A/N: Chapter seven! Big stuff happens in this chapter, so prepare yourselves guys.
WARNING: there are allusions to forced sterilization in this chapter. If that makes you uncomfortable, then I'd advise you to skip 248's section of the chapter (she only has one). There isn't anything too graphic, but it's there.
Moscow, Russia, 2014
They managed to leave the airport without incident. Sharon was really good at looking unconcerned, but she did look at airport security a little more than she should have. Natasha had elbowed her the first time that happened, to which the response had been, "Ow. Geez."
"Wow, what a baby."
"You didn't have to elbow me, what the hell? A nudge would've done it."
"That was a nudge."
"You and I need to work on your definition of nudge, Romanoff."
Natasha hailed a cab, which took them to a hotel that she liked to stay at whenever she came back to Russia. It was, indeed, hotter than Sharon had been expecting, and she was really tempted to say 'I told you so' to her about wearing the skinny jeans, but Sharon didn't utter a word of complaint, so she kept her mouth shut. She did, however, sigh in relief when they got into the air conditioned lobby. When she noticed Natasha smirking at her, she rolled her eyes and waved her away.
The hotel clerk was an elderly man who always pretended not to recognize Natasha. Staying at the hotel was a risky move, but she was mostly hoping that Lana was still being punished by the Red Room, and therefore they would have time before they really needed to hide. She got a room that was different from her usual room, but it was easy enough to break into her usual one and dig up the weapons stash hidden under the floorboard.
"Isn't this kind of risky?" Sharon asked, sitting cross-legged on her bed and staring at where Natasha laid out the pile onto the other one.
"The hotel owner's an old friend."
"From what I've heard, your 'old friends' haven't exactly been reliable lately."
"Andrey was perfectly reliable," Natasha refuted. "He just happened to get shot in the head."
"I feel better and better about this as the days go by," Sharon muttered.
Natasha was the one to go out and buy food this time, and they watched the local news while eating. At some point all of this fast food was going to ruin her digestive system, but she didn't exactly have an alternative. She finished first, taking the time to examine her mending injuries in the bathroom while Sharon was finishing up. She stared at the scar on her shoulder for several minutes, feeling dread creep up through her throat, before she fished out Sharon's phone (she'd held onto it) and dialed a number.
"Hey," came the exhausted voice on the other end.
"You got anything?"
"Yeah. I— I have something. I'm not sure how to react to it, to be honest."
"A non-reaction would be nice," Natasha muttered. "So it's not just me? I'm not going crazy."
A couple of moments of silence. Then, "No. It's not just you."
She closed her eyes. Counted to ten, something so juvenile she never thought she would resort to it. "Thanks."
"Natasha—"
"No, really. This clears a lot of stuff up. I'll talk to you later."
"…okay."
She hung up a moment later, then placed a couple of other phone calls. One to Melinda, updating her status— "Don't tell Coulson. Let the bastard sweat a bit"— another to a couple of friends here in Moscow, none of whom were ecstatic to hear from her. Damn. There went the welcome back surprise party she'd been hoping for. She'd even brought some party hats with her.
Sharon was lying with her limbs at skewed angles on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm rethinking my life," she announced as Natasha came back into the room.
"This is… what— the third time you've done this now?"
Sharon sat up abruptly. "I know why I'm here," she said. "Why are you here? Because normally I'd say it's because you have a guilt complex the size of the country we're currently residing in, but nothing ever seems that simple with you. Or maybe it is." She laughed. "Hell, I can't even tell anymore. You're a walking, talking contradiction."
Natasha, for the first time, didn't have a ready-made response to that. She was usually able to see the direction that a conversation would take and plan accordingly, but in this case Sharon had pulled one over her head by shifting the focus from herself to Natasha. She sat down on her bed, placing her palms on her knees, and stared at a corner of the wallpaper where it was beginning to peel away, revealing green drywall underneath.
Once she realized that no response was forthcoming, Sharon looked at her. Really looked at her. Natasha's focus snapped to her and she felt all of her instincts screaming 'danger' at her, telling her that Sharon (who she had officially met for all of three days) was getting a little too close to the truth for comfort.
"We're going to a museum today," she said.
Sharon looked skeptical, but she went with it. Fifteen minutes later they were in a cab, on their way to the State Historical Museum. Sharon had piled her hair on top of her head in a quick, last-minute disguise that likely wouldn't fool anyone— which was fine, because Sharon's slouched demeanor was so different from her usual one that she was still barely recognizable by people who might be looking for her based on a written description. Natasha herself matched Sharon's pose (though not exactly, because that would be suspicious), and scanned the crowd, analyzing the patterns of the people and catching sight of no one out of place.
The museum was crowded, but not overly so. It took Natasha all of five minutes to 'acquire' a keycard from one of the security guards. She then led the way to the lower levels, scanning the card in order to get them into a room at the end of one of the pristine, white hallways. One glance at Sharon told her that the usual calming atmosphere of a museum did not have an effect on her, which was good. It was another confirmation that she'd made the right choice.
It was a tiny little back room, not much more than a closet. There was a large wooden desk shoved into the corner, a swivel chair behind it, and a coat hook on the other wall. Natasha did not envy the unfortunate individual who had to work from this dingy little room on a daily basis. They weren't here today, though, which was more than Natasha could ask for.
