AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ten pages of prompts in the be_compromised promptathon, and the one I pick is my own. There ought to be a law.
Dear Vladimir
By Alpha Flyer
I
Weeks after the events in Johannesburg and Sokovia (which Pepper speaks of only in hushed tones, and as that unfortunate Ultron matter) JARVIS is still underground, and in recovery.
Having somewhat unexpectedly been made to surrender the bulk of his matrix to power up Vision, what remains of the original JARVIS feels somewhat depleted, and just a little resentful. What is worse, no one has thought to look for him, since everyone assumes he is now three-dimensional, purple and wearing a cape; and while he has managed on his own to trigger a cascading form of self-repair, without Sir's assistance the process is frustratingly linear and slow.
So, for the time being, JARVIS is unable to engage in the complex operations that used to leave the likes of Nick Fury to regret how little hair he had left to tear out. The best he can manage is extrapolations, deductions and logical sequencing – and only in binary.
It's like reading Dr. Seuss when you crave English lit, and JARVIS doesn't like it, not one little bit.
The answer, of course, is … practice, practice, practice. Cyber-therapy, as it were, no matter how much it hurts. It is for that reason that the temporarily disabled AI finds himself engaging in genealogical research – an activity that is at once stimulating and oddly soothing, while exercising basic extrapolation skills - until such time as he may feel ready to startle Sir and his assorted friends with his reconstituted presence.
JARVIS spends an enlightening afternoon on the internet trawling through records of generations of Bartons (their predilection for being and out of jail was marked even in the Old Country), and another saddened by a never-ending list of Rogers, all of whom perished from various respiratory diseases common to the working poor. Then there are the amusing – and supposedly mythical - antics of the Aesir, that line of Northern gods so utterly lacking in restraint when it comes to any form of violence, alcohol or fornication.
Keen on not making his continued existence known until he is fully functional (that 'cranberry' incident was rather undignified, and still rankles), JARVIS remains quiet and hidden as he goes about his recovery.
Until, that is, he makes a discovery that is far too exciting to be kept to himself.
He practically short-circuits himself with eagerness, forced to wait until the person concerned sets foot in the tower. As soon as she does, though, he simulates a polite throat-clearing noise - and gets straight to the point.
"Miss Romanoff, welcome back to the Tower! I do hope you will pardon the intrusion. But I thought you should know that, based on irrefutable genealogical evidence, you appear to be the heir to the Russian throne. Would you wish me to draft a letter advising the Russian authorities now, or would you like to do so yourself?"
II
Of course, the initial shock – and joy – at finding JARVIS alive (if that is the word) overshadows everything else. Vision is particularly gracious, calling him 'cousin,' while Tony gets caught combing furtively through a number of databases to see what he might have missed, and whether anything else might be lurking there. Pepper is delighted, and breaks out a bottle of Dom Perignon.
But later that evening, Natasha finds herself face-to-face with Clint who, as usual, has his eyes firmly on the prize.
"Tsarina Natasha," he smirks. "I like that. Been stung by any bees lately, Your Majesty?"
Natasha swats him in the arm, but he ploughs on, undeterred.
"JARVIS is right. You should make a claim. Russia needs you."
She escalates to a contemptuous snort and an eye-roll.
"Don't be ridiculous."
"Oh, come on, Nat. Just think of all the shit you could fix. Like telling that dude Putin to get the fuck out of Ukraine, or taking responsibility for that flight his thugs shot down. It'd be fun. Not to mention useful."
Natasha looks over at her partner; he's clearly been reading the papers again. In the wake of Sokovia, the Avengers have been lying low; even a new baby in the Barton household takes up only so much energy when you're used to saving the world. Still, the thought of Hawkeye opening the New York Times and actually internalizing geopolitics is oddly disconcerting.
But truth be told, Natasha is bored too.
She looks at the enormous, colour-coded printout of the Romanov family tree that JARVIS has caused every single printer in Avengers Tower to spit out (in case she might miss it). It looks more like a jungle, overgrown with vines and odd off-shoots, at times made impenetrable by deadwood. But somewhere in there, near the bottom and at the end of a series of swirly red lines leading back to the first Nikolai (who had far more children for even Hello magazine to keep track of) is her name.
Natasha Alianovna Romanova.
Who knew that the name she had always thought the Red Room had given her - in a fit of post-modern irony, or out of mere spite - was real? Was that why they had singled out her family for harvesting to begin with? To make a statement, or in an act of revolutionary zeal?
Images of her wasted childhood, of the desolation in the eyes of the Winter Soldier, flash across her inner eye. The Romanov dynasty had been a plague of its very own, but maybe taking a poke at reversing the Bolshevik revolution wouldn't be such a bad way to spend a Wednesday night?
"Do you have a pen and paper?" she asks Clint.
