26 Acquisitions

-XMF-

It wasn't exactly anything special, as Cambridge went. Standard two story. Big porch, medium yard. Natasha knocked on the door.

Dr. Jane Porter opened it.

"Hi!" Natasha said, with her No. 3 professional smile. "I'm with the University."

Porter looked confused. "The University?"

Her free hand was in her bathrobe pocket. Squared off shape. Cell phone? No, too much edges. Remote, maybe Taser. Afraid?

"Oh, sorry. Karen Collins, Housing department."

She stuck out her hand, and Porter shook it.

"Are you pleased with your current accommodations?"

Porter blinked. "I...yes. This is my cousin Ruth's house, and she had to take a trip to Israel, sooo..." She shrugged. "Here I am."

"We just wanted to remind you that, under the terms of the contract, Harvard can provide housing for you."

"Well, it used to be my grandmother's house." Porter looked around. "I like it here." Her mouth turned up at the corner. "Even though the stairs creak."

"Try not to step in the middle. See if that helps." There. Now Jane owed her.

"Really?"

"Well, I've never tried myself. Don't have a big old house with creaky stairs. You probably have grading to do, so I'll just let you get back to work."

Jane nodded. "Bye."

Natasha turned away, then turned back as if a thought had just struck her.

"Um, I'm new in town. Do you know where the nearest grocery store is? I'm really thirsty."

Natasha saw Jane think about it, saw her waver, let the last domino tip over-

"Depends," the scientist said.

"...On what?"

Jane smiled. "Do you like tea?"


Russia

The SUV rolled to a stop.

"We're here," someone in the front-seat said, in accented English. The redhaired woman smiled and thanked him, in tourist-level Russian.

When she got out, she saw that they were at an abandoned apartment complex at the top of a hill, a grey, concrete, Soviet bloc block with trucks all around. Clear lines of sight to the nearby town, and anyone driving or flying to them.

Good.

The weather was unseasonably cold, after Moscow.

Anyone who wanted to set up an ambush ahead of time would have to spend days hiding out in sub-zero weather, or sneak into the building after the the arms dealer's men swept it. And there were very few people who could do either.

One of the men with guns ran a beeping wand over her briefcase and body - again - and pointed at one of the trucks. As the redhead approached, another one stepped to the rear and pulled down a tailgate. The whole thing looked like it dated back to the Cold War, and was probably built to stand up to a nucle-

Well, it was tough.

She peered into the shadows.

"Miss Smith," said the large woman inside. She held out a bottle. "Drink?"

Smith frowned, laid her briefcase on the tailgate, and pretended to awkwardly scramble onto the truck. The guards shut the tailgate behind her, and walked away. The larger woman held some kind of device in her hand, and as she pressed a button, Smith felt a faint buzz on her skin.

She put her case down, and took the bottle. "White noise generator?"

"Privacy is important, Director."

Rogers nodded, took a swig. Vodka. It burned, just for a second. She handed the bottle back. When she spoke, her faint German accent was missing.

"I think you'll understand why I need to keep up the act." She switched the accent back on. "'My employers are willing to pay you half up front, half on delivery.'"

The left side of Vanko's scarred mouth curled up. "Your Russian is superb."

"Thank you. There won't be any...official notice of this, will there?"

Vanko cocked her head, then relaxed. "There is official, and there is official. This is still Russia. Besides, they have more important things to worry about."

"Like ARGUS. Why did you choose this location?"

Vanko didn't even blink. "Privacy. If they see us on satellite, they'll just assume it's a regular arms deal. And you don't want to stay in the Zone too long."

And that was when one of the trucks exploded.

"What the-" Vanko said, halfway out of her seat.

Rogers closed her eyes for a second. "You just had to say it, didn't you? Is the building open?

"Yes, but-"

"Get your psychic out of the front seat," Rogers said. She picked up her briefcase. "We're going inside."


Cambridge, MA

The inside was just as normal as the outside. It was kind of nice.

It would also drive Natasha crazy in, oh...a week.

"This is nice tea," she said.

Porter grinned. "Thanks. Do you want cookies?"

"Please."

As Jane stepped into the kitchen, Natasha put her cup down on the coffee table, next to the books about the Cold War. Interesting.

The front door opened. A bag rustled. A man said "Honey, I'm ho-oh, hello."

"Hi." Natasha waved. "I'm with Harvard. Jane invited me in for some tea. I assume you're the cute boyfriend."

Amazing. He looked like your standard blue-eyed, blond haired carpenter, even down to the flannel shirt and toolbelt. Even the British accent was missing as he frowned, shrugged, and went "Well, I wouldn't say cute, exactly."

"Maybe you can help me out. Is Jane actually planning to poison the cookies, cut me up in the basement, and bake me into meat pies?"

"Donald Blake" didn't flinch. "No, no, of course not. The freezer's still full."

Nat smiled at him. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you."

He shifted the brown paper bag to the other arm. "Really? Do you have a porch needs fixing?"

"Not exactly." The spy put her phone on the table, pressed a button. Her skin tingled. Then she reached up, deactivated her nanomask, and looked him in the eyes with her real face.