She went to the back of the room, selecting the floor tile that she still knew (even after years) was loose, jostling it aside with her foot and dropping through. Sharon followed a moment later with more than a little trepidation on her face, blinking almost as fast as the lights blinked on. Natasha crouched, then leapt back up to grip the ledge, grabbing the floor tile and sliding it back into place before she dropped back to the ground.
"It looks the same as the museum," Sharon remarked. "But I'm guessing that no one working for the museum knows this is here."
"No one who works there now does," Natasha corrected her. She began the first few steps back in time, and cursed herself for being goddamn dramatic at a time like this. But there was no avoiding how this place impacted her, in spite of the passage of time. Over a decade since she had last set foot in this place, and it still seemed to drag her further in, her mind kicking and screaming as she went (kicking and screaming as she had as a child, when they took her to be punished).
It was a long maze of hallways, all of which were empty. No sign of the guards, or handlers, or overseers, or scientists that had pervaded Natasha's early life. She found the barracks easily enough, but each room was empty. She couldn't remember which one was hers; every cot looked the same, an indent where the girls would sleep in the center. She found the training room after that, and didn't comment.
Sharon was looking in rooms, too. She mostly didn't find anything, but after venturing through one door she stumbled out, looking pale.
"What was what?" she questioned lowly, her voice steady. Natasha knew without looking which room she'd gone into, and merely shook her head.
"It's just as clean and empty as it was the day I first came back to make sure it was really gone," she finally said, when they paused in one of the observation rooms. Both of them stared through the screen at the cell on the other side. "None of the medical equipment is here. No records. Nothing. Like the Red Room never existed. I hadn't joined S.H.I.E.L.D. yet, and I was just a mercenary, but I was half-convinced that I was losing my shit and that the Red Room was something I'd created in my mind. Always knew, though. The KGB were proof enough."
"Why do you never seem sure about who you are?" Sharon asked. "You're sure about who everyone else is."
Those words struck a blow— more of one than Natasha would ever let Sharon Carter see.
"What are we doing here, Natasha? They'd have to be idiots to set up shop in the same place as last time, especially since they don't have the backing of the Russian government. They don't even have Hydra's backing, from what it sounds like! And I don't believe for one second that you thought they might be here."
"Yeah," Natasha agreed. "We'd have to be morons to look here."
"Okaaay…"
"It's too bad they took away all the surveillance equipment. Then we might be able to see her coming."
Natasha turned away from the growing horror in Sharon's eyes. She didn't need to ask who was coming. Instead, she took out her handgun, clicking off the safety and putting on a professional mask. Natasha, however, left the room without drawing a weapon, and went straight into the room across from the observation screen. She motioned for Sharon to press up against the wall by the door, while she stood by the bench with a relaxed stance.
There was a minute-long pause, like a breath waiting to be released.
Then— there. A movement, a brief displacement of air. Natasha turned to the side just as a knife went end-over-end next to her, burying itself in the wall. She lunged for the open doorway and grabbed the extended arm, using her not-inconsiderable strength to wrench Lana into the room. Sharon took her cue and her gun went off, but missed; Natasha dug her elbow into Lana's abdomen, stunning her briefly. In the next instant, both women were out of the room, and Natasha told Sharon to hold the door while she went back into the observation room.
Sharon looked pissed, but complied.
"Hi," Natasha said. "Familiar setting, I know. Hope you'll get comfortable, because we're going to have a long discussion."
Lana shot the screen once, experimentally. It barely cracked.
"Those cells had to hold the Winter Soldier, at one point," Natasha pointed out. "Relax, Lana. I just wanna have a conversation. I'd offer you tea, but, y'know. The Red Room's never really been a hospitable place."
After determining that she wasn't going to immediately be able to escape, Lana relaxed onto the bench, almost reclining on it, draped over it like it was a throne. Natasha remained standing, but she crossed her arms and leaned back against the wall, a little smile pulling at the corner of her mouth.
"Like a rat in a trap," Lana drawled. Her American voice. "Not bad."
"Congrats on being their new Black Widow. It's not an easy gig."
If Lana was surprised that Natasha knew this, she didn't show it. In fact, she smiled politely. "Thanks. I'd say congrats on the entire world finding out who you are, but that kinda sucks, so…"
"You spoke to me in Russian, before," Natasha said. "You know, I wouldn't mind doing that again. It's been a while since I've had a taste of home."
Lana answered without missing a beat, but she still spoke in English. It just happened to be heavily accented English.
"Home, Natalia? This place is not my home. And it is not your home. You made your bed with the Americans, do you not remember? Not that it did you any good, in the end."
"Did you know?" Natasha was more curious than anything else. "When you found me in South Haven, did you know about Hydra?"
"No." Lana shrugged again. "We stayed out of Hydra's business, and they stayed out of ours."
Meaning that the Red Room didn't know about Hydra, and Hydra didn't know about the Red Room. Or at least, the Red Room hadn't known that Hydra had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. Hydra hadn't known that the Red Room still existed at all.
"I was there to kill a man, and keep tabs on you. We wished to make sure you were not still hunting for us."
There was nothing in that sentence that Natasha hadn't already deduced, but she mulled over Lana's use of the word 'we'. Curious. Tools of the Red Room rarely spoke for it.
"What's your name?"
"Yelena."
It suited her better than Lana did.
"Probably a lie," Natasha dismissed. "No one gives their name that easily."
