Location: S.H.I.E.L.D. Hub - Strategic Operations Center
Date: September 12, 2013
Time: 0847 Hours
The fluorescent lights of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Hub hummed with their usual sterile efficiency as Antonio Velaz stood before the reinforced glass window, watching the controlled chaos of the operations floor below. Agents moved with practiced precision, their voices a distant murmur through the soundproofing. Screens flickered with data streams, mission reports, and satellite imagery from six continents.
Twelve years he'd walked these halls. Twelve years of perfect service, flawless missions, and a reputation that opened doors most Level 8 agents only dreamed of accessing.
Twelve years of lying.
"Agent Velaz."
Antonio turned at the voice, his expression shifting seamlessly into professional attention. Deputy Director Maria Hill approached, her stride confident, her face unreadable. Behind her trailed Agent Jasper Sitwell, tablet in hand, stylish glasses catching the overhead lights.
"Deputy Director." Antonio nodded respectfully. "Agent Sitwell."
"Walk with me," Hill said, not breaking stride as she passed him.
Antonio fell into step beside her, his mind already calculating. Unexpected summons from Hill herself—that meant reassignment. New mission. Something significant. He'd been between assignments for exactly four days since returning from Prague, where he'd extracted a defecting scientist from a hostile government facility. Clean operation. No casualties. No complications.
He allowed himself a microsecond of acceleration—imperceptible to anyone watching—to scan Sitwell's tablet as they walked. The words "COULSON" and "TEAM REASSIGNMENT" flickered past before he returned to normal speed.
Coulson.
Something cold settled in Antonio's chest.
Phil Coulson was dead. Had been for months. Killed by Loki during the New York incident. Antonio had attended the memorial service, stood among hundreds of agents paying respects to a legend. He'd felt... something, watching Coulson's picture projected on the screen. Respect, maybe. The man had been everything Hydra had taught Antonio S.H.I.E.L.D. leadership wasn't supposed to be—principled, compassionate, incorruptible.
One of the good ones, Antonio had thought at the time. Shame.
"I assume you've heard the rumors," Hill said, leading them into a private briefing room. The door sealed behind them with a pneumatic hiss.
"I make it a point not to listen to rumors, ma'am," Antonio replied smoothly.
Hill's lips quirked. Almost a smile. "Smart policy. I'm about to tell you something that's classified at Level 9. What I'm about to share doesn't leave this room unless Director Fury or myself authorize it."
Antonio's posture didn't change, but his mind sharpened. Level 9 classification. That was rare air. Whatever this was, it was significant.
"You have my word, Deputy Director."
"Agent Coulson is alive," Hill said flatly.
Antonio processed that. Ran through possibilities in the span of a heartbeat. Life Model Decoy? Clone? Hydra resurrection program that S.H.I.E.L.D. had somehow acquired? His face showed only controlled surprise—the appropriate response for an agent receiving impossible information.
"I... how?"
"That's classified even from you," Sitwell interjected, adjusting his glasses. "What matters is that Director Fury has authorized Coulson to assemble a small team. Mobile. Self-contained. Operating largely independent of Hub command structure."
"Off the books?" Antonio asked.
"Off most books," Hill confirmed. "Coulson will have a lot of autonomy. He's handpicking his team. You've been requested."
That stopped Antonio cold. Not assigned. Requested. By Coulson himself.
"I don't understand. Agent Coulson and I never worked together directly. Why would he—"
"Your file speaks for itself," Hill said, pulling up a holographic display from the table. Antonio's service record materialized in blue light, scrolling past missions, commendations, and performance reviews. "Three hundred forty-seven completed missions. Ninety-eight-point-seven percent success rate. Expert marksman. Combat specialist. Multilingual. Tech proficient. Tactical analysis scores in the ninety-ninth percentile."
She looked at him directly. "You're one of the best field agents we have, Velaz. Coulson knows quality when he sees it. He saw your name, saw your record, and specifically asked for you on his team."
Dangerous, Antonio thought. Being noticed was dangerous. Being requested was worse. The best ghosts were the ones nobody looked at too closely.
But refusing would be more suspicious than accepting.
"It would be an honor to serve under Agent Coulson," Antonio said. "When do I report?"
"Fourteen hundred hours. Hangar Seven. Coulson will brief the team there." Hill deactivated the display. "Pack light. You'll be mobile, operating out of a modified 616 transport aircraft. Coulson's calling it 'The Bus.' Your assignments will range from investigating 0-8-4s to handling emerging threats that require a... delicate touch."
0-8-4s. Objects of unknown origin. The weird stuff. The unexplained. Antonio had handled exactly three 0-8-4 missions in his career, and each one had been stranger than the last. Alien technology. Supernatural artifacts. Things that defied conventional understanding.
Things that might notice a man who could move faster than physics should allow.
"Understood," Antonio said. "Is there anything else?"
Hill studied him for a long moment. Antonio held her gaze, letting her see nothing but professional competence and quiet confidence. Whatever she was looking for, she apparently found it.
"Dismissed, Agent Velaz. Don't be late."
