Chapter Text
She went by Skye, no last name, just like Madonna. She’d tried the last name thing out once, twice, okay a few times but nothing ever seemed to stick. Because a last name meant an identity and an identity meant a whole lot of problems in her line of business.
She was a hacker, a hacktivist for the Rising Tide.
Democratization of knowledge was a short synopsis of their overall mission statement. The long-winded version: one thousand, one hundred and thirty two innocent lives were lost because of secrets. Classified experiments with the express purpose of messing around with alien technology—SHIELD was at fault—still at fault because the experiments were still going on. People had a right to know that.
Skye was still weeks away from cracking the SHIELD firewall. Without a proper Beowulf cluster, things were slow going. Hacking into one of the most secure networks in the entire world with just a shitty laptop she’d won off a dude at an internet cafe—that apparently believed all the female patrons were Autobot descendants named Optimus Fine—well, it was complicated.
Hence her current beyond fucked predicament.
She was walking through a warehouse, only her scuffed Chucks actually looked clean against the floors, so more like condemned warehouse, surrounded by B-List henchmen in really tacky suits. They were definitely east of the Hudson River. She’d lost track of her precise location somewhere north of West 16th. Skye could’ve maybe narrowed it down a bit more if she hadn’t made the forty-five minute drive there with a bag over her head.
She was going to kill Miles for this.
He was definitely an asshole but he was also a brilliant hacker that shared her hopes and dreams for transparency and open data sets for the free world. Cosmo always said meaningful relationships were built on shared interests. They didn’t quite specify if a worldwide hacktivist collective counted but Skye liked to think that it did.
Still, when he’d called this morning before ten—which was no bueno with her complete devotion to sleeping until noon—Skye almost hung up on him because she didn’t sell her hacks. She wasn’t an I.T. department for the rich and the felonious. No amount of money in the world was worth all that Wayfair jujumagumbo.
But, it was Miles, and when he said he needed her to be his cutout for this meeting, well she couldn’t say no… even if she might’ve wanted to. After all, he’d set it up for her.
The job was decrypting files that were (allegedly) from the SHIELD server and Skye was interested in anything that put SHIELD over a barrel. It was a long shot, sure, but these people were organized enough to feel the need to employ henchmen for the extra special jobs of transporting people to nondescript warehouses with bags over their heads.
Okay, so she was a little bitter.
But there she was walking toward a fold up table and chair positioned in the exact centre of the room anyway. Clearly, they set it up for the perfect glamour shot and the most notable bad guy cliches were now pretty much accounted for.
Still, there was one thing she couldn’t help but wonder.
“Did you bring this with you?” Skye glanced over at henchman number one. “I’m just saying that your super duper secret warehouse doesn’t seem to have much in way of storage space."
No answer. Typical. He seemed more interested in the door than anything she had to say.
Okay.
Skye turned to henchman number two. “Are we waiting for someone because your friend here seems to be a little—”
The door slammed open and the sound of stilettos pounding into the floor had her not very talkative pals snapping to attention. The boss was there—about fucking time—like really, if Skye had to make an effort to show up on-time, just to be hooded and thrown into the back of the company jalopy, then… holy shit.
Skye was looking at a real life Amazonian Goddess.
Those heels were attached to lots and lots of leather that ran up to the mid-thigh of the longest legs she’d ever seen and the matching long black peacoat made the woman’s entire look completely final boss worthy. Skye hadn’t even made it to her eyes before the stabbing stilettos came to a stop in front of them.
“Any problems?” the woman asked Henchman Two.
He puffed out his chest and Skye was waiting for him to beat against it with his fists. “No ma’am,” he said instead.
Boring.
“Good, do a perimeter sweep.”
He did this weird salute thing with his arms and declared, “Hail Hydra.”
Henchman One did the same thing and then they were off to check the perimeter of their super duper secret warehouse.
Boss Lady seemed unsurprised.
Skye was more of a Hail to the Thief kind of girl but whatever floats their boat, she supposed.
She barely got a cursory glance before the woman was placing a laptop down on the—seriously where did it come from—table but Skye had been paying attention this time. She’d been able to briefly catch her eyes. They were definitely blue.
“You have twenty minutes,” that voice scattered and boomed around the warehouse with maximum authority while Skye was just trying to get her head back in the game. “We were assured you were up to the task.”
Well that did it. Wasn’t that skeptical as fuck? To her credit, the other woman had tried to hide it but Skye had heard it all her life. She could’ve picked disbelief out of a crowd.
