A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for taking a while to update – I've had a pretty nasty illness but I'm hopefully starting to get over it now. I've got a fairly long chapter for you, so I hope that makes up for it!
Also, a note on the timing/ setting of this fic in case it's confusing: we are currently in Siberia, which hasn't been abandoned and is still a functioning Hydra base for the purpose of my story. It's 2004 (8 years before the Battle of New York for reference) and the Viper is still 10 years old. I myself was feeling a bit confused about this (lol) so I hope this cleared it up for anyone feeling the same way. I think I have one more chapter planned in this time period before we'll be doing some time traveling.
As always, don't forget to review/fave/follow and thanks so much for reading!
Three
"Again," her tutor instructs, finger pressing against the page in front of them. Brow furrowed, the Viper frowns, struggling to make sense of the words in front of her.
"Hello. My name is –" he holds up a hand before she can finish; she mispronounced "name" again. Not nahm-ah, she chastises herself sternly. It's nay-me.
The older man sighs, flipping through their book wearily. She thinks she might like him, with his large ears and white hair. He looks silly, unthreatening – though she's sure he could rip her limb from limb if he wanted to. She chases away the intrusive thought, focusing on the new phrase he presents to her.
"Say it like this: 'how are you?'" she copies, lips struggling to form the words in a strange, nasally accent. A ghost of a smile dances across his face. "Good. From now on, you will address all your superiors like that. English only. American accent. This evening you will begin your ear training."
Her eyes dart curiously to the stack of film balanced on her bed, English letters looming out at her. She dreads the weeks to come, reminiscent of the days before she knew Russian. She had drifted around the compound, effectively mute for the way they treated her. She learned quickly, though. She had to, to survive.
Her chest begins to burn, the sensation of fire spreading down to her extremities. She's noticed this happen when she's feeling distressed or irritable. She briefly recalls the doctor telling her that a spike in her adrenaline triggers her blood boil, as they call it. She swallows her discomfort, watching as her tutor, with a brief up-tilt of his lips, softly closes the door to her quarters.
"We leave for training in five minutes," the guard posted outside her door calls in accented English. She sighs; her period of immersion has begun already. She wonders, a thrill of excitement coursing through her, if this is her first mission. Suddenly the heavy training doesn't seem so bad.
Padding softly across the room, the Viper changes into her standard black tank top and leggings, pulling a tight jacket over her shoulders as an afterthought. She leaves her utility belt in her closet; there will be guns and throwing knives at the range if the Assetdecides to incorporate that into her session today.
Just thinking his name brings a cringe to her shoulders, guilt forming an ugly puddle in the pit of her stomach. It took mere days for him to recover from the burn she'd inflicted on him during her last test, but almost a month later he could still barely look her in the eyes. Their sparring had increased in intensity, bruising her and even breaking her bones on several occasions. She healed within minutes, of course, but she recognized the intent behind his punches. Any restraint he had before was gone.
There is a sharp tap on the door before her guard opens it, motioning to her to follow him. It strikes her as kind of ridiculous that she is still being led around the compound like an invalid or a child; she knows the place as well as she knows herself, and could probably navigate it with her eyes closed if she had to. She walks a couple of paces ahead of the guard, eyes boring into the space ahead of her.
"How you know English?" she says, slightly too loudly, after minutes of tense silence. The guard shrugs, knowing she can't see him.
"We all learn here. Is useful." He pauses before adding, "you use 'do'. How do you know English." She nods, filing the information away to contemplate later.
"I know the words," she informs him. "Just the accent, it needs work." He lets out a bark of laughter.
"You trying to sound like American little girl, then?"
She nods. "Yes. I go on a mission soon. But I am not little."
"Small, but mighty," he offers, and she contemplates before finally nodding her assent.
"Mausi." The Viper stops as soon as she hears her handler's voice, a bubble of something(happiness?) blossoming in her chest. She hasn't seen him since her last test with the Asset.
Turning, she offers him a small grin, letting it widen when he stoops so that they are eye-level. That's something she likes about her handler – he is always fair, even when she is rash and disrespectful. "Tell me, what is Mausiin English?"
"Little mouse," she replies immediately. She learned that specially for him. "A small animal. Smaller and cuter than a rat."
He laughs. "Perfekt." It is only when he comes to a stop that she realizes they're standing right outside the training room. Disappointment rushes through her. "Now, I won't keep you any longer," he says, holding the door open for her. She slips through, eyes immediately seeking out the assassin's dark, hulking form.