"We need you to help fix something much bigger. My name is Natasha Romanoff. I used to work for SHIELD, before it went under...well, let's call it new management."

Blake nodded. "I see. And who do you work for now?"

She reached for her teacup. "Disgruntled former employees."

"Hmm."

And with that, he walked into the kitchen, put down the groceries, and walked back out in armor and a cape.

Huh. His hair had come loose.

Maybe it was the way he looked at her. His grip on the shaft of the hammer, held down by his side in a not-quite-casual way. Maybe it was his stance, with the knees slightly bent, ready to act. But whatever it was, Nat felt it.

Her heart was racing, her breathing was shallow, and she seemed to have come down with a sudden case of the cold sweats.

She didn't move.

"A carpenter? Really?"

Thor raised an eyebrow. "Well, yes, I hear it's all the rage for gods."

And that's when Porter came in.

"We only had shortbread, I hope that's oka-what is this?"

"That's fine, Jane, thank you." He lifted a cookie off the tray, without breaking eye contact. "Our guest was just leaving."

"Was I?"

"You were. Now. I'd hate to explain to Ruth how I ruined her couch."

Natasha stood, held her hands up in front of her, palms facing him. Calm down. I am not a threat. "I can understand your concerns-"

"Can you? Have you ever watched a city die because of something you did?"

The spy's green eyes went distant for a second. "Close."

Thor gave her a knife-edge smile, brow still furrowed. "Tell me, then, do the dreams ever stop?"

"No. But mankind should be exploring the stars-"

"The false SHIELD knows of the Blake disguise. The only reason they stand off is the threat of war with Asgard. And Asgard does not desire war with them."

Natasha blinked. "Wait-"

The books.

"-What?" she finished. It'd be good to hear it from him.

"Do you know what a higher form of warfare would do to this world? Have you not heard of 'reprisals'?"

"...I'm familiar with the concept."

Thor tilted his head toward Jane.

Jane, who made friends so easily.

Jane, who would have to watch the people she cared about vanish, or die in "accidents".

Jane, who Thor cared about more than anyone on Earth.

"I see," Natasha said. "That's an interesting...incentive program."

"Indeed. I dare not do anything overt. Do you understand?"

Natasha didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't do anything out of the ordinary.

"I think I do."

Jaw set. Brow furrowed. Stance wide. He wasn't budging. One last try.

"What if more people get hurt because you don't do anything?"

Thor looked away. "That's a chance I'm willing to take."

Natasha sighed. "I'll see myself out."

She paused on the threshold.

"Jane? It really was good tea."


Russia

"Let's huddle," Rogers said.

The residents of the apartment building had left in kidn of a hurry, and there were still a few suitcases in the lobby, some of them opened. Probably getting out babushka's jewels when they realized they'd have to travel light.

Huddling up with a bunch of Mafiya goons and a Boston princess wasn't the strangest tete-a-tete she'd ever been in, but it came close.

"I thought you'd be taller," Emma Frost said.

Rogers didn't roll her eyes. Not physically, anyway.

"Any ideas?"

One of the goons said "what happened to your accent?"

The one next to him reached out, without looking, and slapped him upside the head.

"How about the direct approach?" Frost said. "Just charge up there and take him out? I can tell you were he is, what he's planning, I can even get into his head!"

"Assuming he isn't psi-hardened. And he'll probably have a bunch of traps. But he's not our real enemy here. Vanko?"

The engineer nodded. "It's time. He calls for backup, kills all our cars so there's no way to get out before his friends arrive."

The head-slapping footsoldier's eyes went wide. "And then he leaves some of them alone so we think we can escape, and waste time!"

"Exactly," Rogers said.

"Hold up," Frost said. "We didn't even know when we'd show up here. Even if they knew where we were going, the sniper would've been out here for days! No one could survive that!"

Rogers' eyes narrowed, just for a second. "There are...ways around that. Point is, we need a fast way to neutralize him, then we skeddadle."

"I have something," Vanko said.

"...Right. That one weighed down truck. Will it leave him alive?"

"Probably not. But it would make me feel better."

"Okay, let's keep that in our back pocket."

"Any way we can ambush him?" the hunter said. "Come up through the floor or something?"

"Maybe..." Rogers frowned, drumming her fingers on her briefcase. "Wait-"

"Oh-ho-ho, she's got something!"

"Shut up, Frost." Rogers twisted the handle of the briefcase, which promptly fell apart, leaving her holding a bow. She picked up the quiver from the floor, slung it over her shoulder, and made sure her red hair was tied back. "I'll explain on the way. First priority: intel."

"Well, yes," Vanko said, completely straight-faced. " I hear knowing is half the battle."


Harvard Art Museums, Cambridge, MA

"How'd it go, boss?"

Bobbi Morse had somehow managed to smuggle a drink into the museum, and she took a slurp from it as she sat down next to Natasha.

The Russian made a sort of fluttery motion with her right hand. "Ehhh."

"That bad?"

"That mediocre. He said he couldn't be seen helping us. You recognize this painting?"