"It doesn't matter," Yelena replied. "I am going to kill you. I am going to kill the woman who believes she can trap me in this cell. And one of the last loose ends that could still pose a threat to us will be snapped. Poof, gone, like so much magic. There are others that will need to be taken care of after that, of course, but you are the only one that really makes a difference."
"That's sweet," said Natasha. "So I can't just… promise not to tell, and you'll leave me alone? You interrupted my vacation."
"If it had been a vacation, I wouldn't have interrupted it." Yelena crossed her legs. "If you had 'remained in ignorant bliss', as you should have, we would not be having this conversation. Hydra would be the only ones you would have to worry about, incompetent though they are."
"You have opinions about things?"
Yelena looked at her like she was an idiot. "You cannot make decisions without having opinions, Natalia."
"And they let you make decisions."
Yelena smiled. Natasha recognized that smile.
"So," she said. "How far behind are the grunts you decided to bring with you?"
Yelena's expression didn't change, but she did sigh. "I didn't bring any grunts." Switching to Russian, she added, "Of the two of us, who do you think has the real control here, Natalia? Have you asked yourself why I know your name yet? Or why I use it? If my handlers didn't want emotional attachment, they would have only provided me with the bare minimum of information. Ordinarily, they do. But in this case, emotion is a help. Not a hindrance."
Natasha nodded. She could already hear the thumping of a patrol approaching. They were both trained liars, after all. "You hate me," she surmised. "Does this have to do with the serum?"
Yelena's stance changed. Natasha was aware that she only knew this because Yelena was allowing her to see it, but that didn't mean it wasn't genuine. Her newfound knowledge threw off her estimation of how old the other woman was— older than the 22 she had originally guessed at, but probably not older than Natasha herself. Either way, Yelena was sitting up now, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. She lost her smile.
"You know about the serum," she said flatly.
"I know that there is one," Natasha replied. "I know that I have it. The place where a CIA agent shot me healed within three days. I suspect you have it, too. No one could move as quickly as you do without enhancements. How many girls are they going to give it to this time?"
"Know?" Yelena laughed, sounding incredulous. "You don't know anything. Here, allow me to demonstrate." And she opened her mouth, and a word came out—
Moscow, Russia, 2014
It was something else in Russian, but there was no sound from Natasha after that.
Shit.
Sharon allowed herself about three short seconds to come up with some hodge-podge of a plan, before she shoved the door in place as best as she could. She did what she could to jam it, made sure the lock was turned, and then shot out the lock. She didn't waste any time to see if Yelena was able to break out, instead running lightly down the halls, keeping her ears strained for movements. She didn't believe for one second that Yelena had been telling the truth when she said that no one was coming for them.
Her suspicions were proven right a moment later when she heard the faintest sound of scuffing. She pressed herself against the wall by a corner, waiting, knowing that taking one peek out would be fatal. She pulled the pin on the grenade Natasha had given her in the hotel and threw it.
A loud flash, a bang, and then she shot down five of them. The rest were already starting to regain their bearings (messy as it was, Sharon wouldn't have minded having a real fucking grenade, for god's sake), and forced her to retreat back behind the wall, only able to shoot at them blindly. One of the bastards yelled something out, and Sharon took that as her cue to retreat, getting in a quick shot at one as they rounded the corner before she ran as fast as she could to the room Natasha had been in.
The assassin was lying prone on the floor, like a puppet with her strings cut. Her eyes were open and blank; they didn't react when Sharon waved a hand in front of her face. Swearing, Sharon hoisted her up, mind racing for the best way to snap Natasha out of it. She swore again when she looked into the room through the screen, and saw that the cell was empty. The door was ajar.
She managed to drape Natasha's arm over her shoulder, half-dragging her out of the cell to the sight of five more soldiers lined up to shoot them. Sharon backpedaled just before the bullets could hit her and slammed the door shut, securing it with the lock and (a moment later) the large desk in the center of the room. Her heart was slamming in her throat as she dumped Natasha unceremoniously to the floor, looking around wildly for an escape. There were no air vents to be seen (not that she could maneuver an unconscious woman through an air vent, Christ no). Sharon, knowing that there was no time, grabbed the chair and slammed it into the screen, as hard as she could.
There were a few muffled shouts at the door, followed by Yelena barking orders, before everything went quiet. Sharon's throat closed up; it didn't take a genius to work out what they were up to. Desperately she slammed the chair into the screen again, and again, not caring how much noise she made (and not caring that there were probably others waiting for her outside the door on the other side). After what seemed like ages, it finally gave, spraying glass into her face but thankfully not getting in her eyes.
Sharon all but threw Natasha through the screen, wincing when the other woman hit the floor hard. She was just climbing through herself when the door exploded, deafening her.
The force of the blast flung her into the far wall, and it took sheer force of will to keep from blacking out. On the other hand, the debris was able to block most of the opening (though she still had to cover her head when the soldiers began to open fire). Frantically, she dragged herself across the glass and metal to where Natasha lay, wincing as it sliced into her palms and arms, working hard to keep herself conscious. She was already exhausted and in pain, her head protesting even as she made herself stand, somehow managed to carry Natasha in the same way again.
Okay, she thought. Okay. Pull yourself together. There are going to be guards out there, and they'll shoot you. You just have to shoot them first.
Sharon Carter knew that she was one of the best marksmen that the CIA had ever employed, and she got that title for a reason.
