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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜɪʀᴛʏ ᴏɴᴇ: ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪ ᴀᴡᴏᴋᴇ, ᴀ ʙʟɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ʟɪɢʜᴛ

❝ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ sʜᴏᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ, ʙʀᴇɴ? ❞

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         THE DULL THROBBING IN YOUR HEAD WAS WHAT WOKE YOU UP. You had to fight to part your eyelids and when you finally managed to open them, the harsh white light cascading down from above forced you to close them again.

A low moan just about succeeded in crawling up and out of your dry, scratchy throat; when you tried to lift your hand to rub the area, you realised that you were in restraints.

Opening your eyes, your forehead creased as you took in the sight of your arms bound and secured in place by metal straps on the armrests of the chair you were occupying. The chair was made from metal too, and the architecture of it told you that it had been created to subdue something a lot stronger than you.

A glance around the room offered the view of a camera perched in the right corner, a table to your left with a random arrangement of objects on top of it, and a large – most probably two-way – mirror ahead of you. You willed your brain to ignore the rhythmic thumping in your cranium and attempt to recall how and why you ended up where you were now.

Your memory was understandably hazy, and all you were able to remember was the sound of glass shattering, a gas cylinder, and your name spilling from your bodyguard's lips in a desperate cry. Still, even without the aid of your memory, you were able to decipher where you were, and who had brought you there.

Directing your gaze at the mirror, you hardened your face as much as you could.

"Come on, you bastards," you howled, "This is what you wanted, isn't it? You have me! So why are you hiding?"

There was nothing but silence for five minutes, after which the door opened up, and a man in a suit swaggered in. The manner in which he carried himself made it clear that he was someone of importance, and the cocky smirk on his face showed that he knew it too.

He looked to be round about late fifties, with dark hair that was decorated with grey streaks, and creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. His voice was deep and gruff when he spoke, with a hint of a British accent hidden in it, and you shuddered involuntarily.

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N), what a pleasure. Please, allow me to introduce myself. I'm-"

"Doctor Jacob Ross," you groaned, shaking your head and chuckling a little at the absurdity of the moment, "Fucking hell; you're supposed to be one of the good guys."

A dash of laughter filled the air as he took a few steps closer to you. "There are no such thing as good guys, (Y/N). I thought you would have figured that out by now."

"What do you want from me?" you snapped, ignoring his previous comment and the pain it sent surging through your chest.

"I think you already know the answer to that question."

"Look, whatever you think I am, I'm not," you huffed, feeling heat rise to the top of your skin, "I'm just a normal girl whose dad happened to be a spy. But that's it. That's all. There's nothing special about me."

"You were never normal, (Y/N). You couldn't be. And I think you understand that, too," the older man began pacing circles around your chair; it put you extremely on edge, comparable to how prey felt when they were cornered with no where to run, and the only thing left to do was to wait for the predator to strike. That analogy, you realised, was not at all far off.

"Everything about you is extraordinary, and you are painfully unaware of the magnificent potential for greatness which you possess. But," he came to a halt in front of you, placing his hands on either side of the chair and leaning down to you. You resisted the urge to spit in his face, "if you let me help you, together we can turn that potential into something tangible. Something real. Hydra wants to help you, (Y/N) – to find yourself. The you that you were destined to become. Everything you've learnt over the last little while – the titles, the abilities, the power – we can help you turn that into reality. All we need from you is your cooperation. Two little words. Say it, and we will give you the world."

Your reply didn't come immediately. You sat silent and unmoving for a few moments, gazing into the eyes of the traitorous doctor. There was a mischievous gleam swirling in his pale eyes as he eagerly awaited your answer; he was certain you would say yes – you could tell by his slacked body language. He had tried to play to your emotions, subtly tossing jabs at S.H.I.E.L.D in hopes that your anger towards the institution would sway you to join the opposition's side. Smart guy.

Slowly, you parted your cracked lips and carefully started to form those two wonderful words.

"Get fucked."

~

The cold metal bars pressed into Brendon's forehead as he leaned forward, both hands gripping the bars on either side of him. He estimated that approximately three hours had passed since he'd been tossed into the unpleasant cell, meaning that he hadn't seen you in one hundred and eighty minutes. He didn't want to think about the possibilities that fact alluded to.

His concern and dreadfulness was worsened by the presence of Spencer Smith standing crossed-armed against the wall across from him. It pained Brendon to see his best friend standing so close to him, yet have him be worlds away at the same time.

Except, Brendon knew that it wasn't his friend in front of him, not technically. The man looked like Spencer, and he spoke like him, too, but this specimen was something different entirely. An artificial humanoid crafted by Hydra and injected into one of S.H.I.E.L.D's finest.

Hence, very little words were exchanged between the two men. That is, until Brendon figured what the hell, and decided to try and get through to the supressed mind of Spencer.

"Spence, buddy, I know you're in there somewhere," he started, raising his head from his slouched body to look at the agent, "C'mon man."