"Hello," she says. She wonders if he knows English. As usual, he stares at some point above her head, as if her presence in this room is something inconsequential. "How are you?" She lets her gaze drop to his thigh, wondering if she'd left a scar.
The Asset does something strange; he looks her in the eye. "They're teaching you English," he says. Not a question.
"You can say more than three words," she retorts with a nervous laugh. He sounds horrible – if his voice was as metal as his arm, it would be red with rust.
His bizarre, unexplained look morphs into a glare, accompanied by a low growl. She feels herself relax, once again recognizing the creature in front of her.
"You think this is something you want?" he asks, taking a heavy step closer to her. She plants both feet defiantly, leveling his glare with one of her own. He should know by now that intimidation isn't enough to scare an unbreakable girl.
"I will go on a mission." She rolls her eyes. "You train me all this time for something."
He looks like he wants to laugh, but has forgotten how to. Mouth slightly open, all he can do for a moment is blink at her, stalking toward her like a wild animal approaching its prey. She bends her knees slightly, poised to flee if necessary. "You wouldn't last a goddamn minute, knyazhna."
This time it's she who growls, her blood boil pulsing white-hot with every stab of her heart against her ribcage. He forgets how quickly her temper flares. "I will do more than survive, chudovische," she taunts him. "I am immortal."
He moves before she has time to react, her head bouncing against the wall behind her. The feel of metal pressed around her throat is something familiar at least, even as he applies enough pressure to collapse her windpipe. She feels her cells replicating rapidly as he pushes down harder, the lack of oxygen sending spots dancing into her vision.
His eyes are on hers, burning like her blood. "Are you going to beg?" he asks. She stares back, defiant even as her lungs scream for oxygen, until he lets her fall to the ground, his lip curling into a sneer of disgust.
"You are weak," he mutters, leaving her there.
The Asset is falling apart, Strucker thinks with anger as a scream splits the room.
It's always a shame to devote your life to a project that simply refuses to go as planned. Maybe it was a mistake to introduce him to the Viper. He seems to have developed a protectiveness over her, however violently he manifests it. Well. Strucker prefers not to dwell on that which can't be changed, especially when an annoying new development has just come to his attention.
"Put him in cryo when you're finished," he tells the doctor, turning on his heel without waiting for confirmation. His little Viper is waiting for him as promised, right outside the door. Her brow furrowed in confusion, staring into the room before he closes the door behind him with a click. He puts a hand beneath her chin, forcing her eyes up to his.
"You did the right thing coming to me," he tells her, watching the way her eyes brighten at the affirmation. He feels something that's almost affection when he looks at her, he realizes, but he shakes the thought away. At the end of the day, she is a machine just like the Asset. Albeit a better-trained one.
He lowers himself to her level so she understands his urgency. "I have one last thing I need from you for today."
She gets dressed quickly, her leather fatigues sliding down her body like a second skin. Any other day, she would be beyond thrilled, but her fight with the Asset makes her unsure how to feel. She busies herself with her utility belt, fitting it snugly against her hips. The only thing left is her hair. She pauses, unsure of how her handler will want it done. She decides on styling it similarly to how she wears it for training, a high bun keeping the curls away from her eyes.
Strucker hands her two guns for her thigh holsters, hoping she won't rely on them. She's a good shot, but her real strength comes in hand to hand combat, especially if she can bleed. He debriefs her quickly, shoving a thin, official-looking folder into her hands.
"Target: Alexei Baryshev, Russian biochemist. Mission: elimination." She gives him the briefest of nods, jaw clenched tightly in anticipation. He smiles briefly, squeezing her shoulder as he leads her toward the armored truck that will transport her and the rest of the team. "Go and save the world, Viper."
She opens the door to the backseat, assessing the interior critically before stepping inside. It's set up so there are four seats in the back, two facing forwards and two backwards. Two are already occupied by men she's seen only in passing – members of one of the strike teams she's looked up to since she can remember. She slides into a seat facing the front, nodding at the man facing her. He had long, shaggy hair, reminding her of a blonde Asset.
The view from the window is unfamiliar, and keeps her entertained for a while, watching forest after forest of dark green pine fly past her as they drive. Eventually, she remembers the folder in her hands and opens it, staring intently at the photo of the man she is to eliminate. He has a long, kind face, but she knows appearances can be deceiving. Flipping to the next page, she learns that Baryshev has had some kind of breakthrough in synthesizing a protein. She returns to staring out the window, nose almost pressed against the glass. Now they are out of the wild and have started to pass little pockets of civilization, houses with pinpricks of light coming through shaded windows. She watches tendrils of smoke rise from a few chimneys, drifting into the faded light of the late afternoon.