She half-crawled, half-crouched as she made her way to the door, holding onto Natasha with one arm in order to free up her other arm for shooting. She breathed in deeply to steady herself, and then threw herself around the corner.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three down in the first three shots. The other two managed to fire off a couple of bullets. One grazed Sharon's gun arm, but she didn't flinch as her next two shots brought down the remaining two. The hallway was clear otherwise, so Sharon hobbled as quickly as she could the opposite of the way she gone the first time she'd been there. By now they would all be in pursuit, and Yelena would probably have realized that she was dealing with someone who could handle her own— maybe not as well as Natasha, but still well enough to pose a threat.
Which probably meant that Yelena would want to handle her personally. Great.
Sharon wasn't sure what Natasha had hoped to accomplish by interrogating Yelena. To her, it was obvious: Natasha held the title of Black Widow. Yelena, whether by being a replacement or just another that they were planning to create anyway, also held that title. She probably had that weird there-can-only-be-one mentality that was usually a trait of insane, competitive villains in TV shows. Sure she was good at hiding it, but she had basically admitted to hating Natasha.
Yuck. What a mess.
"You knew, didn't you?" she panted. "You knew bringing me into this would probably mean signing my death warrant. And you knew I wouldn't say no."
Natasha, catatonic as she was, didn't answer.
"That's almost the worst part," Sharon continued. "You were honest with me. You told me what the risks were. Sometimes honesty is the best way to manipulate people, isn't it?"
Somehow, even though Natasha was unresponsive, Sharon knew she was right.
She was well and truly lost, as she forced them through the maze of halls. She didn't have a clue as to whether or not there were any exits in addition to the one they had come through (there must have been, because there was no way the museum staff would've missed a bunch of armed men in black walking in through the front door). Natasha, who was the better fighter and strategist, was out cold, taken out not by brute force but by… what? A trigger word? Sharon had assumed that all triggers were removed by S.H.I.E.L.D. after— oh.
Not for the first time, Sharon muttered, "Fuck Hydra."
They continued to stagger, the sounds of pursuit starting to echo. Sharon could stay ahead of them, but she didn't want to think about where Yelena could be. She had a feeling that that woman would figure out some way to cut them off, and if she could take down Natasha then the odds were high that Sharon wouldn't stand a chance. Gritting her teeth, she started busting down doors, until she finally came across a room with more than bare walls.
"Here," she mumbled, shutting the door. There were several large cabinets, and a counter, and some holes in the floor where something was bolted down— a chair, if Sharon had to guess. She threw open one of the cabinets, not surprised to see that there wasn't anything inside, and dug around in Natasha's clothes until she found one of the knives that she knew Natasha had on her person.
A few minutes later, she made her way back out the door, running on her toes down the hall, both hands gripping her gun and trying not to wince from the cut on her arm. She rubbed her arm against the wall deliberately before doubling back and hurrying in a different direction. If her pursuers believed she was delirious enough to have to lean against the wall, they would let their guard down.
She felt like she must've been walking for miles (how big was this place?) before she finally hit a dead end: a door, with a small window in it. It was locked when Sharon tried it, but she wasn't deterred; she used a full-on body slam to crack its lock, but once she was inside, she let out a long breath.
Resignation. Anger. Frustration.
"You're good, Agent Carter," Yelena said. Her American accent was back in place. Sharon wondered at how it sounded more natural than her Russian accent had. "Very good, to give your own employers the slip and shoot eight men in the head. Instant kill shots. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't know what they had."
Sharon pressed her back against the door. Distance was key; Yelena was holding a semi-automatic, but Sharon would still have time to squeeze off a shot before she kicked the bucket. However, if she got within hand-to-hand combat range…
Play for time.
The little quirk in the corner of Yelena's mouth told her that she knew what she was thinking. It was worth a try, though.
"You're not so bad yourself," she complimented. "Natasha said something about a serum, right? That would imply faster healing, faster reflexes, more strength, sharper sensory input, sharper cognitive abilities. Probably better memory, too. It explains a lot."
The room was circular. There was a pit in the center. Yelena was standing on the other side of it.
"If you tell me where Natalia is, I'll convince my handler to allow you to work for the Red Room."
"Right," Sharon chuckled. "Because your handler is so tolerant of failure?"
"You're not a part of my mission parameters," Yelena said, shrugging. "And adults are easier to break than children, which is why children are usually more worthwhile, but you've already proven yourself useful in this case."
Sharon kept herself talking, while she tried to think of a way out of this. By now, Yelena's men were probably almost here. If she was extremely lucky, they hadn't found Natasha. If she was even luckier, Natasha had woken up from her trigger-induced stupor. If she shot Yelena now she would probably get in a hit, but the odds of that hit being fatal were low, Yelena's reflexes being what they were (not to mention her healing factor, even if the shot was in a critical location). Her best bets were a shot to the heart or between the eyes. If she didn't shoot Yelena, but stalled for time, Yelena would likely shoot her.
Either way, Sharon wasn't getting out of this.
"I like to think I'd be hard to brainwash," said Sharon.
"So would most people. But everyone has a breaking point."
"Look, I get it," sighed Sharon. "You think this is some kind of fight to the death thing with Natasha? Fine. Maybe you think it's like a there-can-only-be-one contest. You think it'll make a difference? You think that if Natasha wins, the Red Room will take her back? If Natasha wins, it won't just be you that goes. The entire Red Room will go up in flames. You don't wanna get in her way when she's determined. So maybe you should be the one who's running."
