Chapter 9: To Making New Friends (...and No Villain Arc)

The memory of Steve’s infuriatingly reasonable response still burned like a slow fuse, making peaceful sleep impossible. You paced the perimeter of your glorified cell for what felt like the hundredth time, tethered by pulse oximeters, mulling over your earlier conversation. The worst part wasn't even his patronising tone or that perfect poster-boy composure. It was how your traitorous mind kept circling back to the way authority had looked on him, like a perfectly tailored suit.
 
Your frustration found an outlet in mindlessly reorganising the few belongings they'd allowed you, though there was little satisfaction in arranging and rearranging an armful of S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued sweats and basic toiletries. Each time you passed the door, you could swear you heard the faint echo of his low, resonant voice: "We have to be cautious for the sake of all involved parties." Involved parties. As if this were some kind of pending lawsuit rather than your entire existence.
 
The distant LED lights in the corridor pulsed against your temples, each throb accentuating your mounting frustration. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, willing the migraine to subside, but the damn pulse oximeters clamped to your fingers constantly reminded you of your captivity.
 
You glanced down at the offending device, noticing that the half-empty can of ginger ale sitting on your bedside table (read: Bruce’s three-tier trolley) had begun to vibrate, the carbonation bubbling up and spilling over the rim as if responding to the turmoil within you.
 
A surge of distress sent your pulse racing, the oximeter on your index finger letting out a shrill alarm as your heart rate spiked above 130 beats per minute. You whipped your gaze toward the mounted monitor, the incessant beeping only amplifying your growing sense of unease.
 
"Uh... Bruce...?" you called out, suddenly acutely aware of your solitude. You held your breath, willing the phenomenon to stop, but the unnatural tremors only seemed to intensify.
 
Panic rose up your throat like bile. What was happening to you? Was this some lingering side effect of whatever had been done to wipe your memory? You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your palms against your temples in a futile attempt to quell the migraine pulsing behind your eyes.
 
"Stop, stop, stop," you muttered under your breath, rocking slightly as the can's tremors continued unabated. "Please, just make it stop..."
 
Desperate to regain control, you reached out and seized the can, holding it still against the trolley. Then, taking a shuddering breath, you forced yourself to slow your racing pulse until the persistent beeping of the oximeter fell silent.
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
Bruce paced back and forth, his soft, carefully-trained demeanour replaced with agitated movement while Tony remained unusually calm behind his own workstation. The silence between them felt loaded with the heft of scientific pride taking an uncomfortable hit. A forgotten cup of coffee had grown cold nearby, sporting a label that read "Not That Kind of Doctor". A gag gift from Clint that now felt oddly appropriate.
 
"ZIP. Of all things. I almost can’t believe it. This isn't some backyard chemistry. How did we miss that?"
 
Tony's response came with none of his usual sardonic flair, instead carrying an almost gentle tone that seemed foreign coming from him. "Hey, don't be so hard on yourself. You're not the only one who missed it. We were both so deep in trying to crack her physiology that we didn't see the most obvious clue."
 
Bruce stopped his pacing at a monitor, letting out a sharp laugh that held no humour. "But ZIP? That's basic spy toxin intel, Tony. It's one of the first things we should've spotted. Instead, I kept running circles around genetic sequencing and quantum physiology. It feels like... missing the forest for the trees..."
 
Tony's eyebrows rose slightly as he straightened his posture. "You mean the opposite, right? Missing the forest for the trees is when you're too focused on the details, thus missing the bigger picture."
 
"Semantics!" Bruce snapped, a flash of green briefly colouring his neck before receding. A tell that would normally have others backing away. Tony, however, didn't flinch, though he did eye the expensive lab equipment with sudden concern for its survival chances.
 
Instead, Tony slid off the stool, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "To be fair, our 'trees' were backed by quantum physics. So we went straight for the sci-fi instead of the spy-fi... We're scientists; it's what we do." He paused, glancing at Bruce's still-green tinged neck. "Though maybe we should avoid talking about anything green right now. Trees included."
 
