A/N: Alright guys, now things are really heating up for 248. Also, we have Natasha working something out with Bucky. That's about all I'm going to say at this point.
Enjoy!
Unknown location, unknown time
The woman did not come bearing a knife, this time.
248 started screaming after seven days in the room, the hinges on her box finally giving way when the lights came on again, denying her the sleep she needed. She was distantly aware of being carried away by the men in black— guards, she reminded herself, feeling angry— and shoved back into her room. She managed to quiet herself after a moment, passing out from exhaustion the moment she hit her cot.
She was awoken feeling like the water had been sucked out of her mouth, and she managed to force herself through the morning meal only to be hurt badly during combat training. It was also the most difficult informative session that 248 had been through, but she kept her exhaustion in a box as instructed, and did not give any indication whatsoever that she was as tired as she was. Even when called upon, 248 gave the correct answer. Today they were learning about media: the things that children used for entertainment and the things that adults used for entertainment. As the lesson ended, she realized that getting back to her room would most likely be the hardest part.
Indeed, it was. 235 attempted to kill her. 248 killed her instead, by stepping on her throat hard enough that her face turned purple; her hands were shaking too much to use. She did not know what to do with the body, so she left it where it was. It was gone the next morning.
The woman was there for combat training. She looked worse than 248 had after being beaten by 249. It was the closest that 248 ever came to beating her; she landed a kick in her gut which brought her to the ground, and the only reason the woman got out of 248's chokehold was because she used her greater size and weight to throw her off. Such a throw meant that 248 slammed into the wall, dazed, and found the woman's hand at her throat before she could move. The woman paused, then backed up and nodded at her, face revealing nothing.
There were a few other girls missing, which meant that they were either dead or undergoing the same process that 248 had. She took another fighting stance, waiting for the woman to make the first move (she always did). Then she needed to focus all of her efforts on combat, leaving little room for anything else.
The woman was beaten, bruised, but it was the most difficult fight that 248 had ever had with her. Her movements, usually so smooth, had more of an edge to them now, and she was fast enough to be a blur in 248's vision. The result was a series of kicks and punches, every single one of them landing on 248 in spite of her attempts to dodge them. 248 realized, somewhere between receiving a foot to her ribs and a fist to her ear, that the woman had been holding back in every other sparring match between them.
It ended when the woman threw her into the wall with one arm. 248 watched her, waiting for her to make the kill move (she had decided that she was likely to die in this fight). The woman was not giving off any signs that the fight had left her weakened in any way, but she still did not move, even while 248 waited. Just as 248 was trying to decide if launching an attack of her own was a good idea, the woman collapsed.
All of the other girls froze, even the ones in the middle of a fight. The combat instructor shouted for the guards, who came in and carried the woman away. 248 was assigned to 210 for the rest of the session. She was confused when 210 offered her a smile and a hand up, and later sat next to her during mealtime (they were not allowed to speak, but Madame B. once spoke about the benefits of company with another). She even allowed 210 to walk back with her, waiting for one of two things: either others would come to attack them, or 210 was going to attack her.
Neither of those things happened. 210 merely smiled at her when they reached her room, then moved down the hallway to her own room.
It happened again, and again. 210's blows landed softer than the other girls in combat training. She ate with 248 at all meals. She chose to walk back to her room with her at the end of the day. She was certain that 218 once attempted to ambush them, but the other girl had walked away when she realized that they were not alone. 248 did nothing to deter 210 in this, but she did nothing to encourage it, either. She chose not to speak to Madame B. about it, though Madame B. did question her about the other girls a few times.
The day it became too much was the day that, while they were walking back to their rooms, 210 leaned close to her ear, warm breath brushing her skin, and whispered, "I think they're wrong."
The sound of speech almost left 248 too surprised to react— almost. She did not have to think about it, really. Her hand came up and wrapped around 210's throat, and then the other trainee was up against the wall, her hands trying to pry 248's grip off of her.