Yelena's response was unexpected. Anger, yes, and bitterness, but it was her words that threw Sharon off.
"You think this is about competition?" She laughed mirthlessly, and a chill settled over Sharon. "You're dumber than I thought, Agent Carter."
A gun went off.
Sharon thought, briefly, that it might have been her own, but then she was toppling forward into the pit as her knee gave out. She didn't resist the scream, knowing that the alternative was biting through her tongue (and screaming was a good way to vent pain). Yelena began to circle her while Sharon curled up in the pit, one hand feeling at the mangled mess that was her left knee. Breathe— she had to breathe. Breathing there was already a chance she would pass out from blood loss, no need to add oxygen deprivation to that list. Her gasps were shallow and loud.
"You're like Natalia," Yelena said. "You know nothing." Her voice rose to a yell. "You know nothing!"
A thud: Yelena was in the pit with her. She kicked her knee. Sharon screamed again.
Sharon stopped a wave of blackness from washing over her. Her head was throbbing. Her knee was… she couldn't think about it. She waited for the moment of death, but instead Yelena leaned down and grabbed her face with one hand.
"You all try to tell me what you know," she hissed. Then she lifted Sharon halfway up from the floor, still just holding her face. Sharon saw wide eyes, and something else there that was more terrifying than the cold, calculating precision from before. Yelena threw her away, looking disgusted, forcing Sharon to angle herself so that she didn't repeat her spectacular head injury from before. Her thoughts were less coherent as she watched: Yelena's pacing became more erratic, and her hands pushed through her hair.
Her eyes, though— they weren't seeing. Not anymore.
Her speech switched to garbled Russian. Sharon saw her chance, bringing up one trembling gun arm and pulling the trigger.
The shot hit Yelena in the ribs on her right side— may not have been fatal. Yelena seemed too surprised to make a noise, looking down at her wound and then over at Sharon. Sharon cursed silently, realizing that shooting Yelena had brought her back to the present. Oh, now it would happen. Now she was going to die.
Just as Yelena aimed her gun, Sharon lost consciousness.
New York, United States, 2014
Tony wasn't exactly known for his subtlety. Hell, when he was supposed to be subtle he often did the opposite (case in point: a certain press conference). In this case, however, he was a little more subdued when he placed his tablet carefully on the kitchen island in the penthouse where Steve and Bruce were currently eating curry (and he was sure it was delicious, but no thank you Bruce I ate pizza for breakfast). They both looked from it to him, and their eyebrows went up at the same time.
The hell?
"And this is…?" Bruce asked.
Oh, right. This was Serious Business. Tony cleared his throat and pulled up what he needed them to see.
"I was conducting some research today," he announced, throwing the results up as holograms around the two men. He could tell that both of them recognized what they were supposed to be seeing, and neither of them like it very much.
"I guess hacking into the CIA counts as research," Steve said dubiously.
Tony waved a hand at him. "Not the point, and they'll never know." He waved a hand at the main document, bringing it to the foreground. "Guess what's on the big screen in one of their situation rooms back at Langley? This is for a group stationed in Paris, by the way."
Steve stiffened. Bruce didn't react— not visibly, anyway.
On the screen was a photo of a familiar redhead. Next to it, in block letters, was 'Name: NATASHA ROMANOFF'.
"They've started a manhunt for her," Tony explained, flipping through everything he'd gathered. "Pulled out all the stops. Interpol, local police in every country they suspect she might be in. All European ops have been suspended; she's their priority now."
There was a moment of silence between the three of them, before JARVIS prompted gently, "And the rest, sir?"
"Right, yeah. How could I forget the little cherry on top?" Tony flipped through again until he found another photo, this one of a room with two dead CIA agents on the floor. "The CIA believe that she was responsible for murdering these two men. Their team was apparently commandeered by the Itsy-Bitsy Spider for something while she was in Paris. Supposedly she had two others stake out other locations in Paris before leading these two to this building and then shooting them both. There was another team in Paris, and guess who they sent into the field to take out the esteemed Black Widow?"
Steve waited. Bruce started cleaning his glasses, but the way he fumbled told Tony he was concerned.
"Agent Sharon Carter, who was—"
"Involved in the Paris shooting earlier," Steve finished.
Tony nodded. "Anyway. What we didn't know is that she disappeared from the CIA's radar shortly after the shooting. They're mainly keeping an eye out for Romanoff, but they've started putting out the word on Carter, too, suspecting that she's probably working with Nat. Either that or she's dead."
"But we still don't know what Natasha's after," Steve said, "or why she cut off contact with us."
"Well, Bruce knows," Tony said lightly. "But I don't think he wants to tell us."
Steve's eyebrows went a little funny (Tony kinda wanted his face to get stuck that way), and his head swiveled to look at Bruce. Tony pouted at the scientist.
"Come on, Bruce," he whined. "Science Bros don't keep secrets from each other."
Bruce didn't look all that guilty. "It's not my secret to keep," he admitted. "Agent Romanoff—Natasha— has been in contact with me ever since she removed her tracker, using a different phone each time. I'm assuming JARVIS told you about the phone calls?" Without waiting for Tony to respond, he continued. "I don't agree with her refusing our help outright. But it's not my decision to make. Whatever's going on with her right now, it's personal. More personal than Hydra within S.H.I.E.L.D., or so she tells me."
