[001; video]

[earpiece]

[When the video feed clicks on, anyone paying attention will be treated to the image of a man who looks wildly uncomfortable. He's dressed in local clothes—his options were change into the garb generously offered or sit in the bloody, wet suit that just happened to be his favorite and is now instead draped across the back of his chair and probably ruined forever along with most of his other stuff—and is wearing an expression that's a curious mix of frustrated and tired and dazed. Like he knows what's going on, but can't quite believe it.

He rubs his face before speaking, shoulders rising and falling with an inaudible sigh. Without fully raising his gaze to meet the camera, he says:]

My name is Phil Coulson. I just—

[He hesitates, thinking. How is he supposed to approach this? "Hi, I just died, it's nice to meet you all here in this afterlife I wasn't expecting?" Bright blue eyes flicker toward the keyboard, then dart back up, this time focusing directly on the lens.]

I arrived here a little while ago.

[And there it is, the versatile, thin-lipped little smile that those who know him already know so well. This time, it's meant to convey something akin to appreciation toward those who helped him, but it looks a bit pained. He's not sure he can help that.

Because, you know, his back is killing him. Pun completely intended.]

Just thought I would say hello.

Comments

[earpiece]

[And he will remain sounding neutral.

Like he do.]

You can either take my word for it or ask him yourself.

[daughterofelysium]

[Not going to say which she's going to do (ask Clint).

...But.

Welp.

Curiosity.]

You're a friend?

[earpiece]

[Friend. Friend. Phil tests the word in his mind, uses it in a sentence—

My friend Clint.

...mm, no. Yes, but no.]

More like close colleagues. We've known each other for a long time.

[daughterofelysium]

How long? [INTERROGATION.] How did you meet?

[earpiece]

[And cue an arched eyebrow that she can't see.]

You ask an awful lot of questions.

[daughterofelysium]

[She grits her teeth around silence and debates a disconnect.

And then does.

And then makes he way to his apartment.]

[Yeah she's been stalking public convos WHAT OF IT.

She circles his building once before doing anything else, checking his windows with modified vision focused from a distance. As best she can, at least. It gives her a headache and makes her regular vision blurry.

The back window has the best entry angle - easiest to get to, for one, and it looks like there's some furniture on the other side she can drop behind, and her entrance will be partially hidden.

She sheds her trench, wrapping a sleeve around her hand to break the glass gently near the latch so she can slide the window up to climb inside.

Triela rolls inside and drops behind a couch.]

using this icon just for you

[earpiece]

[After she disconnected, Phil remained at his computer, poking around the drive and trying to figure out how to encrypt posts with limited success. He thought nothing of Triela's abrupt exit from the conversation—maybe she took up his suggestion to talk to Barton.

And then he fell asleep at the keyboard.

Phil's never been a heavy sleeper, though, so when the muffled sound of someone breaking into his goddamn living room bumps against his eardrums, he's up and out of the chair in seconds. He grabs his gun off of the desk, makes a really pissed off face when more water drips out of it, and squints.]

Who's there?

[daughterofelysium]

[If he really is an associate of Signore Barton's, she has nothing to worry about. If he really is one of the people from Barton's own agency, she's fine.

Calculated risk. She eases upright, her hand going to the one gun she's allowed herself to keep on her person.

It's obvious enough from the shoulder holster that she's armed.] Have you checked your ammo? Who knows how long we spent in the water.

[earpiece]

[Obvious, yes. Phil's gaze flicks to her moving hand, his own tightening around the firearm-turned-hunk of metal.

She's right; it probably doesn't work anymore.

Tired as he is, though, he doesn't slip, and his expression remains that of someone who's pretty much unfazed by this turn of events.]

You're the one I was just talking to. [Not a question—he recognizes her voice well enough. And if she's an associate of Clint's... well. Phil knows the company that man keeps.]

You here to make sure I'm not lying to you? Because there are easier ways than this.

[daughterofelysium]

I'm here to ascertain that you aren't a threat to Signore Barton. [She pauses, startled by her own words. But she means them, she does. Triela runs her thumb over the gun. The one from Hilshire. She hasn't let it out of her sight.] Once I'm satisfied, then I'll leave.

[earpiece]

[That's almost cute.

He wonders if there's a Thing going on here, but no, probably not—Signore Barton? No. Phil studies the girl for a moment, trying to pull something off of her, but... nothing. She looks unremarkable, as far as he can tell at this distance. Like a child.

And that's why he knows he should be worried. She can obviously handle a gun and has no qualms with just breaking the fuck into someone's place, so there must be something else going on here. What is he not seeing?]

There's an identification card clipped to my suit over there. [He nods stiffly toward the computer chair behind him where his suit remains draped over the back, wrinkled and most likely shrunken.] My SHIELD identification. If you know Barton as well as you claim, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

[daughterofelysium]

[She falters slightly. SHIELD. She has no idea what that is. She knows that Natasha and Clint are agents. She knows they must be part of a larger organization.