248 opened her mouth to— what? Reprimand her? Ask her why she said that? No sound came out. Speaking was prohibited. The guards would come. They would beat her. She would be left with bruises the next day, and she would rather not face off against 210 with bruises. Not even if 210 refused to hit as hard as the other trainees.
210 stopped struggling, staring at 248. She smiled.
"I have spoken in these halls before," she said. "They never come."
Lie. It had to be. The girls were told that lying was a tool that they should learn to use. Most likely 210 was lying now. Even as the thought crossed her mind, 248 had to dismiss it as illogical. Why would 210 lie about this? If the guards did come, then she was the one who would be dragged away to be beaten.
248 stepped back, releasing the other girl. Haltingly, unused to speaking to anyone other than Madame B., she asked, "What are they wrong about?"
248 was not sure of what she should call the expression that appeared on the other girl's face, but if she had to give it a name, she'd call it happy.
Russian Countryside, 2014
A muffled groan turned Sharon's attention toward the woman who had been lying prone on the ground, like she was dead. It never got less unnerving, even though this was probably the twentieth time that Natasha had insisted one of them say the trigger. Barnes always grimaced when he was the one to say it, like he was half expecting the trigger to drop him as well. Sharon kept her face blank when it was her turn (her Russian pronunciation of the word was improving, but it was just that one word)— Natasha tolerated Barnes' distaste, but Sharon thought that her own wouldn't be appreciated.
"Again," Natasha groused.
"You've improved by three minutes," deadpanned Barnes. "That's so much better."
"Shut the fuck up, Barnes."
"You think maybe it's time to accept that you can't get past this?" he snapped. "Go fight the Red Room if you want, and pray to God that Yelena decides to fight fair. Given that she comes from the same place as us, that isn't likely, in which case pray to God that Carter can handle her."
"For the record," Sharon stated, "I can't."
Natasha's face was completely and utterly unreadable. Not that she was very readable at the best of times, but there was always some kind of emotion on her face, whether it was fake or real. Sharon felt the stirrings of uneasiness in the pit of her stomach as the red haired woman stared at Barnes, who didn't give an inch. The three of them were sitting in a haphazard triangle in the dirt outside the cabin, under the heat of the sun. Sharon looked between the two assassins, then sighed inwardly and took a sip from her water bottle.
Abruptly, Natasha stood.
"Spar with me," she ordered.
It wasn't immediately obvious who she was talking to— Barnes or Sharon. After her eyes flicked over to Sharon in warning, however, it was easy enough for Sharon to conclude that it wasn't her. She stood up and backed away while Barnes and Natasha rose, mirroring one another's stances. Judging by the smirk on Barnes' face, he wasn't completely opposed to the abrupt change of plans. Natasha, for once, didn't look like she intended to make a joke about it anytime soon.
Barnes made the first move— a mad dash for Natasha, who slid fluidly under his fist in a kick that was intended to sweep his feet out from under him. He countered with a one-armed cartwheel to the side, Natasha crouching and rolling in the opposite direction. They moved through a lightning-fast series of punches and kicks, alternately attacking and deflecting, before Natasha launched herself into a spinning kick that caught Barnes in the midsection. On any other opponent it would've knocked the wind out of them. On Barnes, it only knocked him back a step, which was plenty of time for Natasha to perform a move that Sharon would have only expected to see in a movie.
It involved her jumping at Barnes, doing something like a handstand on his shoulders, and then leveraging her own body weight so that she was able to throw him across the grass. Barnes landed upright, in a crouch, but he looked impressed before they went at it again.
The fight didn't seem like it was going to end— ten minutes in, and neither one looked tired. Sharon took mental notes where she could— that Natasha liked to use fluid acrobatics as opposed to simple strength but that she never pulled her punches, that Barnes used his legs when he could but wasn't as good at using his greater weight as he could've been, and that both seemed to like to get in the air and above their opponent when they could. Natasha's insane throwing move aside, Barnes had managed to flip himself over her head at one point, twisting in midair to avoid her attempt to grab his arm.