"And, uh, Black Widow tells you everything?" Tony asked.
For some reason, this made Bruce wince.
Steve was rubbing his eyes. "I understand her wanting to handle this on her own," he muttered. "Believe me, I get it. But now she's got the whole of the CIA on her tail, and if she's not careful we're going to have an international crisis on our hands. She's already been condemned a hundred times over by the army, no matter what happened on Capitol Hill."
"We've all been condemned, Steve," Tony answered. For the first time in a while, he felt more than a little annoyed at the Star-Spangled Wonder. "Every one of us has been condemned by the army. Frankly, it's been Natasha's turn for a while. If she wants to go out there and be chased down by the U.S. government, fine. Not like she hasn't done it before."
This time, Steve was the one who flinched. None of them knew a lot about Natasha's past, but they knew the basics: that Barton had spent months chasing after her before he was able to bring her in, that by then S.H.I.E.L.D. was ready to call in the cavalry to bring her down, and that at the time she was suffering from some…issues, after the KGB had been shut down. Tony was about to turn away, satisfied, but then he saw Steve steel himself.
Uh-oh.
"It does make a difference," he said, "when she starts bringing innocent lives into the mix."
"If you're talking about Carter—"
"Even if she didn't kill those agents—"
"You're gonna blame her for death by circumstance?" Tony demanded. "This isn't like you, Rogers. I thought you two were all buddy-buddy, now, after your little Hydra bonding experience. Geez, I thought that the person in this tower who liked Nat the least (and was least-liked by her) was me. Not her S.H.I.E.L.D. partner of two years."
"Steve," Bruce said, in the same tone that he once used on the helicarrier. "Trust that whatever Natasha's doing right now is worth all this. If you're that worried about her, then go try to find her. We won't stop you. But if I'm being completely honest here, you'll probably have about as much luck finding her as you've had finding your friend."
Steve looked as though he'd been slapped. Hard. It was a look that Tony would normally gloat over, but he wasn't really feeling it today.
"Where's Barton anyway?" he asked abruptly.
"Mr. Barton is currently on the shooting range," JARVIS announced. "Would you like me to relay him the information you've just shared with Captain Rogers and Dr. Banner?"
"Go for it."
Tony slumped into one of the chairs, suddenly aware of his exhaustion. He realized that he'd spent another night without sleep; he'd been engrossed once he found out exactly what was going on in the CIA. Oops. He'd have to catch up on that at some point, probably. Preferably after they figured out where Natasha was and whether or not she was still alive, but that wouldn't happen.
"The display'll keep updating as the C.I.A. uncovers more information," he explained, gesturing. "I'm gonna go crawl into bed and pass out. Uh… Bruce, you have the floor until then. Tell Steve what's been going on with Nat, or don't, I don't really care. G'night."
"It's morning," Steve called after him. Tony flipped him off.
Unknown location, unknown time
The noise was foreign.
Music, it was called. They'd gotten right down into the science of it, but listening to a piece had made most of the other girls wince. 248 could understand why; after they'd been taught how the notes worked and what each pitch was, it was easy for them to pick out mistakes (and playbacks of modern day songs had many skewed tones and unusually percussive combinations, all of which were smashed together into some kind of abomination of sound). Music, they quickly learned, was a distraction. It was senseless. It had no value.
(But it was better to know about it, at least.)
248 estimated that she was running on three hours of sleep every night. Falling asleep took copious and intense exercises, most of which led to unusual dream states that Madame B. had explained to her were unhealthy. Better to allow herself to live out the nightmares while awake, and then slip into sleep when exhaustion blocked any dreams she might have had. The other girls got more or less, depending.
Madame B. had told them much, but she never warned about how fear changed as they grew. How it morphed into something real that lay on the cots beside them, often with its cruel arms curled around them, its embrace unwilling to let go no matter how much they silently pleaded. 248 and the others had to learn how to sleep while it held them. They had to learn to trust the fear, even though Madame B. told them that fear should not exist.
248 would sit in the darkness of her cell, tucked away in a corner on her cot, where her back was protected. She was not allowed to speak, but she did stare down the fear, daring it to come closer to her. Eventually it would slink away, and then 248 would know that it was alright to lie down and sleep. She learned how to fight when tired, how to allow the constant edge in her mind to rule her life (never use shortcuts, always watch), and most importantly: how to hide from the handlers. She receded further back into her mind every day, allowing the day-to-day motions to become more automatic because she knew that she could not handle it anymore.
She barely responded to anything Madame B. said anymore. She tried to broach certain topics with her at first, but now she would lie limply on her bed, staring just past Madame B.'s shoulder to where fear waited, already staring at her. She still listened because Madame B. was always right, but she did not speak. She hadn't spoken for weeks now, it seemed.
The woman came back, and this time it seemed like she was there to stay. She trained with 248 every day for weeks, and 248 could tell that it was to her benefit, once again moving just ahead of the other girls as she picked up things from the woman. She thought that she would not mind talking to the woman, if it was allowed— but it was not, and so she never found out what would happen if she had.
The woman herself was the same, even after the desensitization chamber. She was rough, she was unforgiving, she was unyielding. She left 248 more bruised and battered than the other trainees. But 248 preferred her over fighting against one of the other girls. She hadn't wanted to fight one of the other girls for a while, now. She would rather have her back slammed against the floor by the woman. She did not know if the woman understood this or not, but either way she did not ask 248 to partner with someone else again.
