A/N: Hi everyone! Hope your weeks are off to a great start so far. So sorry that my update is coming a bit later than I wanted – typically, I left too much schoolwork to the last minute and had to catch up on a LOT over the weekend. This chapter's a bit of a short one to connect the introduction to the main portion of the story, where the Viper is all grown up! Yay! Anyways, without further ado, here it is!
Also, major thank you to Mia, who let me know that I'd accidentally uploaded the wrong chapter for Chapter 3! I meant to thank you on the fixed version but was so flustered that I forgot lol, but I'm glad you're enjoying the story!
Interlude
The dress is itchy. No, maybe itchy is the wrong word. Maybe she just feels insecure in it.
Her bare legs peek out from under the lavender-colored skirt, no knives strapped around her thighs this time. She pulls the material down, wishing that it wouldn't ride up so much when she sits down.
Her hair is long, tumbling over her shoulders in a mess of curls. Before they'd gotten on the jet, her handler informed her that a special lady would be aboard to help her get ready. The woman in question wears heavy eyeliner and smiles too widely. The Viper doesn't know exactly whatshe feels, but she knows she doesn't trust her.
"I'm going to fix your hair now," the woman says, loudly. She is clearly American, judging by the sharp way she pronounces her vowels, and seems to believe that the Viper has a hard time understanding English. The girl shoots her a look before turning around silently, her back to the lady.
Her eyes immediately seek out the Asset's, holding his gaze as she feels hands slide through her hair, catching on tangles that make her wince. His eyes are cold, but he understands her silent plea, and angles his body on the edge of his seat as if prepared for sudden motion. She turns her gaze to stare out the window, comforted by the knowledge that he will look out for her while her back is to this stranger.
Strucker watches this exchange carefully. He knows, rationally, that the Winter Soldier doesn't have any emotional ties to the Viper. He couldn't – an evening in the Chair and an overnight in cryo took away any lingering attachment he may have formed. Still, Strucker knows it's always better to be safe than sorry.
"We will have to give you a name, Mausi," he says, turning to the child. Her eyes meet his, though her head is perfectly still as the stylist finger-combs through her locks. She wrinkles her nose, thinking.
"What's wrong with Viper?" she asks. He wishes he had given her more time to practice her English before they transferred her – the accent is still there, her words coming out uncertain.
He forces a smile onto his face, realizing she's still watching him curiously. "Viper is hardly a name for a little girl," he laughs. "No, you need a real name. Something like… Annabelle, or Rose."
"I don't like those," the Viper says immediately, her eyes drifting to the Asset. He seems to share her disgust, though barely perceptibly – his upper lip twitches as if he wants to curl it.
"What is a good girl's name?" she asks him. She can tell he knows that she's talking to him by the way he regards her from the corner of his eye.
"I don't know."
The Viper sighs exaggeratedly. Of course, he wouldn't; when he isn't beating up on targets or, well, beating up on her, the Asset is next to useless.
"I can help you think up some names, if you'd like," the stylist says. Her hands pull gently on the roots of her hair, sending a shiver down the Viper's spine. It's not an unpleasant feeling, and it gives her some good will for the woman.
"Okay," she shrugs, careful not to move too much as the stylist begins to twist her hair into an intricate type of braid. "What are some American names?"
The older woman laughs. "Oh sweetheart, with that accent? A modern American name would just seem out of place." She is silent for a while, to the point that the Viper begins to feel uncertain that she will continue the conversation. Finally, she adds, "You're very pretty. You would match with a classic name. We can even find one with a meaning that you like, to make it more believable." The Viper nods – it all makes sense. She will be better able to play her part if she doesn't grimace every time her new handler refers to her in conversation.
"I want a powerful name," she says, not adding the second part: that she wants people to hear it and be afraid. There's no use upsetting this lady, especially when she's being so nice.
The woman gently takes her chin between her fingers, slowly turning the Viper's head to face hers. She regards her with such scrutiny that the girl, for a moment, feels uncomfortable.
"You look like a Victoria," she says finally. "Victoria as in victory. It's a pretty powerful name."
The Viper tests it herself. "Victoria." She likes that it has a V.
Strucker nods, almost to himself. "Yes… that will do quite nicely. You will answer to Victoria in addition to your designated title." The Viper nods: affirmative.
The only voice they do not expect is the one that speaks next. "Victoria," the Asset murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. The child meets his gaze, her calculating stare softening by a fraction as she looks at him. "Don't get sentimental, Winter," she mutters, lips quirked into a small, pleased smile.
He blinks, confused at the feeling that stirs in his stomach. Probably nausea, he grimaces, turning to look out the window. He just met this girl today; there was no reason to feel anything toward her at all.
He wonders at the familiarity of the nickname she'd given him. There's something unthreatening and almost fond about Winter, clashing with the fear that his full title provokes. He wonders if perhaps they'd met before, and he's just forgotten. He knows he has a habit of doing that. Bad memory.