Bobbi looked up. "Balder?"

"Baldr. He was so beloved by the Norse that Frigga asked everything not to harm him, and they agreed. All except little old mistletoe."

"I think I see where this is going." Morse slurped again.

Natasha clenched her fist. "So the Norse made a game out of it. They'd toss spears and shoot arrows at him, and they'd just bounce off. Then Loki made a spear out of mistletoe, and convinced Hodur to take a shot."

Bobbi nodded. "And it hit."

"And Baldr died."

"So the moral of the story is 'the devil is in the details'?" Bobbi rolled her eyes. "Or 'sometimes you have to get unconventional'? I joined SHIELD, I knew that already."

"It was more of a resume, really," said the tall, slim, sharply-dressed man to Bobbi's right. He held out a hand. "The myths do exaggerate somewhat."

Bobbi jumped. "Who-? Where did you-"

"Morse," Natasha said, "meet Loki, God of Mischief."

Her protege took his hand, and closed her mouth. "Charmed, I'm sure."


Russia

The sniper noted the Mafiya footsoldiers running out. Opening fire.

Suppressing fire.

No viable firing points on side of the building. Displace.

Need indirect offense. Grenades? Grenades. Bait gunmen, aim toward sound.

Grenade detonated in wrong location. Deflected. Method? Unknown.

Bow firing. Barton? Bishop? No known combatants in AO matching their physical profile.

Arrow. Heavy head, aimed high. Airburst? No. Drone. Camera drone. Neutralized.

Impacts to building. Inside. Moving. Deliberate. Demolition?

They're bringing the place down with me on top.

Displace.

Attach line. Descend, maximum speed. Woman in snow. Blonde. Priority target: Director Stevie Schmidt. Facing away.

Pull knife. Drop. Target... Not found? Illusion? Hologr-

"Pull!"

The sniper was blown across the snow.

The woman who approached him was holding an imaginary...shotgun? She was blonde, but she didn't look like Schmidt.

"Lock him down!" someone else yelled.

The assassin tried to move, and couldn't. Psionic?

"He's a big one!" the psychic said. "Not sure I can hold him!"

"Vanko!"

"Coming!" said a third woman. Russian accent, smoker, flanged. Heavy steps. Metal grinding. Suit?

There was a redhead. Resembled Schmidt.

"What," said the sniper, "did you do to your hair?"

That was...off-mission. But he wasn't sorry.

The redhead froze.

"V-V-Vanko. Grab his arms."

Something hard and cold pulled the sniper's arms wide. The blonde reached for his face.

He could've fought. Could've done something to keep her from pulling his mask off, exposing his skin to the cold air.

The sweat nearly froze on his cheeks.

So did the tears.

Schmidt pulled back.

"No. You can't-"

"Cap," said the blonde. "They made a mess in there. But I think he's remembering...you?" Her eyes widened. "Wait. What? You-"

"That's classified, Frost."

"I don't actually work for y-oh. Oh. S-sorry, ma'am."

Schmidt stared at the assassin for a second more, then closed her eyes and breathed in, like she did that rainy night somewhere in the backwoods of Poland, staring at a map on the hood of a car in the glow of a flashlight, when he realized that he-

She breathed out, and opened her eyes. And there she was. Focused. On-mission. That's my girl.

"Wrap him up," she said. "I'll take him to go."

"I have heard of him," Vanko said. "He is myth. A legend. Why send him to disrupt a simple arms deal? They could've sent one of their Sentinels."

Schmidt reached for the sniper's face, then went for his left arm instead. She ran a gloved finger over the grooves between the plates, over the spots where the white paint had worn off, revealing the bare metal underneath.

The sniper watched her. Watched the way her pupils dilated, the way her lips parted, just slightly. His training told him that these were signs of pleasure, but...but they meant something to him, personally. So did the slightly furrowed brow. Worry. Confusion.

Outside mission parameters. Remain silent until further instructions or opportunity for escape.

"Isn't it obvious?" Stevie said. "That's why they sent him. He's disposable now."

She turned away.

"The Winter Soldier," she said, over her shoulder, "is last year's model."


Hank Pym opened his door.

"Hi," Tony Stark said. "Can y-"

Hank Pym closed his door.

The redhaired man at the kitchen table pricked up his ears. "Who was that, boss?"

"Just some dick," Pym said.

-XMF-

This chapter was originally about Red with Thor and Hawkeye making the deal. Then I remembered that I hadn't given Cap much field time.

Jane's cousin Ruth is a reference to Sabra, a 616 Marvel superheroine.

One of the subtle themes of Civil War - spoilers for Civil War - is how Bucky's (state of the art in the 40s) enhancements are now outclassed, as Spidey and Black Panther demonstrate. The Stark Series Super Soldiers also hand him his teeth. In the Ferris-verse, the Sentinels are the pinnacle of non-psi human enhancement, making both Erskine and Zola look more like they invented Red Bull.

So why would HYDRA need Bucky anymore? Even in his titular movie, he was being sent on more and more overt missions, to "shape the century" "one last time", since they were just about to win.

...And now they've won.