Not that it wasn't entertaining to watch— it certainly beat waiting for Natasha to unfreeze after lying limp for thirty minutes— but Sharon kind of felt like she was missing the point here.
The moment the thought crossed her mind (she had great timing), Natasha faltered.
Barnes saw it, and tried to veto his move but only ended up crashing into the redhead, so that the pair fell into a pile of uncoordinated limbs. Startled, Sharon moved forward cautiously, noticing that Natasha's muscles had suddenly locked up and her pupils were blown wide. Barnes jumped off of her, backing away, looking suddenly wary. The redhead's mouth formed a wordless snarl as she stared at him, some sort of guttural Russian escaping her lips.
Barnes responded in kind, more quietly. Sharon came up beside him.
"What is—?" she started to ask, but then Natasha's eyes locked on her, and they—
Shit.
She'd seen that look before.
Natasha launched herself at her, leaving Sharon barely enough time to jump back in order to avoid Natasha's grab. "Hey!" she yelled, but the Avenger didn't seem to hear her. She took a wild swing that was easy for Sharon to dodge, nothing like the precision of her earlier moves against Barnes. Natasha hissed something else, making Sharon feel fear for the first time since— well, since Yelena. Damn it.
"Fuck," cursed Barnes, echoing her internal monologue. "She's have a flashback. God damn it, she wanted me to trigger a fucking flashback!"
He intercepted Natasha's next move, grabbing her arm and wrenching it behind her back. Natasha responded by laughing, not sounding dissimilar to Yelena. Sharon watched as Barnes wrestled her to the ground, feeling bile rising in her throat. Yelena— slightly unstable, hell-bent agent of the Red Room with some kind of complex surrounding fellow Black Widow Natasha Romanoff— was one thing, but witnessing Natasha Romanoff lose all of her perfected masks, just like that? It was more than unnerving, it was sickening. Sickening that even now, years after she'd escaped the world of the Red Room and the horrors there, she was still shattered underneath the layers she'd created.
"Romanoff, come on!" snarled Barnes, slapping away a hand that was attempting to strangle him.
Natasha's gaze was still fixed on Sharon. She smiled.
"The American cannot protect you," she said, her voice heavily accented. "What will you do?"
Sharon stared back at her. She had an idea, but she was aware that Natasha would most likely consider it a breach of trust. Or would she? Natasha tended to flirt with trust like she expected it to be a short relationship. Maybe, in this case, she wanted Sharon to do this.
When she came to, they were going to have serious talk about Natasha's compulsion to manipulate her.
Sharon spoke the trigger. Natasha went limp.
Barnes released her after a few moments, standing up and breathing heavily.
"I didn't sign up for this bullshit."
The statement startled a laugh out of Sharon. She stared down at the limp form of her friend, feeling her fists clench and unclench.
(Friend? Since when had Romanoff become her friend? Someone who liked to be enigmatic to the point of being a pain in the ass, who would tear her way through Red Room soldiers to save her life, who joked around when they were on the run from the CIA, who didn't have the self-preservation instinct that Sharon had initially believed she had, who— oh. Well. She was her friend.)
"I want to help her," Sharon said, not realizing that she was speaking, at first. "I want to help her get those girls out of there, because I know how she feels about that— and how I feel about that. But not if she does this to herself. She's an idiot."
"I know a thing or two about idiots," Barnes grumbled. "I know that there's no stopping 'em."
"Damn right, Barnes."
Sharon blinked at Barnes. Barnes blinked back at her. They both looked down to where Natasha was smirking at them, dirt in her hair, looking for all the world like she was in the middle of the worst hangover of her life— but, amazingly, she was conscious.
Barnes spluttered. "How the fuck—"
"I had a theory," Natasha said, as she accepted Sharon's hand up. "It took me a while to get over my flashbacks when I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D. The trigger words always have too quick of an effect for me to combat them right away, so I figured that if I was already fighting back a flashback I'd have won half the battle against the trigger word."
"I don't think that's how it works," Sharon said faintly.
Natasha shrugged.