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t.”
There was no disputing that because challenge accepted, you gorgeous—even though you probably work for a moderately psychopathic middle-aged white guy that wants to vaporize most of Australia because he doesn’t like their attitude—foxy lady.
Dear God.
What?
She was so not back in the game.
And said ‘foxy lady’ now had her attention entirely on Skye, just peachy—one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi—and then she was being handed a portable hard drive.
“For your sake, I really hope so,” and those blue eyes seemed almost sorry until it was all washed away in the blink of an eye.
Weird but more importantly—it was so on.
Skye slipped into the offered seat in front of a pretty sweet Alienware setup. While not necessary (see the origin story of her beloved piece of shit above) it was much appreciated. Her fingers gently glided across the keys in an almost reverent touch and she was back, instantly being swept away into the wonderful world of binary code.
She could still feel the gorgeous brunette’s stare from somewhere to her left and yeah Skye might’ve looked young—and left her dominatrix boots at home—but she knew her way around a computer. She’d taught herself to code on a pretty shit IBM PS/2 she’d found buried in the basement of one of her very first foster homes. Honestly, with a surname like Foster, Skye should’ve known Maurissa and Jed would send her back to the nuns. They always let her use that computer though for the few months she was allowed to stay.
Shaking her head, Skye focused back in on the terminal, typed her last execution and whoomp, there it is—a tag team original. Cracked like a mother-fucking glow-stick.
A smug, self-satisfied euphoria flowed through her veins. Eight minutes flat. Unfortunately, not her best work but still more than enough time to see what was worth all the hoopla. Skye honestly couldn’t wait to see if the head bag and a super duper secret warehouse were just a whole lot of extraneous mood lighting or actually very very necessary.
And maybe it was just an inane feeling but Skye was almost positive there was an intelligence behind those cerulean eyes that at present were tracking her every move. She didn’t think the woman knew exactly how to go about decrypting much of anything on her own but she’d sure be able to tell if Skye were say… stealing those files as a souvenir to remember them by.
Because she seriously doubted Henchman Two would part with his precious head bag instead and fold up furniture wasn’t exactly the most aestetically pleasing or at all comfortable. Besides, classified government documents were undeniably more her style.
It was decided.
Skye had maybe ten minutes. Whatever she did, she had to do it now. Slowly, she let her left arm fall from the keyboard and to her side. Her fingers flexed once, twice and—then the warehouse door slammed open.
In strolled a Wish-listed Gerard Butler and with the double windsor and trendy pocket square he was looking like proper upper management. He stopped a few steps into the warehouse, Henchman One flanking his right side. Skye brought her hand back up to the table. Her gorgeous brunette baby-sitter looked his way and then her eyes cut back to her.
“Ten minutes,” she said and when Skye met her gaze with one of her own the other woman added, “failure would not be a wise decision here.”
There she was underestimating her again.
Like seriously, the woman was lucky she was pretty.
The last person that underestimated Skye woke up the next day to find himself legally dead. Agent Gill was a total creep and definitely not Mr. July material. Even just his name was a complete bore-town frowny face.
And okay sure, maybe Skye frequently found herself being persuaded by big dick energy—and all the naughty bits that could be found in between—but it wasn’t like she ‘killed’ him because he was total eye broccoli. He’d arrested one of her friends—on a completely trumped up charge by the way—at his daughter’s birthday party.
She even had a tombstone picked out: Here lies the giant douchebe that crashes little girls birthday parties without probable cause.
Yeah, that was definitely non-refundable.
Asshole.
Smirking, Skye brought up the contents of the drive when that stilettoed beat sounded off towards Wish-listed Gerard Butler. Files were loading up on the screen and there was an anticipatory drum roll happening somewhere in the world for this very moment. Except when the stilettoed mood music morphed into a listless echo of footsteps coming back toward her, Skye (reluctantly) had to give her attention to that instead.
Stupid Henchman One was heading her way.
She had maybe sixty seconds.
Her eyes fell back down to the screen and… employee files. Literal name, rank and serial number SHIELD boiler plate with extra serious headshots that just continued to be as monotonous as the last. Seriously, Skye was a few generically boring faces away from date night at the malt shop in Tad Hamilton’s letter jacket.
Gross times an infinite number of barfing emojis.
This was definitely not what she’d had in mind.
