I can't describe how it happened as I was insufficiently conscious during the ordeal.
Perhaps the voice I heard was my conscience. A voice one hears when at death's doorstep. But a conscience couldn't have physically lifted my body to a standing position and led me out of the prison I'd found myself in.
"You can lean on me, but we have to get moving," came the voice.
Resignedly, I let my head roll over to the source of the voice. They were cloaked in black from head to toe. Their face protected by a black helmet; an opaque visor concealed their eyes from view. Shit, their helmet even covered their neck—nothing of this person's skin was visible.
"Please, let me go, I have to get out of here," I pleaded.
"I know," was all the reply I received.
In my vulnerable state of mind, I trusted the person I limped with. I had no idea who it might be—and I was in no fit shape to pepper my rescuer with questions.
We hobbled down a series of corridors and turns, before coming upon a large door adorned with a bright green exit sign. Turning us so that they could open the door with their back, they guided me outside captivity.
The harsh light burned my face. It was much too bright for me to keep my eyes open, but the sun's glow warmed my broken face. As though registering the warmth of sunlight meant my rescue was successful, I promptly lost all consciousness.
...
I could hear the monitors, along with occasional murmuring voices. I laid on a bed, but the scent did not give the impression of a hospital—musty and slightly damp.
"Jen?"
At the sound of my name, I urged my eyelids to open. Successfully prying them open, I tried to look about my surroundings. I couldn't move my head far without instantaneous shots of pain, so I tried to find the sound source by only moving my eyes—they fell upon a figure seated to my right.
"Maria?" I croaked.
"Shh, it's okay Jen, you're okay. You're safe."
At the sound of these words, I broke down. Tears streamed from my eyes with great ferocity. I received extensive training on hostage and prisoner of war circumstances, but nothing would've prepared me for the authentic. I've analyzed my stress-response physiology and psychologically trained to handle it, but the endeavor winded me physically and emotionally. I couldn't hold it in any longer.
"Hey, hey it's alright, Jen," Maria reassured.
"How did-How am I here?"
"I got you out, you're safe now."
My shoulders shuddered faster as the tears continued to fall. The relief flooded me as much as my sobs, if not more than.
"I just—I can't absorb what the last 36 hours have been. Some introduction to S.H.I.E.L.D," I chuckled as I wept.
Maria laughed stiffly. "I know you've just been through the ringer, but I have something to show you. It's a good thing, I promise, just might be a bit upsetting at first," she hesitated.
I sniffed, wiping my runny nose on my sleeve. I looked in her eyes for a moment, as if they would tell me whether I could handle her revelation. After a brief, internal deliberation, I nodded slowly. At this, Maria backed away from me toward the curtain to my left. She grasped the edge of the curtain, her fingers tightly wound on the fabric.
"Please, don't freak out."
"Maria, please just do whatever it is you're going to do."
Maria takes in a deep breath, and upon her exhale she draws back the curtain, revealing a bed like the one I lay in. When I cast a glance at the bed's occupant, it takes everything within me to not blackout.
"Hey Coulson. You look like hell."