1312 Hours - Personal Quarters
Antonio's quarters at the Hub were spartan by design. A bed, precisely made. A desk with a tablet and encrypted laptop. A small bookshelf containing volumes in eight different languages—Shakespeare next to Dostoevsky, Sun Tzu beside Clausewitz. A single photograph in a frame on the nightstand: a man and woman, supposedly his parents, dead in a car accident in 1999.
The photograph was fake. Professional forgery, created by a Hydra cell in Munich twenty-three years ago. The people in it were actors, long since eliminated to ensure they couldn't contradict the story.
Antonio stared at it as he packed.
Hermann, he thought. If you could see me now.
Hermann had been the handler the Red Skull assigned him after... after the end. After Johann Schmidt's body had dissolved into nothing aboard that plane, leaving nineteen-year-old Antonio Velaz alone with a mission, a legend's final orders, and abilities he barely understood.
"You are the blade in the darkness," Hermann had told him during their last meeting, days before Antonio's manufactured "heroic intervention" in London that would attract S.H.I.E.L.D.'s attention. "You are the protocol that activates when all others fail. You will climb their ranks. You will become trusted. And when the time comes, when Hydra rises again in glory, you will be perfectly positioned to strike."
That had been twelve years ago.
Hermann was dead now—killed during an operation in Chechnya in 2006. No other handler had contacted Antonio since. No other orders had come. The Crimson Protocol, the emergency communication channel the Red Skull had established, had remained silent for seven years.
Antonio had continued his mission anyway. Climbed the ranks. Became trusted. Waited for orders that never came.
And somewhere along the way, something had shifted.
He couldn't pinpoint exactly when. Maybe it was the mission in Mumbai where he'd saved thirty-two civilians from a terrorist attack, using microseconds of superspeed to disarm bombs nobody else could reach in time. Maybe it was the night he'd spent in a safehouse with Agent Victoria Hand, listening to her talk about why she'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D.—"Because somebody has to stand between the world and the darkness."
Maybe it was the simple accumulation of years spent pretending to be Antonio Velaz, Level 8 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, until he'd forgotten what it felt like to be the weapon the Red Skull had forged.
His tablet chimed. Message from Sitwell: Team roster attached. Review before 1400.
Antonio opened the file.
COULSON'S TEAM - INITIAL ROSTER:
Agent Melinda May - Pilot, combat specialist, decorated veteran Agent Grant Ward - Black ops specialist, combat and espionage expert Agent Leo Fitz - Engineering and technology specialist Agent Jemma Simmons - Biochemistry specialist Skye - Civilian consultant, hacker (probationary) Agent Antonio Velaz - Field operations, tactical support, multilingual liaison
Antonio studied the names. May's reputation preceded her—"The Cavalry," though rumor said she hated the nickname. Retired from field work after Bahrain, now apparently coming back. Formidable didn't begin to cover it.
Ward he knew by reputation only. Black ops. The kind of agent who disappeared into hostile territory and came back with mission accomplished and zero paper trail. Dangerous. Professional.
Fitz and Simmons were the science division's golden children. Brilliant, young, eager. They'd never seen real combat.
Skye was an unknown. A hacker? On a S.H.I.E.L.D. team? That was irregular. Coulson must have seen something in her.
And Coulson himself. Back from the dead. Leading a ghost team.
Antonio closed the file and resumed packing. One bag. Efficient. Everything he needed, nothing he didn't. The habit of a man who'd spent his life ready to disappear at a moment's notice.
His phone—his other phone, the one that wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued—sat at the bottom of his desk drawer. He'd checked it this morning, like he did every morning. No messages. No activation codes. No recall orders.
Hydra had forgotten he existed.
Or maybe they were waiting for something.
Antonio locked his quarters behind him and headed for Hangar Seven, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Each step was measured, controlled, betraying none of the speed that could carry him down this hallway in 0.4 seconds if he chose.
Twelve years, he thought. Twelve years of being someone I'm not. Or maybe twelve years of becoming someone I never thought I could be.
And now I'm joining Phil Coulson's team.
The universe has a sense of irony.
1357 Hours - Hangar Seven
The Bus squatted in the hangar like a sleeping giant, its modified 616 frame gleaming under the industrial lights. Larger than Antonio had expected—this wasn't just transport, it was a mobile command center. Lab space. Living quarters. Everything a team would need to operate independently for extended periods.
Smart. Autonomous. Hard to track.
The perfect cover for a Hydra sleeper agent to operate unnoticed.
Or the perfect place for that agent to realize he didn't want to be a sleeper anymore.
Three figures stood near the boarding ramp. Antonio recognized Agent May immediately—compact, controlled, eyes that had seen too much. She was speaking with two younger agents, a man and woman in matching S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical gear who had to be Fitz and Simmons.
No sign of Ward or the hacker yet.
Antonio approached at a normal pace, his single duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
May's eyes tracked him from fifteen feet away. Assessing. Cataloguing. He'd heard she could read body language like some people read books.
He let her see exactly what he wanted her to see: professional competence, quiet confidence, no threat.