At some point or other, she thinks she falls asleep. She must have, for she startles awake to a sharp tap on the knee. She eyes the blonde assassin across from her, muttering quickly, "ready to comply."
"You see that?" He nods to the window beside them; the light is dim, and it takes her eyes a few minutes to adjust, especially now that the driver's turned their headlights off. Squinting, she realizes that the road they're traveling on is old and hasn't been equipped with safety features – scarcely ten feet away there is a sharp and sudden decline into a sparse forest. She glances back at the assassin, confused, before he gestures again. "Further."
With her eyes well enough adjusted to the dark, she notices a soft halo of light beyond the trees, traveling at a steady pace in the direction opposite theirs. "A car?" she asks, sudden clarity giving her a jolt of anticipation. The man across from her nods.
"What should I do?" He gives her a look of annoyance before replying, "Wait."
Their road takes a gentle curve, the faint swooping sensation in her stomach telling her that they're going downhill. The car accelerates, engine humming as they continue the loop, finally ending up on level ground once again. The car they're following has continued at its steady pace, swerving every once in a while to avoid deep potholes. They're a few hundred feet behind it, and quickly shortening the distance.
The man next to her unbuckles his seatbelt, kneeling down on the floor in front of him and stooping to reach for something under his seat. It's a case, large and fastened shut with three buckles across the sides that he opens deftly, eyes trained on the car in front of them. She recognizes him from the earlier days of her arms training, though his thick beard has grown out a good couple inches since then. Concentrating, she can remember his name – Sokolov.
He assembles his sniper rifle quickly and rolls down his window, settling into a crouch on his seat. The Viper follows suit when the others unbuckle their seatbelts, waiting for the signal she is sure will be obvious. The car in front of them appears to notice, finally, that it is being followed. Through the open window, the thrum of the engine being jolted to a higher speed is unmistakable. The Viper feels the burn in her chest as her breath hitches in her throat.
Sokolov points the barrel of the gun out the window as their driver revs the engine, all subtlety lost now that their cover has been blown. He balances the bipod against the side of the car, one eye staring intently through the telescopic sights. Watching, the Viper wishes she had paid more attention to her lessons in shooting – it's almost beautiful the way he and his weapon come together so seamlessly.
"Too far," he calls to the driver, who slams the gas pedal in response. The Viper feels as if she is pushed back into her seat, caught off guard. The assassin across from her looks like he wants to laugh.
"You know how to jump?" he asks, and she nods, recalling the numerous drills she'd been pushed through with the Asset. "Good. When we shoot out the tires, you jump."
By now they are almost level with the other car, an old station wagon that's suffered a couple dings to its back bumper. The back window is cracked up the middle, and when she looks closer she realizes there's a bullet stuck in the center, only able to make it halfway through the glass. She wonders what's so special about this man that he has so many enemies on his tail.
The driver drifts them just in time to avoid a collision, pulling up to the car's right-hand side, still a few feet back. Sokolov takes aim and shoots, the hiss of air signaling a hit.
The other assassin nods at her. "That's your cue." She unlocks the door, opening it just far enough that she can tuck-roll out onto the road beside her.
Or, as it turns out, not the road. Where she'd expected asphalt was a mixture of rock and dirt that cushions her fall better than she'd expected, but does nothing to stop her from rolling straight into a tree. She hits the wood head-on, the burst of pain across her forehead coupling with a wave of nausea. She does her best to shake it off, mindful of the team that is depending on her to complete the mission, and pushes herself unsteadily to her feet, taking off at a sprint towards the car that has sputtered to a stop on the other side of the road.
The sound of gunfire doesn't bother her, nor does the bullet that clips her ear, sending up a tail of steam before her skin closes back over the cut. She grabs her own gun, aiming for the backseat of the car, where she judges the bullets are coming from. Her team's vehicle has slowed to a stop just ahead, but no one makes a move to get out. She understands that she must complete this mission on her own.
She slows to a walk when she nears the car, head ringing painfully. The man seems to have realized that his bullets have no impact on her, for the gunfire has stopped, replaced by a silence fitting for the lateness of the night. In fact, from where she stands she can barely see any sign of his being there at all. She continues to approach cautiously, relying on her peripherals to pick up any sudden movement and slowly returning the pistol to its holster.
"So they sent youfor me, is that it?" she hears from somewhere to her left. She draws a knife from her utility belt, holding it so the blade peeks out from between her fingers. She ignores what he says – she doesn't understand it anyhow.