Triela eases across the room, trying to gauge the distance between Coulson and herself.

Except her vision keeps skewing, and she can't keep her focus. She stops out of range, closes her eyes, and grits her teeth.] Don't move.

[Eyes open. Relying on her other senses. Those haven't been compromised to the same degree - at least she doesn't think so.

She stays as far from him as possible as she slides around him to the console - and she sees he has a channel with Clint, encrypted. She opens it, reaching into the jacket at the same time to remove the ID.

It's where he says it is.

She eases her gun out of its holster, keeping the muzzle down. It's a precautionary measure. A step to ensure that if Coulson moves, she's prepared to move faster.] Signore Barton? Please respond.

[earpiece]

[Phil notices. It's nice to know he's still got it, even on this side of the grave—nothing like planting that seed of doubt to throw someone off, even if it's only for a second. He could have had an opening there, but—

But she looks more than just momentarily thrown off, and Phil watches her with a contained curiosity that almost borders concern.

The only movement he makes is to slide his finger off of his gun's trigger, and he is silent.]

[arches]

_{( Clint is expecting a message from Coulson, so when he hears Triela's voice he has to mask his surprise. )}

Kid? Why are you... what did you do.

[daughterofelysium]

Should I stand down? [She sees Coulson take his finger off the trigger, and for the first time she sounds uncertain. She scans the badge again.] You know him?

[arches]

Yeah, he's... he's fine. He's from my organization, back home.

Wait, did you--how did you get there?

[earpiece]

Three guesses as to how she got here, Barton.

[wow could he sound any more unamused right now I mean really]

[daughterofelysium]

[She glares at Coulson, his tone making her raise the gun a fraction.] I got his address from the network and came to confirm his identity, signore.

[She's starting to sound like Henrietta.

Stand down. Triela places the badge carefully on the desk, and frowns at the tiny red smutch it leaves on her thumb.

Quickening heartbeat. Spiking adrenaline. Triela's grip on the gun tightens and she holds her breath.

Stand down.]

[arches]

How were you planning on doing that, when you don't really know who he is?

<sub>( His tone is mild; it's a simple question. But really, he's trying to decide whether to laugh or be stern, and the first impulse is dangerously close to winning.

He shoots Coulson a look that might be an apology. )</sub>

[daughterofelysium]

Subduing him and then contacting you, signore. [She gives Clint a flat look that dares amusement, and then promptly looks away. She can feel her pupils dilating as the room brightens and loses focus again.

Exhale. Stand down. Stand-

In the brightness she can see darker patches on Coulson's suit. They don't smell like much. Mostly salt water. But underneath it all she can smell, or thinks she can smell, the permeating odor of blood.

Triela's face goes blank.

Exhale as you fire.

Up comes the Sig and she empties the remainder of the clip.]

[earpiece]

[Normally, Coulson would have been on the move as soon as he heard the words subduing him, but he's half-frozen in place because what the flying fu—

This is a nightmare, right? He can't die twice.

He stares at her gun for a half-second before diving out of the way. The bullets miss, but just barely. Once he has his bearings on the floor he rolls and aims his own weapon, fully intent on returning her oh-so-not-kind gesture.

Except it won't fire.

Can't say he's surprised, but. Shit.]

Clint, tell her to stand down!

[arches]

Triela!

<sub>( Clint really isn't in the practice of yelling. Hushed whispers on comm-links, that's his normal mode of communication. But as soon as he sees what's happening his voice rings out like a shot, and he doesn't even realize it's the first time he's called her by her name.

He sees that blank look on her face and gorge rises in his throat, and then he hears Coulson's voice and the panic gives way to something harsh and efficient. He knows how far away Phil's place is, knows how Coulson can take care of himself, so he bets on that before cutting the feed, grabbing his bow, and running like hell. )</sub>

Please don't die again, Coulson. _{( But that's said under his breath. )}

[daughterofelysium]

[She drops the gun and goes into motion, covering the distance between them in a zig-zag faster than an ordinary person could manage. Triela twists into a kick and pulls a knife at the same time -

And pauses for a breath as she misses Coulson and demolishes a stone sculpture resting on a small table next to him. The table clatters over.

Confusion.

Move.]

[earpiece]

[Okay.

A normal teenage girl should not have been able to do that. He wonders if he's dealing with another modified human, someone who's been given some variant of the super soldier serum—

But he doesn't wonder for long, because he needs to focus on not getting his ass kicked. Which... if she is some kind of super soldier, yeah. That's going to be difficult.

His hand snaps out and grabs her wrist, and he moves behind her in an attempt to twist her arm.]

[daughterofelysium]

[She moves with him, using her own arm as a fulcrum to flip straight again in a swirl of weighted cloth. She darts the knife at the big veins in Coulson's arm, an encouragement to let go, before she twists in close with the blade angled to open up his heart.]