The scene played out like a bizarre reflection in a funhouse mirror. Bruce's typically controlled demeanour had cracked, revealing raw frustration, while Tony, usually the first to deflect failure with sarcasm or ego, stood as the voice of reason.
 
Bruce slumped onto a nearby stool, still working the monitor, reviewing and re-reviewing your test results. "And it took FitzSimmons to spot it. There goes my credibility."
 
"Yeah, well, that's what you get when you bring in the kids. Hungry, relentless, looking to prove something." Tony's mouth quirked into a half-smile, nostalgia softening his features. "I was like that once, remember?"
 
The chair creaked as Bruce leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Still, Tony... ZIP? The whole time, it was sitting right under my nose. Never thought it could be that straightforward."
 
"There's nothing straightforward about ZIP-induced amnesia, though, is there?” Tony scoffed.
 
"And yet, the kids caught it because they looked at the basics. They weren't looking for the extraordinary."
 
Tony gently eased the monitor out of Bruce’s reach. "Look, if you insist on beating yourself up, go ahead. But keep it quick 'cause ZIP or no ZIP, there's still more going on here." He grabbed a nearby tablet, fingers flying across its surface. "If Y/N's system is flooded with this stuff, it's not a coincidence. Somebody wanted her mind wiped."
 
Bruce's posture straightened, scientific curiosity finally overtaking his wounded pride. "You're right. Whoever did this... they knew what they were doing. And they knew exactly how to hide it."
 
"So now we know what wiped her memory." Tony's fingers paused over the tablet. "The real question is why. What were they trying to make her forget?"
 
A familiar gleam returned to Bruce’s eyes. "One way to find out..."
 
Tony’s grin turned sharp, competitive spirit kindling. "Time to show those British nerds they're not the only ones who can crack a mystery."
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
The hiss of the door sliding open drew your attention, and you whipped your head up to see a familiar face peering in with concern. Agent Simmons, one of the few people you'd grown somewhat accustomed to over the past week, hovered in the doorway, her brows furrowed.
 
"Y/N? I heard the alert from the med bay feed. Are you alright?" Jemma asked cautiously, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on the can in your hands.
 
"I..." you started, trying to frame the incident in a way that wouldn't sound completely insane. "The can… it… started vibrating. On its own. And not just a little. It was like…”  you tapered off, gesturing vaguely at the spilled ginger ale. "And my migraine's gotten worse, too. The lights in the hall were flickering and… I don’t know. I probably sound crazy, don’t I?”
 
Jemma's expression softened at your rambling, stepping further into the room. “It doesn’t sound crazy. You’ve had a hectic week. You’re bound to have an episode or two.”
 
“An episode? No, no, don’t do that. Don’t make it sound as if I’ve conjured all this in my head. I know what I saw. You said you heard the alert.”
 
“I did. Indicating elevated heart rate, not… vibrating soda cans. Tony conducts experiments in his workshop all the time. Is it at all possible that that’s what you felt?”
 
Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. Even Jemma—patient, understanding Jemma—thought you were losing it. The migraine pulsed harder behind your eyes, and you pressed your palm against your temple.
 
The young biochemist noticed the gesture, her clinical gaze softening. She glanced at the medical cabinet, then back to you, weighing something in her mind. "Tell you what," she said finally, moving toward the supplies. "Let's run a quick test. Right here, right now. You can see it first-hand."
 
She retrieved a syringe from the cabinet, holding it up. "Your blood work might show if there's anything triggering these... incidents. We can look at it together under the microscope. Would that help?"
 
The offer of concrete evidence—of proof that you weren't imagining things—made your shoulders relax slightly. You extended your arm without hesitation, watching as she prepared the injection site.
 