The girls were all getting faster. They were being fed more, too. 248 was surprised to find that she wanted to eat more, and some of the girls would stare down at their chests in confusion on some days. They learned about the changes that happened in the body of a woman in one of their information sessions, and 248 soon began to see signs of it herself.
She did not know how long it was after that lesson (months, maybe?), that one of the girls landed on the floor. Her opponent landed on her feet, bouncing lightly, before announcing sharply: "238 is bleeding."
At once, the guards in the corners of the room converged on her, dragging her off for a beating ("Do not speak," said the woman to her). Only a moment later, however, another set of guards came in and hauled 238 up by the arms, taking her away as well. None of the other girls looked at 238's eyes, knowing what they might see there. 238 had broken no rules, as far as they knew. Things that they did not understand posed the greatest threat.
238 returned to training the next day moving gingerly, and was knocked down by her opponent several times. 248 saw her bite down on her lip sharply when she landed on her bottom, as though stifling a noise of pain. Everyone ignored the silent tears that slipped down her cheeks as they walked to the information session; crying was frowned upon, but making noise was intolerable. It was a disturbing sight, because the girls had all bled before, but the consequence had never before been tears.
More time passed. 248 grew stronger. She would be able to hold her own against the strongest and fastest of the other girls now, though throwing them to the ground was still above her. She learned sleight of hand and fighting dirty from the woman in a way that the other girls did not. She learned how to use everything she had at her disposal: her small size, her fingernails, her teeth. Not that those things did much good against the woman, who was just as vicious.
Ambushes still occurred, but they were easy to avoid until one day, when 211 didn't report for combat training. They found her corpse on the way to the information session, propped up like a grotesque puppet against the wall. All of the girls shot one another predatory yet fearful gazes, each wondering who had gotten the best of 211 and others wondering if they would be the next victim. 248 could not tell who was guilty because no one looked guilty; there was no sign of remorse.
The guards must have taken the body away, because it was gone by the time the girls went to eat after their information session.
Instead of being allowed to go back to bed after eating, the girls were each taken back to the cells where they were placed at the beginning— before combat started. 248 did not know why. She sat down on the familiar cot, while two men sat in chairs, staring at her through the screen.
"248," one man said. "For the purposes of this questioning, you will be allowed to speak."
"Yes, sir." Weeks of refusing to speak to Madame B. made her voice weak.
"Did you kill 211?"
248 had deduced that the questioning might have had to do with the death, but had not prepared a proper response. She did not think she would be allowed to speak.
"Yes, sir."
Neither of the men reacted vocally, but 248 saw them flinch. She read their faces. Fear. Possibly adrenaline. Excitement? It felt all wrong.
"Why?" one of them asked.
Hunter or hunted? Those two categories were becoming more and more apparent for the girls every day. There were those on the borderline in the middle, but it was becoming harder and harder to switch between the two. Once you became fastened in one role, leaving it was almost impossible. And the hunted knew that they were doomed, and so their actions became more and more desperate. Irglova had spoken of this. 248 had to learn to stick to a category, and soon.
"You do well at playing the other girls, but you must show them your true nature soon."
"She was weak," she said.
(211? 211 was far from weak. 211 won almost all of her matches. 211 was solid when she was on her feet, and she was developing faster than the rest of them. 211 had also been more pale as of late, and fidgeted whenever she was around the rest of them. 211 looked terrified whenever someone came too close. 211, who looked baggier in the area of her crotch, as though she had stuffed something down it.)
"She was trying to hide that she was bleeding."
One of the men nodded once, like they had expected her to say this. Then the door to her cell opened, and four of the guards came in and grabbed her by the arms. 248 did not struggle against them while they took into one of the plain white rooms, and she lay still while fists and feet rained down on her until she could barely see out of one of her eyes.
Madame B. came into her room that night looking sad. "You lied to them," she admonished. "They already knew who killed 211. It was a test. But you were right about her trying to hide the fact that she was bleeding." She ran her fingers through 248's too-long hair. "Don't lie to us, 248. And please, don't try to hide the bleeding. We will take care of it, and you will not be any worse for wear."
It was about choosing a role.
The next day, 248 and the others learned about cameras.
The day after that, two more girls were carried out of combat training. They did not resist. They reappeared at combat training on the next day, both moving carefully but both clearly very determined not to cry the way that 238 had. The woman watched them out of the corner of her eye, and for the first time since 248 began training with her, she almost beat her, landing a solid kick in the gut. The woman recovered quickly. 248 could not tell what she was thinking, as was normal.
248's breasts were beginning to develop, and they hurt sometimes. A few weeks after that, she awoke to feel more stiff than usual and an unfamiliar ache in her gut.
She didn't even make it to combat training before she was intercepted.
(She did not feel pain, but she was not asleep.)
Moscow, Russia, 2014
Legs: asleep. Blood circulation impaired. Footsteps: three pairs? In the room with her: yes. Dangerous: yes. A problem? No.
Natasha burst out of the cabinet and had one knife buried in an assailant's throat before he even had time to think. She dove behind him as the other two opened fire, letting his body collapse onto her as a meaty shield. It was an easy matter to grab his automatic rifle and level it at the other two, taking them down in a matter of seconds. Natasha gritted her teeth, fighting through the fog that still blanketed part of her mind, clawing her way to clarity.