When the last of the files came up on the screen, Skye’s eyes widened and she was just barely minimizing everything before Henchman One strode up next to her. He glanced her way—she gave him probably the most insincere smile ever given to another person—and then his attention was elsewhere.
Honestly, Skye would be kind of concerned if she were as fascinated by doors as this guy seemed to be. Though maybe he saw a kindred spirit in weathered mid-century architecture? First impressions certainly had him as dull and drab as the doorway he found life in. Proper trade-craft was clearly lost on her at this point because mockery and sarcastic quips—to avoid thinking about her totally fucked status—were clearly more her jam.
Just to be clear, Miles and her—totally even.
Skye closed her eyes and released a slow breath. She heard Henchman One’s entranceway bae slam shut and then the sound of stilettos was fast approaching once again. Her eyes fluttered open just as the brunette reached her side.
“Times up,” the woman glanced at the computer and then blue eyes were gazing into Skye’s muted brown. “Success earns you a couple more zeros in your bank account. Failure, well…”
The sound of Henchman One racking the slide of his gun finished off that statement with a (very on brand) flare for the dramatic. Like what was wrong with these people? She was almost positive her current situation could be summed up as a hodgepodge of bad guy villainy from marathon watching every James Bond film ever made.
Skye was also pretty sure these people could just go fuck themselves—because well… that was kind of obvious—but she opened the files instead.
So what?
Her overall life expectancy was kind of a big deal and she doubted High Wall over there was going to take a bullet for her when Henchman One inevitably shot her.
“Honestly, it was almost kind of a bummer cracking your ‘uncrackable’ hard drive,” Skye quipped and also made sure to slap some air quotes up in there just because she could, “until I realized maybe it wasn’t.”
Also when in Rome.
Skye assumed, at the very least, Henchman One would appreciate the theatricality.
She clicked another button and one file popped up to the top of the baker’s dozen of blah and boring. She couldn’t help but be impressed that only a subtle clench of her fist gave away the other woman’s surprise at seeing a likeness on the screen.
Barbara Morse, undercover Agent of SHIELD must’ve been a killer poker player.
Skye didn’t know what Operation Clearwater was but she assumed she and her (origins still unknown) fold up chair were sitting right in the middle of it.
Because the woman couldn’t really just shove the whole ‘I'm secret agent smooth and I'm secret agent sly’ cat back in the bag. Options were somewhat limited at this point. Either Barbara Morse, undercover Agent of SHIELD would shoot her, have Henchman One shoot her instead or Skye would be blowing this (completely condemned) popsicle stand bullet-free.
It went without saying that she’d prefer one of those drastically over the others.
She was about to start counting the country’s wordiest state (again) when her plans were unceremoniously dashed.
“Secure the drive and then pay her,” that directive left little room for argument. “We leave in ten minutes,” and then the woman was walking away.
Henchman One was moved to action by the direct order and Skye was kind of pissed that Barbara Morse, undercover Agent of SHIELD was leaving her to do all the work. Plausible deniability sure but was Skye really the best choice for mission success? Like hello, one of them liked all their beverages shaken, the other drank orange Fanta out of the bottle in a cartoon cat Huggle Hoodie.
Clearly, she’d be picked last in all the super secret agent gym classes.
But Skye put it out of her mind, as Henchman One appeared at her side. She offered up the same insincere smile and he (again) paid her no attention as he stepped forward to grab the drive.
Wrong move, buddy.
Skye moved her legs to hook around his dominate foot and fell back on the chair until he lost his balance and fell back. He was gripping the table to keep upright and Skye slammed her feet into the fold up chair sending it flying directly at his kneecap. He was down and it gave her just enough time to get to her feet and knock him out by smashing the laptop over his head.
As she grabbed the drive, Barbara Morse, undercover Agent of SHIELD stood near the door staring at her in surprise. Skye gave her a salute and she was off running in the other direction, down a hallway and out the emergency exit.
She came out into the prototypical New York alley, the smell of rotting garbage was a decent punch to the face. There was a dumpster to her right, almost filled to the brim—which yeah that was totally sus’ next to a condemned super duper secret warehouse—and beyond that was another building blocking off any and all options for a getaway.
Fan—fucking—tastic.
Skye quickly took her great escape left, only when she made it to the street there was Henchman Two staring at her from the other corner of the warehouse. She did the only thing she could do and ran in the opposite direction.
At this point, Skye really wished she’d worked in some cardio between her usual routine of sleeping until noon and trips to the kitchen to feed her (voluntary) cereal addiction multiple times a day.