She expertly drew your blood, and you found yourself watching as she began the process, following Dr Cho's exact procedure from that first night. One drop of blood on a glass slide, a precise amount of clear reagent added with an eyedropper, then a thin glass coverslip gently placed over the sample.
 
"You know," Jemma said as she adjusted the microscope, "I've studied your results extensively. I was actually the one who discovered the ZIP in your system." Her eyes remained fixed on the lens as she made minute adjustments. "The compound was cleverly masked; it took quite a bit of persistence to isolate it."
 
The monitors above flickered to life, displaying a familiar pattern of inconclusive results. Your DNA sequence scrolled across the screen, fragments of code that meant everything and nothing at once. Jemma turned the display toward you, gesturing at the readout.
 
"See? No change. As far as we can tell, you're as healthy as a horse."
 
You stared at the screen, at the pristine blood work that seemed to contradict your earlier experience. Everything appeared normal. “But what about…?”
 
“I believe there was an incident with Captain Rogers earlier?” Jemma prompted, wincing slightly. “He… he can be harsh at times, but he means well. He bears the name Captain America for good reason. Believe me.”
 
Jemma’s implication dawned on you. “You think I’m upset about what happened?”
 
“I think stress manifests itself in a variety of ways. Physiological, psychological, emotional, behavioural… Hallucinations are to be expected. For all we know, whatever you think happened could even be residual effects of the drug.”
 
 
Agent May dropped into the nearest armchair with an audible groan, her muscles protesting after the long mission. The satisfying hiss of a beer can opening broke through the agents’ rec room.
 
"Alright, I'm off duty for the next twelve hours, I have a cold one in hand..." She took a long pull from the beer. "What's good? What'd I miss?"
 
Hunter sprawled across the couch opposite her, one arm draped over the backrest. "Well, Coulson's gone and adopted another lost puppy. And this one happens to be an amnesiac with..." he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, "…other issues."
 
From his position in the kitchenette, Mack let out a low chuckle. "She's like a Rorschach test in a hospital gown. We're still taking bets on how long it takes for Coulson to throw a S.H.I.E.L.D. badge at her."
 
"Or maybe a therapist's phone number." Jemma perched on the arm of the couch, her earlier encounter with you still fresh in her mind. "She's sweet, but she's clearly got some unresolved issues."
 
May's eyes narrowed slightly as she studied each of their expressions. "So what's Coulson's deal? What's his angle with her?"
 
Fitz, quietly tinkering with some device at the table, looked up. "Something tells me she reminds him of she who shall not be named..."
 
"Who, his daughter?" May raised her eyebrows, momentarily forgetting her beer at the mention of Coulson’s estranged daughter.
 
"Hm, indeed."
 
"Well, perhaps she's a personal project." Hunter leaned forward, gesturing with his beer bottle. "I think he's convinced himself she's the next Black Widow, just waiting for the right mission to unleash her inner hero."
 
Mack pushed off from the wall, his expression sceptical. "Or her inner villain. If this were a movie, y'all know Y/N would be the plot twist hiding in plain sight."
 
"Come on," Jemma protested. "Sure, she's a mystery, but she's hardly twirling her moustache in the shadows. She doesn't even remember her own name."
 
Fitz glanced up again, a slight smirk playing at his lips. "You know what they say... it's always the quiet ones."
 
May paused mid-sip. "Wait, you guys don't really think...?"
 
"Just saying she could be." Mack shrugged his broad shoulders. "Mysterious past, showing up in our backyard out of nowhere..."
 
Hunter waved his bottle dismissively. "Not every dark, brooding stranger with amnesia is a supervillain. Otherwise, half of us would be on watchlists."
 
"Agreed! Thank you! Y/N’s alright. She grows on you; she’s certainly grown on me…" Jemma admitted, somewhat protectively.
 
Hunter raised his drink in a mock toast. "Well, here's to making new friends. And hoping they don't stab us in the back."
 
May lifted her beer can with a supportive half-smile. "Cheers to no villain arc."
 

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