Chapter 8 : TEMPLE OF SECRETS
The temple smelled like centuries.
Dust and stone and the faint decay of organic material long since returned to earth. The excavation team had cut through rock and soil to expose what lay beneath—corridors that predated the Incan civilization by millennia, covered in carvings that had nothing to do with any culture the archaeologists recognized.
I followed Coulson down the main passage, staying close to FitzSimmons and their array of sensing equipment. Ward took point, moving with the predatory grace of someone who'd spent years learning exactly how to kill. May had stayed with the Bus—ready for a fast exit if things went wrong.
They were going to go wrong. I just didn't know exactly when.
"The construction is fascinating," Simmons whispered, scanning the walls with a handheld device. "These load-bearing techniques predate Roman architecture by at least two thousand years. And the carvings—I don't recognize the symbolic language."
"Because it's not human," Fitz muttered, studying his own readings. "Look at the energy signatures. Residual radiation consistent with extraterrestrial materials."
Skye photographed everything, her tablet clicking quietly with each image. "So we're saying aliens built a temple in Peru and nobody noticed for three thousand years?"
"People noticed," Coulson said. "They just interpreted it differently. Ancient astronaut theorists have been arguing about sites like this for decades."
"And SHIELD's position?"
"Officially? We don't comment on speculation." He paused at a junction in the corridor. "Unofficially? Someone built this place. Someone with technology we're only starting to understand."
I hung back slightly, letting my senses expand. The detection ability worked differently here—instead of the warm pull of Inhuman genetics, I felt something cold. Alien. Like a frequency just outside human hearing, setting my teeth on edge.
The 0-8-4 was close.
Ward held up a fist—stop. The team froze. He crouched, studying the floor of the passage ahead.
"Boot prints," he said quietly. "Military pattern. Fresh—within the last twelve hours."
I'd spotted them too, but seeing Ward notice independently validated my own observation. The treads were distinct, heavier than the archaeological team's sneakers and hiking boots. Someone had walked these corridors recently. Someone who wasn't here to study history.
"The Peruvian military requested we stay out until they'd secured the site," Coulson said. "Looks like they came in anyway."
"Or someone using Peruvian military equipment." Ward straightened, hand moving to his sidearm. "We should assume we're not alone."
The chamber opened ahead of us.
The ceiling soared thirty feet overhead, supported by pillars carved with the same unidentifiable symbols. Light filtered down from shafts that might have been ventilation or might have been something more deliberate—ancient technology I couldn't begin to understand.
And in the center of the chamber, embedded in the far wall like a bullet frozen in flesh, the 0-8-4.
It was smaller than I'd expected. Cylindrical, maybe eighteen inches long, dull metal surface marred by age. But the glow—the glow was unmistakable. Blue light pulsed within, steady as a heartbeat, cold as space.
Tesseract energy. HYDRA technology. Seventy years of dormancy, waiting for someone stupid enough to wake it up.
My detection ability screamed.
"Fitz, Simmons," Coulson said. "Assessment."
They approached the device with the careful reverence of surgeons entering an operating theater. Equipment emerged from bags. Scanners hummed. Data flowed across tablet screens.
"Energy signature consistent with—" Fitz stopped. Swallowed. "Sir, this is Tesseract-based technology. HYDRA design, if I'm reading these patterns correctly."
"How did HYDRA tech end up in a pre-Incan temple?"
"Someone put it here. Deliberately. The integration with the wall structure suggests the chamber was modified to accommodate the device."
Simmons looked up from her readings. "The energy output is stable but significant. If activated, this device could level a city block. Maybe more."
Skye lowered her tablet. "We should leave. Like, now. Before someone decides to push the glowing button."
"We're not leaving it here," Coulson said. "If we found it, others will too. Better SHIELD controls this than anyone else."
I moved closer to Ward, keeping my voice low. "Those boot prints. If the Peruvian military sent a team in, where are they now?"
His eyes scanned the chamber systematically. "Good question. No signs of struggle. No bodies. Either they got what they came for and left—"
"Or they're still here. Watching."
He met my gaze. Something shifted in his expression—respect, maybe, for someone who thought tactically. I had to remind myself that this was the same man who would betray everyone in this room. The same man who would shoot at the people he pretended to care about.
But for now, he was an ally. And his assessment matched mine.
"Coulson," Ward said. "We should expedite extraction. Something doesn't feel right."
"Agreed. FitzSimmons, how long to safely remove the device?"
"Twenty minutes," Fitz said. "Maybe fifteen if we cut corners."
"Make it ten."
They worked fast, tools emerging from bags, delicate procedures executed with practiced efficiency. I positioned myself near the chamber entrance, watching the corridor we'd come through. Ward took the opposite side.
Skye drifted over to the carvings near the 0-8-4, photographing symbols that seemed to shift in the blue light.
"These are different from the others," she said. "More recent. Look—the erosion patterns don't match."
I glanced at the images on her tablet. She was right. The symbols near the device were sharper, cleaner, as if carved centuries after the original temple construction.
"Warnings, maybe," I suggested. "Someone found this thing and tried to tell people to stay away."
"Great. We're ignoring ancient warnings now. That always works out well in movies."
"This isn't a movie."
"Could've fooled me." She grinned, but the expression was tight. "Mysterious artifact, ancient temple, feeling of impending doom. We're one creepy musical sting away from a horror sequence."
As if on cue, the distant sound of helicopter rotors echoed through the temple.
Skye's grin vanished. "I was joking. That was a joke."
"Coulson—" I started.
"I heard it." His jaw tightened. "Ward, status on the extraction?"
"Eight more minutes."
"We don't have eight minutes."
The rotors grew louder. Multiple helicopters, from the sound. Coming in fast.
Coulson's hand moved to his earpiece. "May, we've got company. Start the Bus. We're coming in hot."
May's response was lost in the growing noise, but I could imagine her expression. That flat, focused readiness that meant she was already calculating approach vectors and escape routes.
FitzSimmons worked faster, tools flying, voices tight with controlled urgency. The 0-8-4 began to shift in its mounting—coming loose inch by inch.
I grabbed my borrowed tactical vest, checking the buckles, the earpiece, the emergency beacon I hoped I'd never need to use. My hands were steady. My heart was not.
First combat. First real test. Everything I'd claimed to want—the chance to prove myself, to be useful, to matter—was about to become very real.
The helicopters were landing. I could feel the vibration through the stone floor.
"Got it!" Fitz shouted. The 0-8-4 came free, wrapped in protective shielding, glowing dangerously blue through the containment.
"Move," Coulson ordered. "Everyone. Now."
We moved.
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