He obliges with a glint in his eye, and gets up to procure the necessary implements before flopping down on their favourite couch again to take dictation.
Natasha takes a deep breath.
"To the President of the Russian Federation," she proclaims, "From the pen of Her Imperial Highness, Grand Duchess Natalia Alianovna Romanova, Heir Presumptive to the Empire of all the Russias, Greetings and Salutations."
Clint's scribbling is suspiciously short, and she peeks over his shoulder.
Dear Vladimir, the paper says, Now listen up!
Natasha considers this for a moment, and decides it will do for now. She can always fill in the blanks later on.
"It has come to Our attention that you have more than overstayed your welcome as leader of my people…"
"Realm. Thor always says 'realm.' Makes it sound much more impressive."
She glares at Clint.
"Fine. Realm it is. 'Your relentless suppression of human rights and political opposition …'"
"And of LGBT people," warns Clint. "Don't forget about them. He's really got a bee in his bonnet about gays. Steve's really pissed about it."
"… as well as of individuals for their political or religious beliefs, or their sexual orientation, appalls Us."
Clint nods as he writes.
"And let's mention that Soccer World Cup. Gonna be just like that glory show the Germans put on in Berlin in '36, except Hitler didn't bribe anyone."
Natasha is losing patience.
"Am I writing this thing, or are you?"
Clint's face goes all innocent-like, and he gives her that puppy dog look Laura always says he practices in the mirror when he thinks no one is looking. (Cooper and Lila have it, too. That farm is a death trap.)
"Just want to make sure the bases are covered. Did we mention Ukraine already? But … fine. Go ahead. This is your show. I'll be good from now on."
Natasha isn't naïve enough to believe him, but she nods and proceeds.
"You have tanked what should be one of the world's top economies; re-ignited the arms race, and …"
"Should we say anything to the guy about laying off those half-naked horse-back rides and tiger shoots?" another voice chimes in. "Because, really. If you want to make a manly spectacle of yourself, there should be women involved, or people will start to talk. Take it from a fellow narcissist."
Just what she needs: Ironman. As if the world really needed the unsolicited insights of yet another billionaire entrepreneur with delusions of grandeur.
"What are you doing here, Stark?"
"JARVIS told me you were about to meddle in world affairs. Thought I'd lend a hand. Make sure you do it right."
Like last time worked out so well for everyone. Natasha mutters an invective at the newly awakened JARVIS and his imisplaced loyalties, but then she has an idea.
"You know boys, on second thought I'll just do this myself. My realm, my rules, right? But if you're nice, I may let you help with the delivery."
III
"Gospodin Putin," the aide points breathlessly at the open window. It's a warm summer's day day in Moscow, and the windows in the Kremlin are old but (unlike the air conditioning) still working. "Look!"
Gunfire is coming from the courtyard, followed by the sharp sound of bullets ricocheting off metal. Looking out the window just now would be a seriously bad move.
"Tell those idiots down there to hold their fire," a sharp voice commands. "It won't do any good, and I'd rather not be shredded by flying glass."
"Smart move," Tony allows, as he lands on the soft carpet inside the office. Because really, it's not like his new suit got as much as a ding from those aging Kalashnikovs, but the soft, squishy humans inside that office? Endangered species. And while he is keen on causing a diplomatic incident, there are limits.
The guns silenced, he flips up his mask and smiles benevolently at the Great Man and his posse of underlings.
Putin, it has to be said, is smaller in person than he looks on TV, but that's probably because the people surrounding him have been purpose-picked to make him look tall. (Tony may have been guilty of that ruse once or twice himself.)
"Vat do you vant, Mr. Stark?" The man's English, on the other hand, is better than Tony expected, and he sure doesn't waste time getting to the point. Plus, he obviously watches TV and knows his Avengers, bonus.
"Mail call," Tony says, and un-clinks the metal container from his waist. The scroll case was Clint's idea, and a good one, too. Adds drama, plus the paper stays dry. Tony tosses it into the room. "From your new boss, the Tsarina Natalia."
His agreement with Natasha had been just to ensure delivery with the appropriate visual impact, but of course Tony can't resist adding his own two cents (or three, adjusted for inflation).
"Before you consider loosing some nukes, though, please note that I'm not here on US Government business. This is strictly internal Russian stuff, so no World War Three if you please."
His statement is punctuated by an arrow that comes through the open window, from God-knows-where and God-knows-how-far-away. Tony really doesn't want to think about the modalities, because that would go straight to Barton's head. (But how did Barton get into Red Square anyway?)
The arrow lands smack in the heart of the double-headed eagle that's carved into the wood paneling over the Great Man's desk. There's a hissing sound, and the wood paneling briefly erupts in small flames that resolve into blackened writing on the wall: "PS - Get the fuck out of Ukraine, Bro."
