Agents Duty, Bloodlines

Chapter One

 Scalding hot water poured down from the modern shower head. The scouring feel of the drops cleared his cluttered mind. Keeping the memories of a dead man at bay.

Memories, that kept reminding him, of who he really was.

Black tendrils at the bottom of the shower also reminded him another dye job was needed. He shouldn't have neglected it for so long.

Mark David Banning was a reasonable height of six one, on the slender side. But still broad-shouldered, no matter how much weight he lost. And well built due to constant and rigorous training and exercise. His hair was an obsidian color, aided by hair dye. Cut short, and often spiked.

His eyes were also an olive shade of green. Sharp with intelligence and that occasional dark side of his being.

As he stood under the water, memories flashed through his mind. Both of his own and of various people

Voices... he could hear voices... laughter, screams and crying. All at once

The muscles in his back tensed and his breathing picked up. He leaned heavily against the wall, his short, spiky hair clumping together.

Just... just make them stop!

 

As quickly as it came, the episode passed. Leaving him panting, aching and hollow.

Turning the shower off, he let the heat settle inside of him. Before calmly opening the door and stepping out onto a drying mat. The air was cooler and made him shiver. And reach for a fluffy towel...

...only to be replaced with a bloodied bag...

He gasped and pulled his hand back. Now staring at the mundane light grey towel. Another slip, another hallucination

With a sigh, he took the towel and proceeded to dry his hair off, the drying pad already have dried his body. Which left him with dressing in low slung sweat pants and a loose white shirt.

Padding barefooted into the modern apartment given to him by the Bureau; he immediately went to the fridge. Opening the stainless steel door and barely sparing a glance at the postcard his mother sent him. As he scanned the rather abandoned looking space, he snagged a bottled water and a poor excuse for a ham sandwhich. And let the door swing shut

As Mark made his way into the living room, he noticed the green light blinking from the phone. Most likely a message from his boss.

John could be a pain in the ass sometimes.

Sighing, he sat down on the couch, reclining and popping the seal off the bottled water. Gulping a good portion of it down, before waving his Holo-T.V to come on.

The program was already tuned to the news channels, and he saw his earlier disgrace blared so blatantly on all of them. Innocent man killed, Agent Mark Banning, CIA. Suspended for psychological evaluation.

Psychological, Evaluation.

The two worst words for any sane-or sort of unstable-Psychic. It meant that he wouldn't be on call for nearly a month, not to mention court dates and family visitations. The calls to the Psychiatrists and being put on more pills.

He had been so careful, but being a combat vet was hard. Even harder when whatever you touch instantly transfers memories into your brain.

His apartment was an exception, he felt more safe reliving his days previous motions. Mundane things: eating, sleeping and wasting time with puzzles and crosswords. Watching the news and stressing over his recent case.

Adolescent and teenaged Psychics were going missing. And occasionally showed up dead.

Mark suspected a gang or mafia behind such actions. But with the memories he managed to recover said otherwise. And the man he killed, Rodney. Showed that innocent people were responsible, and that other Psychics were involved. Psychics, that could mess with his Retrocognition.

Worst case scenario?
Magic. Magic screw up his senses even more than a normal Psychic could.

Whilst eating his sandwich, and reviewing details he may have missed. Adding yet another red dot to the holo-chart in front of him. Charting out the places bodies have been found, disappearances reported.  Mark realized he was going in circles. Running himself ragged from all of this.

That's when his doorbell rang. A rather annoying, saccharine chime that echoed throughout the rather large home.

Since he had his weapons confinscated upon getting home, Mark resigned himself to standing and going over to the door. His senses telling him this was someone he knew, at least. He hoped it was.

As the oak wood door opened, he sighed.

"John." He greeted, nodding to his boss.

John Coulson was the head of the CIA's Psychic Division One. His power being a unique form of Clairvoyance, that allowed him to sense not only those around him, their intent and location. But also how they were connected.

Coulson was known to be the "bulldog" of the Bureau, although he had another name he went by. And that was "Eagle-Eye."

His boss was the one who put him under suspension and had now come to talk. Or so Mark assumed, because the taller man pushed past him, and into the apartment.

"Can I help you?" Mark asked dryly, closing the door behind him. And leaned against the surface.

"I'm not exactly up to talking."

John glanced around and then turned back to him. "Relaxed?" he asked, his flinty, dark cocoa eyes met his. Mark was a little stunned to see that they were filled with concern and what seemed to sorrow.

"As much as I can be." Mark said, shrugging. "I'm under house arrest. So I'm contemplating on how to get groceries and the like."

John snorted and smiled. "Sorry." He apologized. "Didn't want to take any chances..."

Mark nodded again, and padded away from the door. Going back to the couch, and inviting John to sit.

"This isn't about the case is it?" he asked, once he was seated.

John perched his large frame on the edge of the small chair at the opposite side of the couch. The beaded band of his wristband peeking out from under his cuffs

"No. This is a friendly visit."

Mark was under the impression that John didn't like him very much, and at the very least. Didn't appreciate his hard work.

"I was informed, by Donovan. That you haven't been sleeping well since we put you on this." His boss continued, reaching into his pocket. To withdraw a yellow prescription bottle.

"John..." Mark groaned. Knowing what they were.

"I don't need those."

"You can't sleep. No sleep means no clear thinking, means no rationale."

John handed Mark the sleeping pills. His eyes still emitting those emotions. His skin hot under Marks, making him see conversation between his boss and the psychiatrist at the office. And the exact dosage he would need to sleep a full night.

"Please. Take them." John patted his hands

"After this month is up. We'll pull you back on this case. But please. Just rest."

Mark grit his teeth and took the pills. Examining them and sighing, resigning himself.

"Fine. I'll take them." He said. "Just... Just let me handle the rest of it."

John nodded. "That's all I ask." He said, standing.

"Call me in the morning."

And with that, John Coulson. The bulldog of the CIA Psychic Division One, and concerned fatherly figure. Departed, the edges of his tanned coat disappearing as the door closed.

Mark tightened his fist around the pill container and sighed.

How did it come to this?