"Two questions," growled Barnes, looking pissed. "How the hell did you figure that fighting me would trigger a flashback? Also, what's your plan now? Just trigger a flashback in the middle of your fight with the Red Room, and pray that someone will trigger you even though they can probably figure out you're impaired by the memory anyway?"
Natasha flipped him off. "I don't have a whole lot to go on, Barnes. I'll take what I can get. As for the other question, it was a hunch. In 2009, after you shot me near Odessa, I had one of the worst flashbacks since I'd joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Freaked my partner out to hell, and he knows what I was like during my mercenary days."
"Your super-secret spy cowboy routine ain't fooling anyone, Romanoff."
"Says the hermit cyborg."
"Oooookay," said Sharon. "I think that's enough 'practice' for everyone today, Natasha."
Barnes looked more than ready to agree. Natasha gave Sharon one of her I-know-what-you're-thinking-but-I'm-not-going-to-say-what-it-is stares before nodding.
Natasha ended up going to town to buy beer, tossing her findings at Sharon and Barnes when she got back. It was cheap, and Sharon grimaced when she drank it, but she finished the bottle and ended up getting coaxed into telling stories about pretending to be Captain America's neighbor for two years. She even recounted the time he'd tried to ask her out, which got Barnes to laugh out loud. She said nothing about her sort-of-maybe regrets over saying no, although Natasha kept poking her in the side in a completely not-subtle way.
"Would you stop," she said after the fifth time, squirming away. Natasha snickered.
"You think that's good," Barnes chuckled. "You should hear the fondue story." He leaned back after he said it, as though he was surprised at the words that left his mouth.
"Oh, that one," Natasha said.
"Why am I even surprised that you know about it?" complained Barnes. Then he squinted at Natasha. "Wait a fuckin' second— you don't know anything about it. You liar."
"Guilty," replied Natasha. "So what's the story?"
"Don't think I wanna tell you now."
For cripes' sake, it was like the two were born to argue with each other. With a sigh, Sharon idly spun her bottle on the floor next to her while the comfortable conversation devolved into thinly-veiled insults thrown at one another. She wasn't sure why the Winter Soldier and the Black Widow seemed to be reduced to squabbling children around one another, and she didn't have much interest in delving into that particular detail very far. Natasha ended up being the one telling the stories this time, about her failed attempts to set Rogers up on dates (with Sharon being one of them). Sharon felt herself dozing off in the warm evening, and only had a few moments to revel in the fact that she felt safe in the presence of two of the most dangerous people in the world before she was lost to sleep.
Unknown location, unknown time
248 and 210 were huddled in 210's room. It was not 248's first time visiting the other girl's room, but it almost always took her several minutes to muster up her courage to step inside. Though it had never been stated explicitly, she felt that this was also breaking a rule, and she was constantly afraid that the guards would come in and take them both to be beaten. They never did, but she was always waiting for it to happen.
210, by contrast, always looked relaxed. She would sit cross-legged on her bed and invite 248 to sit next to her, where they would have whispered conversations together. They spoke about the day's Information Session, and how they were worried about being able to memorize everything that they were supposed to memorize. Languages were becoming a part of their lessons now, and in addition to the language itself they were being asked to learn dialects and accents. When asked which language she liked, 248 had replied that that didn't matter.
"I like Mandarin," said 210.
If 210 was able to say something like that…
"I think Italian is nice," 248 replied.
The woman never returned to train in combat with her, so 210 remained her partner. She found it was easy to defeat 210, and she suspected that 210 was not actively trying to fight her, though she did not know why. She wondered if it was something that she should speak to Madame B. about, but it was as though something got stuck in her throat whenever she tried. All the while her body continued to develop, and her fighting skills continued to improve (even though there were still others who were better).
There was a period of three weeks where none of the girls who were left died. It was a time that 248 decided to label as 'good' in her head. There was an announcement that the girls would soon be taken out into the world to learn, one by one, so that they could become accustomed to interacting with real people instead of their instructors. They learned how to construct and deconstruct various firearms. It became easier for them not to speak, and more difficult for them to make any sort of expression. When 248 was asked to smile, she felt like it stretched over her face and twisted it into something ugly.