It sure would’ve made running for her life much easier.
She was so screwed and fuck you to whomever thought it would be fun to turn her Saturday into a re-casted spy thriller sequel.
Skye turned another corner of yet another super duper condemned warehouse, her body fell against it with a total cream-crackered slap. Her hands were on her knees, her lower back was pressed uncomfortably against the battered metal siding, and honestly she was fucking exhausted. There was no way she’d be outrunning her (least) favourite henchmen for much longer.
The bob and weave through just all the super duper condemned warehouses at race pace seriously sucked. If she wasn’t convinced they’d shoot her for kicks, Skye would’ve just handed over the drive for a twist-top Gatorade a long time ago.
Because she gained nothing from doxxing even one of SHIELD’s hard drive super spies. Honestly, if their secret missions were even half as psycho killer as her day had been then she didn’t need their deaths screwing with her karmic mood ring.
Divine will could just go paint somebody else’s door black.
She was more of an Unmellow Yellow kinda gal anyways—if only for the paradoxical lulz.
And obviously, if Skye was going to release active mission details, she’d need a better reason than being petty.
With a sigh, she pushed up off the wall and started the whole running for her life thing again. It was even worse the second time around for those keeping track at home. At least, if she were being water-boarded, she’d be offered refreshments.
Okay, probably not a fair comparison.
Skye was sure water-boarding was just as torturous.
And honestly, she couldn’t even say her day had been all bad—the little of it she’d managed to be awake for—before her hooding on Broadway that just sucked the joy out of her somewhat joyful day.
Stupid SHIELD.
Skye flung her body around another corner because it really was an awkwardly placed Christmas miracle she was even still moving at this point. Her fingers ran across the same metal siding that was equivalent to a rusty old store brand soda can, as she took in her options to hobble together some kind of master plan.
A couple yards ahead, there was actual human life—some kind of import/export business was off-loading something into their not-so-condemned warehouse one haphazardly built crate at a time—and behind her Henchman Two was running behind Henchman One, who was driving their bad guy issued Escalade creepy panel van slow.
Oh how she hated them.
Sighing, Skye forced herself forward, managed to take maybe ten steps, before a white Impala came skidding to a stop right in front of her. The passenger side door whipped open and there were Miles’ chocolaty brown eyes staring back at her.
“Get in,” he needlessly prompted because she was already half way there with an impressive belly flop for the car’s interior. The door slammed shut behind her and they were moving with a heavy foot on the gas. “Skye, what the fuck happened?”
“You tell me, Miles,” she punctuated her irritation with an indignant swing of her legs forward, so she was sitting normally. “If you hadn’t noticed, these assholes are chasing me, not you.”
Their shared eye contact lasted only a few more seconds before he was swerving around another corner and she was searching for her seatbelt. The resulting click was like gunfire whizzing above their heads, for Miles at least, because he just started spewing out words with the urgency of a death bed confession.
“I didn’t know, Skye,” he pleaded and she knew his eyes were the gooiest chocolate chip cookies to ever live, “I swear. They said they worked with Micro—”
“Micro works the crime beat, he doesn’t crack government level encryption for hire,” she threw her arms up in the air, before quickly grabbing the arm rest as they swerved around another bend. “You didn’t think that was important enough to tell me before I let them kidnap me in front of a Starbucks this morning?”
His eyes swept over to hers and then back to the road. God, the amount of times he attempted eye contact while drifting around corners was kind of infuriating.
She’d rather not die today.
Especially while riding in somebody else’s slightly used Chevy Impala.
Skye glanced in the rear view mirror, finding the road behind them blissfully bad guy-mobile free. She doubted Henchman One and Two were crammed inside the late model Subaru Impreza that was following behind them, so she gave Miles her gaze when he tried looking at her again.
“I didn’t think…” he paused, she continued staring at him while he chanced a look back on the road and then his eyes were right back, “I thought it was on the up-and-up, Skye.”
She sighed. “You were tracking my phone, right? That’s how you found me?”
“Well yeah,” was Miles’ kind of redundant confirmation of what she already knew—her phone was probably still chilling in their Escalade—which was actually a problem now that she thought about it.
She reached for the phone he had mounted on the dash, smirking when she realized Henchman One and Two were miles behind, as she minimized the app.
Sayonara, assholes.
“Listen, I need you to drop me somewhere,” and when his face immediately went all rage against the machine, Skye added, “You owe me.”
“Fine.”