300 gems = bonus chapter
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S.H.I.E.L.D.
"How is he?"
"His vital signs are normal. Remarkably so, for someone who has been frozen for nearly seventy years," the examining doctor shrugged. "He is, in fact, exceptionally healthy. His muscles look a damn sight better than your gut."
"But whether he wakes up, or when… that is another matter." The doctor leaned on his cane and began to limp out.
Fury pressed, "What exactly do you mean, House?"
"The human brain is the most complex organ we know. For us, nearly seventy years have passed. For him, it might as well have been yesterday." House paused, the eccentric physician adding, "When he awakens depends entirely on when he is willing to conclude that rather extended dream."
Confronted with the prognosis from their best diagnostician, Fury stared directly into House's eyes and stated, word by word, "I need him to wake up."
"You should not be in a hospital, Director," House retorted, making no secret of his disdain. "Go to a church. Pray. Perhaps this great American hero will decide to rejoin the living. Is it not often said that God favors America?"
"Alternatively," House continued, "you might consider arranging some familiar scenes, perhaps some music that could evoke his memories. That might increase the probability of him waking."
With a characteristic lack of deference towards the renowned Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., House limped out of the private clinic, a facility equipped with all manner of advanced medical technology.
Fury turned to observe the man sleeping peacefully. In many ways, he was a perfect specimen. His perfect American looks, the blond hair and handsome face. His perfect physique, capable of chasing down cars. His perfect, steadfast personality. A perfect public persona. The perfect result of an experiment…
He was a symbol of America, a man who had once led the nation from a dark precipice and destroyed the malevolent Hydra. He was the first true super soldier, a man deeply intertwined with the very founders of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Coulson entered, his gaze fixed on his idol, a collector's card bearing the hero's image clutched in his hand.
"Can he still wake up?"
"Fifty-fifty," Fury said, patting Coulson's shoulder. "God bless America."
His initial hope visibly deflated, Coulson carefully slipped the card into his pocket. He glanced towards the corner of the room, where a round shield, emblazoned with red and blue and a white star, was carefully placed.
*****
"Something on your mind?" John stirred his coffee and looked at Robert, who sat opposite him.
"Uh, I… a little bit." Robert had been staring at the same page for more than ten minutes. When he heard John's question, he was subconsciously evasive, not quite meeting John's eyes.
John was not surprised. He tapped his spoon against the rim of his cup, set it aside, then picked up his coffee and said casually, "If you prefer not to share, I will respect that, Robert."
Robert looked up at him. John gestured towards the proprietor. "Jack mentioned it yesterday."
"In exchange," John extended his fist with a smile, "John."
After they bumped fists, Robert returned the greeting, "Hello, John." With this simple gesture, the two finally knew each other's names.
Returning to the earlier unspoken question, Robert sighed. "She rebelled against her boss because of me." He recalled the young woman. "Her name was Elena, and her dream was to become a singer."
"There is often a stark difference between reality and dreams," John observed, setting down his cup and interlacing his fingers.
Robert also set down his book. The corner of the page he had been absently touching was now creased and worn. He closed the cover with a sigh. "I told her she had infinite possibilities, that she could change her circumstances." Robert opened his right hand, gazing at the lines on his palm, his eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and internal conflict. "I offered her hope. She acted on it, and for that, she fell into hell."
John listened quietly as his friend spoke, learning more about the young woman. A prostitute, controlled and unable to be herself, forced to use the name Terry, her own dreams pushed far out of reach. Then one day, a kind man named Robert told her she possessed unlimited possibilities. The barren land of her life encountered the rain and dew of what she perceived as hope, and the seedling of aspiration in her heart struggled to break through the soil, only for merciless hands to crush that nascent hope.
"Before a seed fully blooms, we cannot be certain whether it will yield weeds or flowers," John said calmly. "My friend, your heart is clearly in turmoil."
Robert closed his eyes, images of the past replaying in his mind. His wife's departure had changed his perspective on killing and on vengeance. His right hand clenched, as if still holding the record Elena had given him. Yet, his left hand rested heavily on "The Old Man and the Sea," a book from his wife's collection, a reminder of a different path. Responsibility wrestled with the past. A truly tangled heart.
"Trying to grasp both will only result in losing everything," John observed, looking at the conflicted man. "Follow your heart's truest conviction, Robert."
"I will support you, even though we only learned each other's names today," he chuckled. "But friendships can be like that, formed so readily, yet proving so steadfast."
His heart touched, Robert opened his eyes. He looked at his left hand, a symbol of his cherished past, then at his tightly clenched right hand, representing a call to action. "Some things simply must be done," Robert said, his resolve solidifying. "You have helped me greatly, John."
"I can assist you further, if needed." John touched his chin thoughtfully. "As long as you are here, you only need to ask."
"I will, my friend." Robert smiled.
Their rapport had the quiet depth of what an Eastern saying describes as "the friendship of gentlemen, as clear and pure as water." Just as Robert had not questioned John when facing Dax, John also did not press Robert about his intentions. They simply understood that help would be there if needed.
Robert departed, his demeanor resolute, clearly set upon a course of action.
"Jack, a sandwich to go, please."
"Here is your sandwich."
John walked out holding the box, a car already parked outside. Ferdinand jogged over and opened the back seat door.
After John settled in, Dax, from the passenger seat, handed him a file.
"He arrived by boat, enrolled at Midtown High School, picked up a few part-time jobs, and is going by the name Sean."
"He is truly experiencing life, yet he has not neglected his schooling. That is rather touching." John accepted the file and then handed over the sandwich he was holding.
Dax was momentarily taken aback. "What is this?"
"I did not figure you would want to go hungry."
With that, Dax hesitantly took the box and opened it. Inside was a tuna sandwich. He looked at the food, a mixture of emotions stirring within him.
Ferdinand opened his door and leaned in. The moment he saw the sandwich, he exclaimed, "Where did you get that sandwich?"
Regrettably, no one paid Ferdinand any mind. He could only watch Dax eat the sandwich, his own stomach rumbling with envy.
John opened the file and began to read. As expected of the FBI, they had located Shang-Chi with remarkable speed. It seemed Shang-Chi had never considered that his father would pursue him across the ocean, photo in hand. The young man in the picture bore essentially the same hairstyle.
"Why does this address look familiar?" He studied the location carefully, and then a realization struck him. "Is this not near May's place?" What a coincidence; Shang-Chi was May's neighbor. This young man clearly did not yet appreciate the high cost of living, as he had rented an apartment that was by no means inexpensive. With the meager earnings from his work-study program, he would likely be evicted after two months at most.
"Ferdinand."
"I am here, Boss."
John glanced at the name of the apartment building and handed the file to Ferdinand. "Purchase the apartment directly above his tomorrow."
"What?" Ferdinand thought he must have misheard, his expression utterly bewildered. With such a casual tone, one might think he had just been asked to pick up a sandwich from Subway.
"I can use my FBI authority to monitor him," Dax offered.
"We have a more comprehensive, long-term solution," John disagreed, stating calmly. "You are not his nanny, Dax. That would be a waste of your particular talents." There is no more effective method of supervision than becoming the subject's landlord. After all, they not only have to pay you rent but also tend to report their comings and goings, however unintentionally.
John's approach was reassuring to Dax. Indeed, being assigned as a nanny to a teenager would likely have felt demeaning. What Dax truly sought was John's recognition and a sense of purpose.
The car started, pulling away with a smooth roar.
Meanwhile, Robert stood in a lavishly furnished room, an envelope containing nine thousand eight hundred US dollars in his hand. He faced a group of fierce-looking Russians, his finger pressing the timer on his watch.
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