She would often find herself looking into a similar grimace from 210.
Those three weeks ended when she found herself being awoken in the middle of the night by four guards. They did not grab her, instead ordering her to follow them. She almost panicked because the guards never came for them in the middle of the night, but she forced that feeling of fear into her box, as always, and walked in the middle of the four guards as instructed.
They took her to a small, unfamiliar room. The woman was standing in the corner. Much like 248's own, her face held no expression. She wondered for a brief moment what it would look like if the woman were to smile. She did not think it would be as terrifying as her own.
There was a door at the other end of the room. The guards stopped with her in the middle, before they too retreated to the corners of the room. The door at the other end opened to reveal Madame B. walking in, with 210 following behind her.
210 was smiling.
"You did very well," said Madame B. She was speaking to 210. She looked at 248 next. "And you, 248. You did very well to never quite trust her completely. I am impressed by your restraint. But I have noticed that you tend to survive here by making yourself small, unnoticed. That is a commendable trait, but I am unsure if it is the best one. Can you prove to me that you would successfully deceive someone?"
248 could not speak. She did not have permission.
"She trusted me enough to speak," said 210. Her voice was clear and high.
"Yes, I know."
A hand curled around 248's wrist then, and a knife was slapped into her palm. She changed the grip on it to something more comfortable, noticing that 210 had been given the same weapon. 210 was no longer smiling, and 248 found herself relaxing at the absence of it.
Mistake.
210 lunged for her, slashing at her face quickly enough to leave a gash on her cheek before flipping the grip and attempt to stab her through the gut. 248 reacted in time to deflect it, her own knife feeling awkward in her grip. They had never trained with weapons before. That was due to begin soon, the Instructor had said, but she had not specified when. She did not understand how 210 could have such a good comprehension of how to wield the knife properly.
At least she was not smaller than 210, so there was no disadvantage in size. She did, however, have the disadvantage of not knowing exactly how good of a fighter that 210 truly was. She knew that 210 had been holding back during their bouts in combat training, much like the woman had, and like the incident with the woman, she was unprepared for how outmatched she was. The result was that she became defensive, avoiding the lethal hits and deflecting the shallow ones. She did not try to attack, aware that a mistake while attacking could end in her demise.
210 did not have the appearance of someone about to tire, but she did slip up enough for 248 to slash her across the ribs. The shock of pain did not deter her opponent, and (just as 248 had feared) her strike had left her open; she felt 210's knife cut into her shoulder as she tried to spin away, and bit her lip hard enough to draw blood in order to keep herself from crying out. 210 then kicked her legs out from under her, dropping her to the floor, and then fell on top of her, raising her knife in preparation to plunge it down—
A loud bang. Something red spattered 248's vision, and the weight of her opponent collapsed on top of her. She felt wetness spread throughout her shit, and looked down to see 210's head on her chest, a gaping hole in the back of it. She became aware of the shouts next, and saw that the guards were wrestling the woman, trying to subdue her while she kicked out at them. Madame B. was backing away, speaking calmly into the radio she carried with her, and within moments more guards piled into the room to subdue the woman.
248 did not think about rules. She shoved 210's body off of her, ran over to the fray, and stabbed one of the guards, overcome with an emotion that she had never felt before. The woman was shouting, the guards were shouting, and 248 started to shout too, unsure of what else she could do. They were starting to notice her now, too, so she plunged her knife into another, watching as blood bubbled through his black shirt, which housed skin and bone just like all the others.
Madame B. spoke an unfamiliar word, and the woman suddenly collapsed. With her no longer fighting, the guards turned their full attention to 248. Soon, the knife was wrestled out of her hand, and she was shoved to the ground next to the woman. She kept screaming, because suddenly the sound of her own voice was no longer hideous or frightening, but rather the only thing that she seemed to have left.
They carried both the woman and her away. 248 did not realize where she was going until she was thrown into the pit of the center of the room, at which point she lost the ability to speak. A man in white entered, and two of the guards held her down while he emptied a syringe into her arm.
