you to was gunmetal grey, its surface unmarred by even a scratch. And inside, a single metal table dominated the centre of the room, bolted to the floor. Two chairs faced each other across its surface. One solidly anchored, the other free-standing. Your escort guided you to the anchored chair with subtle pressure on your elbow.
 
The walls were a particular shade of institutional white that seemed designed to intimidate people like you. No sticky notes with Bruce's cramped handwriting. No complex molecular diagrams sketched on whiteboards. Not even a clock to track the passing minutes.… That thought rattled around, nudging you closer and closer to a memory… And then disappeared.
 
You willed the thought to return, squeezing your eyes shut.
 
“Clinically white walls… Laboratories… Scientists…” you repeated internally, mulling over each word as if the key to unlocking your phantom memories. “Experiments…? Agents…? Oh, God, I’m going insane.”
 
Your eyes snapped open.
 
“Insane asylums! Am I a patient? Is that why all this feels familiar? Am I going to wake up and find myself in a padded cell? Has this been one elaborate lucid dream?”
 
You shifted in the chair, its metal legs scraping against the floor. The sound seemed to reverberate in the silence of the cavernous space, chilling you to the bone. Whatever was going on, you were ready to bolt. You wanted out. Badly.
 
“Hello?” you called, looking up into the security camera in the corner. “Dr Banner? Tony? Anyone?”
 
The creak of the heavy door opening broke the stifling silence, sending a jolt of adrenaline through you. You swivelled in your chair, eyes darting towards the sound.
 
A tall, broad-shouldered agent strode into the room, face impassive. His dark suit was crisp and immaculately pressed, not a single wrinkle to betray any hint of emotion. He carried a silver briefcase in one hand, the metallic sheen glinting menacingly under the harsh lights.
 
Without a word, he set the briefcase on the table, the sharp click of the latches echoing in the cavernous space. Your gaze followed his movements, pulse pounding in your ears. Whatever was in that case, it couldn't be good.
 
He popped the latches open and began methodically removing components: wires, electrodes, a digital display. Your mouth went dry as you realised this was a lie detector setup. The agent moved with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times before, every motion precise and clinical.
 
Panic flared in your chest, threatening to choke you. You opened your mouth, trying to find your voice, but the agent raised a hand, silencing you before you could speak.
 
"Please remain still and refrain from speaking unless spoken to," he said, his tone flat and devoid of any hint of empathy. He began attaching the electrodes to your fingertips, the skin-crawling sensation making you want to jerk away.
 
Once the electrodes were in place, the agent took a seat on the freestanding chair, his posture ramrod straight. He fixed you with an unwavering stare, his dark eyes boring into yours. "We will begin the test now," he said, his voice as cold and unforgiving as the room itself.
 
You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves. This was no longer Dr Banner's warm (well, warm in contrast to whatever the hell this room was), familiar lab. This was a battlefield, and somehow, you were the target. Taking a shaky breath, you braced yourself, praying you had the strength to face whatever was to come.
 
The agent cleared his throat. "Do you know where you are?"
 
You glanced around the unwelcoming, hermetically sealed room, a shiver running down your spine. "I'm not sure. Some kind of interrogation room, I think?"
 
"This is a secure S.H.I.E.L.D. facility." The agent gestured to the equipment spread out on the table. "You are here to undergo a routine security screening. We will be conducting a polygraph test to verify the information in your file."
 
Your stomach twisted at the mention of S.H.I.E.L.D. The name triggered a faint, uneasy feeling, but you couldn't place why. "I don't have a file.”
 
The agent's expression didn't change, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. A slight tightening of his shoulders. He turned to the console, making a few adjustments. "We'll start with the basics." Turning back to you, he locked eyes with you, his gaze unwavering. "State your name for the record."
 
You hesitated, mind racing. "I don't remember."
 
"What is your mother's maiden name?"
 
"I don't remember that either."
 
The agent’s brow furrowed slightly, the only crack in his otherwise stoic demeanour. "Who is the current president of the United States?"
 
"I... I don't know."
 
The agent paused, consulting the tablet he had retrieved from the briefcase. “Have you directly, or indirectly, been involved with or assisted a terrorist organisation?”
 
You wracked your brain, trying to grasp at any semblance of a memory. But the harder you reached, the more elusive it became, like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. “How many more of these are there?”
 
“Try to limit your answers to yes or no.” The agent's lips pressed into a thin line, the first real sign of frustration you'd seen from him.
 
The constant bombardment of questions was wearing on your nerves, making it harder and harder to stay calm.
 
“It’s the same every time!” You finally yelled, gripping the edges of the metal table. “I don’t know! I don’t know what’s going on… I don’t know what’s happening to me… And I don’t know how else to tell you that.”
 
The agent regarded you impassively, unfazed by your outburst. "This would go much smoother if you would simply cooperate."
 
"Cooperate?" you scoffed, the sheer absurdity of the agent's demand sparking a surge of defiance. "You've got to be kidding me."
 
"If not, we'll have to proceed with the assumption that you are a potential security risk."
 
A growing sense of dread settled in the pit of your stomach as you watched his movements. This was it. Enough was enough. To say you've not cooperated with these people since the start of this journey would be a flagrant lie.
 
With a sudden surge of rebellion, you reached up and tore the electrodes from your skin, tossing them onto the table with a loud clatter.
 
"Hold on. Wait a second. Miss?" the agent stammered, caught off guard by your unexpected action.
 
You swallowed hard, suppressing what felt like skin-melting rage. "Miss, what? Miss, who?" you challenged, your voice dripping with contempt. "I don't have a name. I let you people poke me, prod me, scan me... I'm done."
 
The agent's eyes widened slightly, his composure slipping. "Ma'am, I must insist that you–"
 
"Insist?" you interrupted, slamming your palms down on the table. "You don't get to insist on anything. You've kept me locked up in this sterile hellhole, bombarding me with questions I can't possibly answer. Well, no m–"
 
The last thing you remember is the sound of the door bursting open… Followed by the sharp sting of a needle…
 
“Oh, God, not again…”
 

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