Hey everyone, I'm back with the prequel to Her Recollections! I just couldn't wait to get started on this one. So this story is set before the Avengers, and will explore a darker side to SHIELD. Also, Fury isn't the Director (yet). On a completely different note, I've been watching comic con videos all week and wishing I was there. Next year, though. Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy! Reviews make my day! Thanks!
Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers.
"To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment."- Ralph Waldo Emerson
"If I am the phantom, it is because man's hatred has made me so. If I am to be saved it is because your love redeems me."- Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera
Puppet and Pawn
The cry of gunshots echoed throughout the dark warehouse.
He was standing with his back pressed against a large shipping container. They were separated by a stretch of empty space, and she could not get to him without letting her guard down. He would cover her in any other circumstances, but there were so many enemy gunmen that he couldn't possibly ensure her safety. So, by a silent conversation, she agreed to stay behind her shipping container.
Bullets descended at a lightening fast pace. The gunmen were relentless, fueled by anger that their opponents had lasted this long, and that there were only two of them. Two insignificant operatives shouldn't have been able to withstand such proceedings. And yet here they were, hiding behind the shipping containers where bullets could not reach them, and all the while the two were aiming smartly, picking off the gunmen, one by one. It was embarrassing, frankly, and if that many gunmen couldn't take care of two simple agents, what could they take care of?
Natasha reloaded her gun quickly and glanced over at her partner. His face held a look of grim determination, and also a hint a resignation. As if he would rather be somewhere else, as if he didn't care for this at all. Not that she did; she didn't enjoy the tasks set to them any more than he did. She was not a monster. At least, she tried to convince herself of it. And she was born a liar, the best in this grisly, unfortunate business.
"How's it over there?" Clint asked as he caught her eye. He peeked around the corner and fired off a few more shots. A grunt of pain from the direction he was aiming in meant he hit his mark. She fired as well before answering.
"Fair enough," she replied briskly. "Should we finish up here?" He nodded tightly back at her. She held up her hand to begin the countdown. Five. A bullet zipped past her, dangerously close. Four. Her sharp, unwavering eyes caught the dark stain of blood on his arm where a bullet had grazed him. Three. Her heartbeat accelerated and the beating became the only sound in her ears. Two. She saw his finger twitch on the trigger of his gun. One.
She was quick on her feet. It was a trait she could always be proud of, one that she could use in such a field as this. He was gifted with a sure and steady aim, one of the reasons why he was so talented with a bow and arrow. And these traits reflected in their singular personalities.
She had become accustomed to the fast paced nature of her lifestyle. Though she was proud of how far she had come, and how quickly she had got there, she purposefully ignored what really transpired around her. She preferred to only look at the surface of her life. It suited her. It made her happy. As close to happy as she believed she would ever be.
Her opinions changed like the seasons. Slowly but surely they transformed until they become something entirely different from what previously existed.
But there was a kind side to her as well. A delicate side, a compassionate one. But it cowered behind the raw, indifferent power she harnessed to do her job. There is no room for love and fragility in her line of work. Only power and ignorance.
And he was extremely set in his ways. Change bothered him, made him almost uncomfortable. It's not that he didn't like change. He just found it difficult to abandon the old habits. And he knew what he wanted. He was certain of his ideals, of what he expected from himself and from others around him. Like Natasha. He expected her to be the solid, trustworthy partner he was to her.
And maybe that is what drew them together. They both chose what they wanted to see. She chose the simple things, the good things. And he chose his own values and beliefs.
She was blind; but then again, so was he.
She tumbled out from behind the shipping container as he did the same, guns rising immediately. She felt the bullets whip past her, some making brief contact and others falling where she had been a mere second before. She couldn't look to see her partner, to see if he was all right. She could only move forward, and move fast.
Adrenaline flooded through her body, making her aware of even the slightest movement. She slung bullets everywhere, sure that wherever she fired, she would hit her target. She was dangerously overconfident. But she had earned the right to be so. The moment passed in a blur, and gradually she noticed that the gunshots had ceased.
She was kneeling on the floor, panting hard, her gun held loosely in one hand. He stood behind her, taking deep breaths, his head tilted up at the ceiling. She got to her feet slowly as the energy was bled from her body. The battle was over. She went to the nearest body, a man who was still breathing, shallow, harsh breath. When he coughed, blood spewed out onto her black boots. Swiftly, she pulled him up by his shirt collar, bringing him to his knees.
"Where are the weapons?" she said curtly, slowly lining her gun up with his temple. The man's eyes were consumed with black fear.
"What are you talking about?" the man rasped, a grimace of pain on his face. She pressed her gun harder into his temple as her brow furrowed. Clint walked up beside her and addressed the injured man.
"We received intelligence that this was an organization that develops biological weapons," her partner said. The man's eyes widened as his body convulsed with another cough.
"We are only a simple branch of a smuggling ring. We have no biological weapons here," the man's breathing was becoming more labored. Natasha glanced at Clint, question in her eyes. Her first instinct was to claim that he was lying. That's what these people do; they lie and cheat to get their way out of such situations. But the total and complete lack of concrete evidence made her think otherwise. It was just the word of the Director against this man's.
"Do you think he was telling the truth?" she asked Clint as the ambulance drove off, sirens screaming. They had called in to headquarters and a team of SHIELD agents had arrived to take over the operation. "Could our information have been wrong?"
"I don't know," was his simple reply. "But Fury will get the truth out of him in interrogation." Clint's confidence and trust in the senior field agent was always surprising to her. Not that she disliked Nick Fury; she just saw him as another mindless drone who worked for the Director. Although these days, rumors had been surfacing that Fury was pulling away from the Director's inner circle. They had been fighting and disagreeing lately, but, as far as Natasha was concerned, there was nothing Nick Fury could do about anything. He was powerless if he went rouge against a huge, faceless agency like SHIELD. Anyone who went rouge was powerless. It was an accepted belief, one that all the agents were made aware of on their first day as an operative.
She sat slumped in the hard chair, carefully polishing her gun. Clint had disappeared somewhere, and so she was left alone outside of the interrogation room. Her foot tapped impatiently on the floor, beating out a strict rhythm as she waited. There was a scratching at the door, and a man walked out of the interrogation room. He sighed heavily and rustled through some papers in a file he held.
"Fury," she acknowledged, standing up quickly as he took a sip from the coffee cup he was juggling in his hands. "What's the verdict?" He took time before answering, and then finally looked her in the eyes.
"It seems," he said, speaking slowly. "That our information was faulty." He appeared to want to say more, but the other door opened, interrupting him.
"Fury. Agent Romanoff," the man said, stooping low to pass through the doorway. Fury's eyes narrowed as he took in the tall man standing in front of them.
"Director Fenton," Fury grunted, a less than pleased look on his face. Natasha looked back and forth between the two of them, gauging their reactions. The Director nodded calmly, then made his way to the door to the interrogation room. "I already questioned him," Fury called to the Director.
"Of course," Director Fenton said, smiling in a nonchalant way. "But I prefer to conduct my own interrogations, especially with such an important case." The Director went into the interrogation room, shutting the door as Fury glared after him. There was a pause, as Fury seemed to be listening intently to what was transpiring in the other room. There was a loud thump and a sharp squeal of pain from inside the interrogation room. Natasha looked quickly to Fury, but a mask had descended over the man's face.
"Come on," Fury growled. He grabbed her upper arm and pulled her out into the hallway, setting off at a quick pace. "We need to talk."
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