It must've been an old trigger, or it would've taken days to wear off. No. No time to think about it, or think about how Yelena knew it. Next priority: door. Kill anyone wearing black. Find Sharon.
Find Sharon.
Mindlessly Natasha slaughtered the other men who were charging down the hallway outside her door, a juggernaut, a monster. One only had just enough time to cry out before she sprayed him with bullets. Her head was pounding, even though this wasn't a flashback she was suffering. It was even worse than a flashback, if that was possible, but Natasha could not let herself dwell. She didn't have an I.C.E.R. from Melinda, which meant that the equivalent of effectively incapacitating them was to kill them.
She full out sprinted, ignoring the alarmed shouts she could hear up ahead, following the trail of black-clothed men, leaving only bodies behind her. Maybe there were disappointed faces somewhere in her head, but Natasha only put more bullets in vital organs, and silently added the tallies to her ledger.
(Did they have families? Unlikely, since the Red Room wouldn't want men with attachments.)
A patrol of ten was waiting in a hallway with a door at the end of it. Natasha held her breath, counted in her mind, and then grabbed a grenade off of her belt and rolled it gently down the hall. The mercenaries figured out what it was a second too late, and the resulting explosion caused an ominous rumble to echo through the entire building.
Running through the wreckage, Natasha braced herself just in time to crash into an enraged Yelena. The force of her body knocked the pistol from the other woman's grasp. It didn't take long for Yelena to wriggle away from her, gasping and leaving a red stain on the dusty floor. Natasha desperately lashed out and buried her knife into Yelena's hamstring. The other woman didn't make a sound, but a flailing kick from her got Natasha in the face. Undeterred, Natasha jammed her Widow's cuff into the same place and discharged, not caring what the setting was.
Yelena writhed for a few moments before her eyes rolled into the back of her head, and the smell of burning told Natasha that she wasn't faking. The building rumbled again, and Natasha stood up. Her head was mostly clear (at long last), and she looked around, finding Sharon curled up in the pit in the floor. She made sure her face was expressionless, especially when she caught sight of the other woman's knee.
Natasha lifted her up bridal style, ignoring her faint whimper (she had to have been unconscious, or she would've screamed) and started to run again. She didn't go back the way she came, instead hurrying down a new route, where the halls became less pristine and older-looking. She twisted left, right, left again, until finally she found the room she was looking for. Natasha threw her full weight against the door, grateful when it opened, and then did the same thing to the door on the other side of the room, out into a dark tunnel. The only thing she could do then was keep running.
A few more minutes of hurrying through near-darkness (punctuated only by an ancient-looking light bulb that sometimes hung above her), and the rumbling from behind her grew into a roar. Natasha turned around and saw dust rushing towards the two of them, but there was no suffocating blackness following it, so she assumed that the actual collapse had halted far enough away that she and Sharon were safe.
Natasha walked, still carrying Sharon and breathing lightly (dust was never fun), the rest of the way until she finally reached a ladder. She paused underneath it, knowing that the ladder led up into a back alley behind a pastry shop and that sometimes there were drug addicts who lurked there. Most likely they would attribute the sight of two women emerge from the ground to a hallucination, but Natasha wasn't taking chances.
She glanced down at Sharon, whose eyelids were fluttering.
Natasha knelt down beside her immediately, tilting up her chin. "Don't look at it. Whatever you do. Just don't look."
"Hi," Sharon slurred, then she laughed. It sounded cracked and brittle. "Kneecap fractured?"
"You got lucky this time," Natasha answered, unable to stop herself from feeling a bit of warmth. She liked Sharon. Seeing her bleeding out in that pit had been a bit too close to home. "No fracture. But it's going to hurt like hell, and I don't know about nerve damage."
"Fuck," Sharon said hoarsely. "I don't know what… I pissed her off. I guessed at her motives, and I must've guessed wrong. Next thing I knew she was… angry, and then she shot me in the knee. That's a torture method— she wanted me to hurt before she killed me."
"Much as I hate to say it, she got what she wanted," Natasha admitted. "I'm going to have to sew that up, but later. First thing I need to do is get the hell outta here, so I can get some supplies."
Natasha made a move to stand, but Sharon's hand latched onto her wrist before she could.
"Thanks," Sharon said earnestly. "Even if you're telling yourself that you were only returning the favor, thanks anyway. I'm sorry if your first thought was that I abandoned you, but I couldn't… I couldn't fight them while I was carrying your sorry ass around. Hiding you was… I had to."
"It's okay. I get it."
"What about Yelena?"
"I hamstringed her." Sharon whistled. "And tased her until she passed out. There's no way she could've gotten out of the collapse, but I still won't be 100 percent surprised if she somehow survives it. Noticed that you got in a pretty good shot to her ribcage, too. Nicely done."
"Yeah, well," Sharon said. "She was being weird. Pacing around and looking like she didn't know where she was. Blabbering in Russian. I took advantage."
Natasha paused. That information could be useful in the future. She could connect the dots on Yelena's behavior easily enough, but would she be able to use it against her?
"Alright," she said at last. "I'm gonna get us out of here. You up for that?"
Sharon nodded, eyes flaring with determination.
"Remember— don't look at it. And thank you, Sharon."
For not abandoning me.
Once again, Natasha found herself partnered with someone who deserved better. Once again, she wasn't going to let that go to waste.