The door closed behind the last guard, leaving 248 with nothing.
Russian Countryside, 2014
Natasha didn't know what it was that woke her— a few raised hairs, maybe— but it was enough. In an instant she was crouched, low to the floor, glancing over at where Barnes held himself in a similar position. His eyes cut through the darkness to her, giving her a terse nod that let her know that he sensed the same thing she did. Sharon, who was lying on the bed, cracked one eye open and slowly raised one arm from behind her back to show that she was holding her handgun, loaded and ready to fire.
It was then that Natasha became aware of the smell. She reached behind her for her hood, pressing the cloth over her mouth and nose, watching as the Winter Soldier made an undignified dive for a blanket that was strewn on the floor. Sharon, also clad in a hoodie, mimicked Natasha's movement and noiselessly slid out of bed, moving over to where the door was. She pressed herself to the wall on the left of it, while Natasha did the same on the right. Barnes pulled a massive sniper rifle (Natasha was a little jealous) from under the bed and hid beneath the window.
Who is it? Sharon mouthed. Natasha jerked a shoulder in response— she had no idea.
Whoever it was, they obviously thought that the gas had been working for long enough. Natasha did the math in her head: judging by the strength of the smell, they'd used about three-quarters of the amount that would be needed to effectively wipe the three of them out. Sharon's eyes were slightly glazed over, but she was still alert enough to be aware of the danger. If their attackers believed that they had enough gas to get them, then that meant that they were severely underestimating the three of them.
Now that was an advantage.
There was a moment, where the air seemed to still. Natasha sat back on her butt, sticking one leg in the air, waiting.
The door was hurled open, but not with enough force that Natasha was unable to kick it right back at their assailant. There was a crunch and a muffled yell— she'd gotten lucky and broken his nose. Then black-clad figures wielding semi-automatics started to crowd into the room, and she wiped all conscious thought out of her mind as she threw herself into the fray.
It wasn't all that unlike the fight on the causeway in DC, except this time Natasha's two allies were even more unlikely than Sam Wilson and Captain America. Granted, this time she didn't have to face the Winter Soldier; it was easier to land headshots in common thugs as opposed to one of the most legendary assassins in the world. There was also the added benefit that Barnes was practically a juggernaut once he really let go in a fight. The silver arm was used copiously as both a shield and offense, meaning he could pull off maneuvers that would almost certainly mean losing a normal arm.
Sharon delivered a spectacular kick to one of the men, sending him straight into Barnes' knife. "Nice one," he yelled, grinning savagely.
Natasha grimaced as she ran out of bullets again, throwing away the gun she was using and pulling out her own knife. In a brief flash of light from one of the guns, she caught a glimpse of the uniforms long enough to identify the symbol on their jackets.
"Hydra!" she bellowed, and then threw herself on top of two of them, preventing them from shooting both of her companions respectively.
She heard Barnes swear colorfully in a mix of English and Russian, and felt her own thoughts echoing the sentiment. The Hydra thugs were still pouring into the tiny cabin, which meant that (in spite of underestimating them), they'd still brought enough manpower to worry her. She grabbed a semiautomatic from one of the dead men and fired into three of the new goons, dropping them like stones.
Before she knew it, her back was pressed against something warm. Barnes was still mowing down the Hydra soldiers, his adrenaline on a high now that he'd found out it was the organization responsible for the hell he'd gone through. Natasha kicked one of their knees hard enough to break the cap, causing the guy to howl.
Behind her, she heard Sharon hiss, "Fuck," before the other woman collapsed.
Natasha snarled in frustration. "Barnes, we need to get the fuck out of here!"
Barnes didn't respond verbally, but the sight of his metal fist smashing its way through the window was answer enough. He cleared a path through the fray to Natasha and Sharon, grabbing Sharon while Natasha fended off the rest of them. Natasha took her weight briefly while Barnes climbed out the window, ignoring the yells from the soldiers that were probably warning their buddies who were still surrounding the cabin. She helped Sharon through the window next, shouting out when she felt a bullet graze her thigh. She fired the semi-automatic in the general direction that the shot had come from and was rewarded with a gurgle. Then she prayed that she calculated the angle correctly and back-flipped through the window, only grazing her arms on the glass shards that were left.