Spencer gave a snort. "You're gonna have to try a lot harder than that, Urie."

"I know you can fight it, so please just try. We can't let them win."

"Why should I fight it? So I can help you get out of that cell and rescue your precious little girlfriend?" he scoffed, light hitting his black eyes, "No, I don't think so. Hell, they're probably halfway into cutting her up right now."

Brendon's entire body tensed up at his words, and the muscles in his jaw flexed as he tried to restrain himself from lashing out; seeing the weapon attached to Spencer's hip – and remembering that he was totally unarmed – he recognised that doing so wouldn't end well for him.

"Face it, Brendon," Spencer sighed, pushing himself off of the wall and walking forward until he was within Brendon's reach, "You lost. We won."

"We?" Brendon spoke softly, holding intense eye contact, "The only 'we' that you're a part of is S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Not anymore. This is where I belong now."

Brendon dared a laugh at that statement. "Tell me you don't actually believe that they care about what happens to you. Spence, you're just a temporary resource to them. You're expendable. The moment they get what they want, they'll kick you to the gutter. Probably kill you."

A splinter of trepidation flashed across Spencer's dark eyes, clear enough for Brendon to notice. He hit a nerve – he was getting through to him. He just had to keep on pressing.

Brendon pushed his head as far forward as the bars would allow him to and furrowed his brows. "Spencer, you know that none of what they're doing is right. You know. They're planning on taking over the world, and killing millions in the process. The very same world that we swore to protect. Now I don't care how severe the brain-washing they used on you is; I know that no amount of it would ever be enough to take the good outta you."

It might've just been wishful thinking, but Brendon was certain he saw Spencer's eyes soften and his jaw slacken as he slowly started to give in.

But of course, nothing in life is that easy, and the moment his new colleagues' voices sounded through the comm in his ear, Spencer snapped back into Hydra-mode instantaneously.

The agent listened intently for a moment, before retracting his weapon with a snarl, tossing Brendon a filthy look and rushing off out of the holding area to help aid in the newfound problem.

The voice had been barely audible to Brendon's ears, but he was fortunate enough to be able to make out certain phrases – specifically, the most important ones – and he knew that if he wanted you to make it out of here in one piece, he would have to get out of that cell fast. 

~

"Let this be a lesson, gentlemen," you sassed, kicking one of the grounded Hydra agents in the head, "never underestimate a woman."

They had misjudged you greatly, writing you off as barely a threat because you weren't physically up to their male agents' standard. Sadly for them, that chauvinistic way of thinking proved to be their downfall.

You tore through the males with ease, using your smaller frame as an advantage as you swiftly manoeuvred around them, landing copious amounts of punches and kicks in the process. It was a stupid move on their part, really, having only three agents escort you between locations; they were practically handing your escape to you on a silver platter.

You hastily looted one of the males for a weapon and a key-card; hurrying off down the desolate corridor once you found just that. You made it two corridors down before you ran into trouble; right as you rounded the corner, you felt a harsh sting against your cheek as you were struck across the face. The clash of momentum propelled you backwards, causing your head to meet the concrete wall with a sickening thump; your hand flew to cradle your head as you sunk to the floor with a groan.

There wasn't time to properly register the severity of your injury, since the huge frame of Spencer Smith was marching toward you, and judging from the look on his face, he wasn't about to help you up and call you a medic.

You scrambled away from him as your hands frantically searched for the gun, only for your eyes to land on it a good ten feet away, where it landed after you hit the wall.

Trying your hardest to get up onto your shaky legs, you started for the weapon, only to have it kicked even further away by the hulking agent standing above you.

A choked cry came from you as he shamelessly gripped your hair and flipped you around so that your back was against the tiled floor. Spencer used his weight as leverage to pin you down while he reached into the breast pocket of his protective vest. When his hand re-emerged, it was grappling a needle filled with black liquid; you fought with all the strength you could to squirm away, but the blinding discomfort spreading through your head inhibited your movements.

Then, just as Spencer was about to pierce the side of your neck, the cavalry arrived.

"Spencer," Brendon's cold voice commanded, "back off."

Spencer slowly turned his head to look at your bodyguard, who had a gun aimed at his head.

"I'm not gonna ask you again," Brendon spoke, taking a tentative step forward.

A small smile formed on Spencer's face. "You gonna shoot me, Bren? Really? Me?"

For the first time since you've known him, you saw Brendon's impermeable demeanour falter as the gravity of the situation sunk in. Was he really going to shoot Spencer? His best friend? His brother?

Then his gaze flickered to you, eyes droopy with discomfort, and he knew the answer.

"Spencer," he warned again, "Back. Off."

Evidently, Spencer believed that your bodyguard was bluffing, and so proceeded to bring the needle down to your neck.

It never got to make contact with your skin, however, since a single gunshot echoed throughout the corridor, and Spencer's limp body fell on top of you.

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Thank you for reading x

Note: Don't forget to comment which chapters you want to see from Brendon's POV in the chapter titled
'A/N - Vote Here: Brendon's POV'