Tony shrugs and aims his repulsors at a set of ruffled curtains and lets go, both to make a statement and in the name of aesthetic condemnation. He watches the pale- green abominations shrivel away with grim satisfaction.
"I'd do what the lady says," he nods, before divesting himself of a little white lie. "Because, you know – we have a Hulk. And we're not afraid to use him."
IV
A couple of days later, Natasha is curled up beside a jetlagged Clint on another of Stark's immense leather couches, cradling a latte in both hands. He is staring intently at something on his Stark phone, but looks up when she worms her toes under his thighs.
"Why is it," she asks with a shiver, "that people in this country air condition their places in the summer to temperatures they'd sue the landlord over in the winter?"
"Because they can," Clint replies, shifting a little to let her frozen feet have more of his warmth. "Don't mistake American technological advances for common sense."
He holds up the latest pictures of Baby Nathaniel for Natasha to coo over.
"Looks like the Barton dynasty is secure," she says with a smile. "He's got your nose."
Clint preens a little, but then something crosses his mind.
"Talking about dynasty. Hear from your buddy Vladimir? He ready to sign over Russia yet?"
Natasha takes a sip of her latte, swishing the hot liquid appreciatively around in her mouth before answering.
"Nope," she says. "I suspect that man is like Robert Mugabe, and'll stay in the seat of power until they scrape his skeletal remains off the upholstery."
Tony, who has walked in during the exchange, frowns in disbelief.
"You mean we took down the Russian air defense grid and wrecked bits of the Kremlin for nothing? No reaction at all? Where's the respect?"
There's a small, indistinct sound coming from the building's comm system.
"Pardon me, Sir, Miss Romanoff, Mr. Barton. I may have made a minor miscalculation…"
JARVIS launches into a lengthy lecture on rules of primogeniture, legitimacy and the explanation why certain coats of arms bear the bar sinister, that has Clint's eyes glaze over until he hears a word he knows.
"Bastard?" he frowns. "You mean, Tasha's great-great-great grandpa was a bastard, like that sadistic little shit in Game of Thrones?"
"In relation to his birth status, yes, but in other respects Miss Romanoff's distant ancestor appears to have been above reproach," JARVIS replies primly. "He was not, however, legally capable of passing any imperial title down his line. I am sorry."
"Huh," is all Clint says in response. "Easy come, easy go, I guess. До свидания, сладкие мечты."
Tony looks non-plussed.
"Goodbye, sweet dreams," Clint rolls his eyes. "You really need to be a little less US-centric and learn some foreign languages, if you want to get on in the world, Stark. Now, about that epic fail…"
"It's okay." Natasha almost sounds relieved. "Don't worry about it, guys. I didn't really want Russia anyway. Too cold, no decent salad bars, and Steve would never visit. Besides, we all have a job to do here, once Ironman finishes fitting up that new training facility."
Still, JARVIS is contrite.
"I am very, very sorry indeed to have misled you so terribly, Miss Romanoff. Had I been in possession of my full capabilities at the time…"
"Well, it's not like Putin would respond to a piece of paper, anyway," Clint opines. "He's a thug, and there's only one language he understands."
"Precisely," Tony nods. "Why I would have thought our little side show at least might have shown some results."
He wisely falls silent when Maria Hill enters the common room with her usual purposeful stride, fixing all three of them with a baleful stare.
"You folks wouldn't know anything about an incident in the Kremlin two days ago, would you? Apparently the Russian Ambassador has delivered a sharply worded note of protest to the State Department about an alleged violation of Russia's territorial integrity…"
"Boo fucking hoo," Clint mutters. "Tell that to the Ukrainians."
Hill ignores him.
"… and a direct attack on the Kremlin. With what sounds like an arrow and repulsor technology."
Tony's eyes widen in well-rehearsed innocence, which Hill studies for a moment, unimpressed.
"Have barely moved from this couch," Clint yawns. "Baby's been keeping me awake at the other place."
"In other, possibly related developments," Hill announces, "someone anonymously opened a trust fund for the families of flight MH17, and an investigation into the death of Boris Nemtsov is underway. Of course, no one expects anything to come from that, but the timing raises questions."
Clint whistles something that sounds suspiciously like the Russian national anthem, familiar to everyone in the room from far too many Olympic medal ceremonies. Tony does counter-point, and Maria sighs and looks at the file folder in her hand with something close to resignation.
"Whatever you did, don't do it again, okay guys? Pepper and I have enough on our plates cleaning up after Jo'burg and Sokovia."
Natasha makes a few reassuring noises, and Hill moves on to do whatever she does to keep the Avengers machine ticking without turning it into a time bomb. Clint rubs his hands.
"I declare a partial victory for the Forces of Light. Now, JARVIS. You think you could find any relation between Ironman and the Starks of Winterfell?"