A quick glance revealed that Sharon was still conscious, using Barnes for support. Barnes pulled a grenade from his belt and flung it through the window, before the three of them carved a hole through the line surrounding the cabin and started hobbling their way through the field. Natasha could taste metal on her tongue, and realized that it was blood and that she'd bitten her cheek a bit too hard. She followed her instincts, which just shouted 'run' in her ear. She knew it was in her best interest to obey.
"They're gonna catch up to us," Barnes panted.
"Maybe if I play dead, they'll ignore me," Sharon suggested, her voice surprisingly even.
"Fuck that."
Sharon actually shot him a dirty look at that— probably offended at the implication that she couldn't take care of herself or something— but Natasha interjected before she could fire back.
"I agree, we need the split up," she said. She caught Barnes' eye. "You can keep yourself from getting shot in the face, right?"
"Great minds think alike, it would appear." Barnes smirked. "Do me a favor and don't come looking for me again, Black Widow."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
He nodded at her tersely, the smile slipping from his face as he narrowed his focus to the Hydra agents who were in pursuit of him. "Good luck," he said. "Oh, and run."
Natasha looked down to see that he'd dropped another grenade nearby. "Fucking—"
She ran.
Natasha and Sharon made a wide circle back around to the village. There was an out-of-place van sitting at the curb on the main street, which they gave a wide berth. They didn't pause to catch their breath even once, in spite of the cut that was bleeding sluggishly on Natasha's thigh or the way that Sharon's old knee injury was clearly paining her. Natasha piled the other woman into the car that they'd used to get here, and within five minutes they were already several miles out from the small town. They'd been able to catch a glimpse of a cloud of smoke rising in the distance, but that, too, quickly receded.
Sharon passed out, her face pale. Natasha didn't know if it was because of the pain or a combination of exhaustion and the gas, but she hoped it was the latter. She resolved to stop and get fluids for the two of them as soon as it was safe enough for them to stop. This would probably mean another change in hair styles. Maybe color contacts this time.
Out of some strange impulse, she grabbed the burner phone that she'd sworn to herself she would throw away, and dialed a number.
It rang a few times, before a small click informed her that someone had picked up. "Hello?" came a groggy voice.
Natasha opened her mouth. After this is all over, I'm coming back and I'm staying. After this is over, I'm not going to keep running away. After this is over, I won't leave again.
She said none of those things. Instead, Natasha pressed the 'end call' button, and briefly took her hands off the wheel to snap the phone in half. Then she rolled down the window and tossed the remains of it out, trying to ignore how her breathing threatened to increase its pace, and how her eyes threatened to blur.
She drove with the window open the rest of the way.
New York City, New York, 2014
"Huh," said Bruce, staring at his phone. "Weird."
"What?"
"Nothing." He pocketed the device, but the rest of the day, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd missed something important.
Unknown place, unknown time
"They cannot hurt you if you put them in a box," Madame B. would say.
248 could not hear. She could not see. She could not feel. She could not put anything in her box, because there was nothing to ignore. She tried groping around her, but there was no way for her to tell if she was moving or not. She did not know how long she had been there. Her thoughts were chasing one another in her head, at first, wondering what the guards and Madame B. had done to the woman.
"Emotion is something to be manipulated, but it is not necessary for your life."
Madame B.'s voice in her ear was not a help to her. While there were many occasions when her words of advice would allow 248 to focus, this did nothing to help her. She took a chance and tried to speak, but there was no response from her vocal cords— no tightening of muscles to indicate that she had spoken at all.
"The nightmares are in your mind. There is no physical hindrance."
248 felt the panic building. For the first time, she didn't know how to stop it.
"Get up." The woman's voice, not Madame B.'s.
248 would have screamed, if she could.