"There." The stylist says with a satisfied smirk, stepping a few paces back to admire her work. She hands the girl a small pocket mirror, saying, "why don't you take a look, Victoria."
She gasps, the slight, girlish noise startling the Asset as if she has shouted. She flushes slightly, meeting his gaze with a mumbled, "sorry." His expression is still blank, but she swears she can see his lips twitch in his own version of a smile.
"This is beautiful," she clears her throat, turning the attention back to the elaborate French braid that twists her hair up, framing her face. "Thank you."
The stylist smiles sweetly at her, a gentle hand smoothing back her flyaway hairs. Perhaps she was too hasty in her earlier judgement of this woman; she is patient and kind. "You're very welcome. I hope to be seeing a lot of you in Washington."
The pilot comes over the intercom, informing them in crisp English that they are beginning to descend. The Viper ignores her seatbelt, moving to plop down in the seat across from the Asset. She runs a hand over the white, leathery seat – unlike the getaway car she rode in the night before, everything in the jet is clean, polished, and rich.
"Will you miss me?" she asks him quietly in Russian, her eyes trained on the slowly appearing landscape beneath them. The Asset looks at her curiously.
"Why would I miss you?" he asks, and her ears, so accustomed to his voices and moods, picks up the hint of uncertainty. She feels a surge of affection for him, one of those that is few and far between. Some days she loves her mentor fiercely; most days she wishes she could just slit his throat herself. Ironic, she thinks; for all she knows, this could be the last time they'll ever see each other.
"You taught me everything I know. Almost everything," she corrects herself. "Things that help me to fight."
"I don't remember doing that."
She laughs bitterly. "You wouldn't."
He is at a loss, staring at her hard in the hopes that something, anything, will come back to him. She catches his gaze and impulsively puts a hand on his knee. The Asset stiffens, his hand already resting protectively over his gun holster before he realizes that she intended it as a gesture of comfort. He has seem similar in others (usually when they know they're about to die), but he can't recall ever being the subject of such a touch.
"I think…" she hesitates, cheeks once again blooming a rosy red. "I haven't been the best student. But I do care." The Asset is overwhelmed by her admission, pushing her hand off him and angling his body away. The younger assassin sighs, eyes once again seeking the window. Patchwork fields form a quilt over the earth in shades of green and gold, separated by swaths of dark green forest and the occasional body of water. Fifteen minutes later, they touch land again, gliding down a large black runway seemingly in the middle of nowhere.
"Nervous?" the stylist asks her as they deplane. She shakes her head, though her sweaty palms would betray her. She feels the heat of the Asset, who stands just a few feet behind her, and it comforts her somewhat to know that he's there.
There are two figures at the end of the runway, standing in front of a shiny black car. The man to the right is obviously the oldest, and most likely the higher ranked from the way that he stands slightly in front of the others. His light, reddish-blonde hair has only just started to fade into shades of white, and the black glasses perched on his nose serve to magnify the thin wrinkles surrounding his eyes. The other is well-built and handsome, with an angular, stubble-dusted jaw and dark hair styled in a manner similar to what is popular back at the base in Russia. He smiles at the Viper as their party approaches, which she returns, remembering the importance of manners in America.
"I trust your trip was comfortable?" the older man asks, shaking hands with Strucker.
"Couldn't have asked for better. The return journey will be a bit longer of course, but such is always the case with these trans-Atlantic flights. We should still be back before tomorrow."
She looks up, alarmed at his mention of leaving so soon, but her handler ignores her stare, putting both hands firmly on her shoulders and steering her so she stands between him and the older man.
"This is Secretary Pierce. He will be your new handler; you will take orders from him, and he will report back to me. I trust you will not be a disappointment." She finds herself shaking her head, taking the hand that Secretary Pierce offers her with a slight tremble to her fingers.
"You're quite a little thing, aren't you?" he laughs to himself, pumping her hand warmly in his. She senses that it would be appropriate to smile, which seems to please him, for he beams back at her.
"Small, but well-trained," Strucker replies, as if he needs to defend her. "Deadly. With continued training, she will mature into one of the best weapons Hydra has ever seen."
"Yes, Agent Rumlow will take over her training," the secretary says, gesturing to his companion, who nods. "She will, of course, eventually have to be enrolled in school if we continue with our decision to integrate her fully, but I plan to keep her at home until she has more time to improve her English. I understand the situation is not … ideal."
Strucker forces back a grimace, settling for a quick shake of his head. "Not at all. But the important thing is that the situation is now contained."
"Agreed." Secretary Pierce turns his full attention back to the Viper, who has been regarding him with what she hopes is a look of passive agreeableness. She knows how badly it would reflect on her last handler if she were to make a bad impression. "Do you have a name, or will we have to think of something?"
She chances a glance beside her, eyes locking with the Asset's like earth meeting the ocean. Auf Wiedersehen, her traitor mind says. Until we meet again.
"I am the Viper," she hears her own small voice say. "And my name is Victoria."