She senses, rather than sees, slight movement from the left-hand side of the car, and ventures closer, her heart beginning to thump in her chest. She's not afraid, exactly – more so cautious, every step made with purpose. She thinks of the Asset taunting her: you are weak. Her fists clench; she is not weak. When she returns from this mission, victorious, she'll find a way to prove it to him.
A cracking branch pulls her from her thoughts. Right. Stay focused. She doesn't know much about her mission, but she does know that anyone her handler personally wants eliminated must be dangerous.
Following her instincts, she listens for the muffled sounds of his breathing, careful to give the shadows a wide berth in case he is lying in wait for her there. If only she were more certain of his position. Then she could throw her knife, and the whole thing would be over in less than a minute.
"Is this always the case?" the voice asks. The Viper stops, frowning in the direction that it came from. If he's so close, why can't she see him?
"What is?" she asks, distracted. It occurs to her that this could be a trap, and she slowly begins to back up. Damn it – no trees within ten feet of her. There's nothing to put her back against, not unless she runs.
"The creator is always undone by his own creation," he answers, sounding further off. "But you wouldn't know that, of course. You haven't read Frankenstein."
The word… it sounds familiar. A sudden onslaught of a memory, or perhaps it's a dream. A green felt mask with black stiches spidering up the sides.
"But you remember it?" he asks. She shakes her head, partly to clear the memory and partly because she is confused. From her peripheral she watches the windows to the armored vehicle roll down, three pairs of eye focused intently on her. She has to move.
Snarling, she turns, flinging the knife in the direction where she last heard the sound, nearly growling in frustration when it pings against the car's left taillight and clatters uselessly to the ground. Reaching for another knife, she spins around, eyes straining for any sign of movement.
"You still have a long way to go, little one," the voice taunts her, so close to where she'd aimed that she is surprised she hadn't hit him. She has to move closer. She is certain she will relish driving a knife into his throat, after all the suspense he has generated.
"Such a beautiful little soldier." A quieter tone. Almost sad. "You and the Asset are two sides of one coin. He completes his mission because he has to. You enjoy it."
"Enough talking," she snaps, though the voice has been helpful in a way, because she thinks she has found his location. She comes up beside the car and crouches down slowly, peering at the undercarriage of the car.
This is her first mistake, for just on the other side is a phone, screen illuminated enough to show that it's in the process of a call.
The whistle above her head is the only warning she gets, but it's enough to send her survival instincts reeling as she dives to the side. The umbrella in her mission's hand whacks the ground mere inches from her face, hard enough that she knows she would have felt it.
She eases into standing, dancing out of the way as the man attempts to swing at her again. For someone so smart, he's clumsy with his makeshift weapon, as if he's barely trying to make contact. She switches the knife between her palms, her blood starting to burn. She can see her hands starting to flush, knows it's traveling up her chest as well.
She's running out of time, so she tucks and rolls under his arm as he makes another swing for her, slicing into her palm as she lands. She's timed it well enough that she's between his legs, but she'll have to move fast so he doesn't fall on her. Her blood sizzles, steam rising from the cut. She presses her palm flat against his inner thigh for a second, rolling out of the way as soon as she hears his gasp of agony. A plain black phone clatters from his hand as he sinks heavily to the ground, face white.
"Y-you're learning," he says weakly. It isn't enough. Pushing herself into a stand, she slices her palm again, grimacing as she presses deeper into the flesh. He raises a hand to stop her, but she is unstoppable. Everything she touches will burn.
He stares up at her, the skin on his forearm blistering angrily. "What are you waiting for, chudovische?" His attempt to grin is more like a grimace. His left eye is rimmed in mottled bruises, a split lip tightening in pain.
She forces herself to look into his eyes as she slits his throat.
"Report." Strucker sits at his desk, the computer he'd been hunched over only moments previously forgotten in the wake of his agents' return.
"The Viper eliminated Baryshev," Sokolov informs him.
"And the vial?" The agent unzips a pouch attached to his utility belt, revealing a small, nondescript clear tube. He hands the chemical over carefully.
Strucker considers the miracle compound in his hands. He'll have to find a safe place for it. He glances at the lengthy file he had been reviewing before Sokolov had shown up, the name slot left blank. They'll need to name her, but first he must speak with Pierce. Tonight.
"Good," he says finally, peering through his monocle at the younger man. "You are dismissed. Instruct the Viper's guard to wake her tomorrow morning at dawn. She has a long day ahead of her."
(Apologies if I butchered the Russian)
knyazhna: princess
chudovische: monster