"Agent May," he said, extending his hand. "Antonio Velaz. Looking forward to working with you."
Her handshake was brief, firm. "May. You're the multilingual tactical specialist."
"Among other things." He smiled slightly. "Twelve languages, if you count the ones I only curse in."
The corner of May's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "We'll get along."
The two younger agents approached, the woman slightly ahead, practically vibrating with nervous energy.
"Agent Simmons," she said, shaking his hand enthusiastically. "Jemma Simmons. Biochem. And this is—"
"Fitz," the man finished. Scottish accent. Wary eyes behind stylish glasses. "Engineering. You're the field agent with the impossible mission record."
"Depends on your definition of impossible," Antonio said easily. "And call me Antonio. We're going to be living in close quarters. Might as well skip the formalities."
"Right," Fitz said, relaxing slightly. "Good point. I'm Fitz. Well, Agent Fitz, but—"
"We're just Fitz-Simmons, really," Simmons interjected. "Everyone calls us that anyway."
Antonio noticed they finished each other's sentences, moved in unconscious synchronization. Partners. The kind of bond forged in labs and late nights and shared passion for science.
They're children, he thought. Brilliant children playing in the deep end.
They'll need protection.
The thought surprised him. When had he started thinking like that? When had he started caring whether S.H.I.E.L.D. agents lived or died?
"Antonio Velaz."
The voice came from behind him. Antonio turned—normal speed, no cheating—to find Phil Coulson walking down the boarding ramp, a younger woman beside him. The hacker, presumably.
Coulson looked... good. Alive. No signs of whatever resurrection miracle had brought him back. Just the same calm, capable agent Antonio remembered from the memorial service photograph.
"Agent Coulson," Antonio said. "It's an honor, sir."
"Just Coulson is fine. Or AC if you're feeling informal." Coulson's smile was genuine, reaching his eyes. "Thank you for agreeing to join the team. Your file is impressive. We're lucky to have you."
"Thank you for the opportunity."
Coulson gestured to the young woman beside him. Dark hair, sharp eyes, leather jacket over a faded t-shirt. Definitely not standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue.
"This is Skye. She'll be our consultant on hacker-related issues and digital intelligence."
"Hi," Skye said, offering a small wave instead of a handshake. "I'm the token civilian. Still figuring out what all the acronyms mean."
Antonio smiled. "Give it a week. You'll be fluent in S.H.I.E.L.D.-speak by then."
"God, I hope not," Skye muttered. "Some of them are terrible. Like, who came up with 'Index Asset Evaluation and Intake'? That's just showing off."
Despite himself, Antonio laughed. There was something refreshing about her irreverence. Something real in a world of careful professional masks.
"One more team member en route," Coulson said, checking his watch. "Agent Ward. He's finishing up his last mission and will meet us at our first destination."
"Where are we headed?" May asked.
Coulson's expression shifted. Serious now. This was the mission.
"Peru. Satellite imagery picked up unusual energy signatures in the Andes. Local police found evidence of 0-8-4 activity. We're wheels up in thirty minutes."
An 0-8-4, Antonio thought. Of course it is.
First mission, first chance for something to go wrong.
"Everyone get settled," Coulson continued. "Simmons, Fitz—finish your equipment check. May, preflight. Skye, with me. Velaz—"
"I'll stow my gear and review the mission brief," Antonio said.
Coulson nodded approvingly. "Efficient. I like that. Welcome aboard the Bus, Agent Velaz."
As the team dispersed to their tasks, Antonio climbed the boarding ramp into the aircraft. The interior was impressive—definitely modifications beyond standard 616 specifications. He found the crew quarters, selected a bunk that gave him clear sightlines to both exits, and stowed his duffel.
Then he sat on the edge of the bunk and allowed himself exactly five seconds of stillness.
This is it, he thought. The mission continues. Stay close. Stay hidden. Wait for orders.
Or...
He pushed the thought away. Opened his tablet. Pulled up the Peru mission file. Energy signatures. Possible alien technology. Local police involvement meant potential civilian casualties if things went wrong.
Outside, he heard Fitz and Simmons arguing good-naturedly about calibration settings. Heard May's voice over the intercom running through preflight checks. Heard Skye ask Coulson a question about protocol.
Normal sounds. Team sounds.
Antonio's hands were steady as he read through the briefing. Years of practice kept his heart rate controlled, his breathing even, his expression neutral.
But something in his chest felt tight.
Twelve years, he thought again. And I still don't know what I am.
Weapon? Agent? Ghost?
Or maybe, just maybe...
Human?
The engines rumbled to life beneath him. The Bus began to move.
Antonio Velaz—Level 8 S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Hydra sleeper operative, speedster hiding in plain sight—headed toward his first mission with Phil Coulson's team.
And for the first time in twelve years, he had absolutely no idea what happened next.
END CHAPTER 1
NEXT: Chapter 2 - "0-8-4"
In which Antonio faces his first mission with the team, a mysterious object is discovered, and control is harder to maintain than he thought.