A/N: Hello, guys! Thanks so much for your reviews and such. Hope you enjoyed the last chapter and the same goes for this one. Apologies for any errors. Tell me your thoughts. Adore you all!
Chapter 16: Bad Seeds in the Apple
The plane lands, and she smells damp saltiness and feels the breeze of the ocean. She hears the subtle sound of waves nearly drowned out by a nearby helicopter taking off. Her head is covered again, so she's still not positive where she is, but she's clever enough to guess. They wouldn't take her to the U.S. right away but to a base. She's likely on a ship. Likely a semi-impressive one if both an airplane and a helicopter are on the landing strip.
She's tired of being cuffed and blinded. But she might just be plain tired, too and sort of looks forward to the cell they'll put her in. The cell will likely have a cot. In the past fifty plus hours, she's slept maybe an hour and privileged only one proper meal. Her body wants to shut down. Her body houses a familiar achiness. She's no stranger to starvation and sleep-deprivation, but her system now recognizes it's no longer in danger and wants to recover.
Maybe…maybe she could go another day without sleeping, but she nourishment, or she'll pass out. Her metabolism is too fast for any of these people to know or understand. They starved and dehydrated her for two days before giving her a meal. She needs another, or she'll be of no use to the more formal interrogation they likely have planned for her.
They walk for what seems like a half hour. There must be no elevator on the ship. Just levels and levels of stairs, each step threatening to be the one to take advantage of her weakening knees. Finally, they have her sitting down at a table. The bag is taken off her head, and she promptly lowers it onto the surface. Her eyes flutter shut, and she's out for what feels like hours but is jerked awake at the pricking sensation of a needle being stabbed into her forearm.
She sits up straight and glares at the man in the white lab coat next to her. She's about to ask what he's doing when she notices the IV line and rack he's fiddling with, both attached to her. She reads the bags, afraid they're pumping her full of all kinds of narcotics in prep for a more interesting interrogation but is relieved to see he's giving her saline, lactated ringers, and dextrose. A rush of liquid cold chills and swells her veins, and she lets out a soft, shivering moan.
"Feeling better?" asks the man.
She nods lethargically and scans her surroundings, and she's in another interrogation room not unlike the one she left behind in Russia.
"I think your blood sugar is very low. I'm going to tell them you need something to eat," he says. He points at the line. "Don't try and remove that."
"Wouldn't dream of it," she mumbles.
He leaves the room and finds her eyelids slipping closed again. This time she just lets her head fall to her chest but couldn't have been asleep for ten minutes before the door opens again and for God's sake, it's Sitwell. She fantasizes about wrapping her IV line around his neck and choking the life out him.
He's not looking so put together at the moment. His tie's askew as are his glasses. He also appears to be dripping wet, and he's shouting at someone in the hallway. It sounds like Coulson.
"You are a junior officer," she hears Coulson accuse.
"I've been promoted to Level 5," fires Sitwell.
"In the last twenty-four hours? Listen, you can't just come in on that big fancy helicopter and steal her from me. You had nothing to do with her being apprehended. You were in Washington cozying up to those godforsaken politicians."
"Those politicians get us the funding for those zeroes on your paycheck."
"For as much brownnosing you do, there should be a hell of a lot more."
Sitwell sighs, adjusting his tie and righting his glasses. He paints a perfect mask of sympathy on his face. "Look, I get it, but it doesn't change anything. Her case has been handed over to me, and they want you and the team back in D.C. as soon as possible. I didn't take this from you, Coulson. I didn't ask for it."
"Sure you didn't," Coulson clips.
Hermione hears his footfalls fade, and Sitwell eventually closes the door and then looks at the mirror in the room pointedly, clearing his throat before looking at her with utter ambivalence. She tries to keep her own features schooled, but she can't help but narrow her gaze on him but a little. He rounds the table and sit down opposite her, his back to the mirror.
"My name is Agent Sitwell. I'll be over your case from now on."
"Pleasure," she replies dryly.
Sitwell fiddles nervously with the knot of his tie, and he's unable to hide the guilt in his expression He fouled up and knows it. She wonders if his superiors gave him hell. She certainly hopes so.
"Look, I imagine you're exhausted, so I'm only going to ask a few questions. We'll get to the meat of it tomorrow." He pauses and his eyes dart to the side. A rookie move of someone listening to their ear-com.
"I'm hungry," she tells him.
He smiles icily, and she can't tell if it's directed at her or the people likely yelling at him in his ear. "You'll be provided something when you're comfortable in your quarters."
"You mean my cell."
"A temporary situation." Sitwell smiles. "I read Agent Coulson's report. He sees promise in you and despite what you may have overhead just a few seconds ago, I respect him very much."
Hermione can't help but arch a brow because the man's not lying. Not putting on a show for the agents behind the mirrors. Sitwell's genuine on his words about Coulson, and Hermione reflects on her time spent with him. She got no HYDRA vibe from him. He's pure S.H.I.E.L.D., through and through.
She thinks of how Coulson gave her his blazer, her favorite meal, and looked at her with such raw conviction when he told her he believed her to be a good person. She had shrugged his naivety and ignorance off but if a fellow HYDRA operative his willing to vouch for a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, maybe she was too hasty to judge.
Maybe he did see something in her.
"I…" She hesitates and then discloses, "I can see why you would."
Sitwell removes a tape recorder from his breast pocket and pushes the recording button. "Just a few questions and we'll be done. I promise they won't be too hard."
She nods, a part of her now wishing Couslon the one to be here instead of Sitwell. Perhaps Coulson would've been more timely and notified her the enemy was on their way to take her in long before they reached her door step.
"State your full name and age."
"Milas Edda Abegglen. Twenty-three."
"Where were you born?"
"Dresden, Germany."
"How old were you when you were submitted into the Black Widow program?"
Hermione blinks, and she regards Sitwell in confusion. "Black Widow program…?"
"Intelligence has labeled—"
"I see." She holds up a hand to stop him from elaborating. "I was eleven when my uncle took me in where very shortly after, enrolled me into Chelintsov's program."
"Your uncle's name."
"Filpe Jankiv."
"Paternal or maternal?"
"Mother's side."
Sitwell takes out a handheld notepad and felt-tip marker, sliding both across the table towards her. "I would like for you to write down your instructors' names every girl you remember in the Red Room."
Hermione stares at the pen and notepad for a long moment and then flicks her a gaze back to Sitwell. "I'm sure Romanova gave you everything."
He sighs, dipping his chin. "I get it. We'll continue this tomorrow."
He gets up from the chair and looks at the mirror, crooking his fingers. The men who enter are different ones than before. Brock isn't among them, and she finds herself mildly annoyed he's not.
She's taken to an 10x10x10 cell with a constantly flushing toilet, but there's a cot welded to the wall, so she doesn't care. It looks like a pile of goose feathers to her, and she practically leaps onto it the moment she's free from her chains. She's halfway out before the unit shuts the door but is startled awake when the narrow slot on the door creaks open and tray slides through. She rushes at it and is only mildly disappointed when seeing a bowl of thin chicken soup, an almost stale roll, a fruit cup, and a carton of milk. It's no Baltic Sprat, but it's food.
She sleeps but it doesn't feel like very long, for she's taken out of the cell and put back into the interrogation room. Sitwell is waiting for her again, and he offers the same notepad and pen.
"Every girl in the Red Room, Agent Abegglen."
She keeps her eyes trained on him, her jaw set. Why was he asking this of her? They should already have the names.
"You already know. Romanova likely gave you all the names—"
"We want to compare—"
She drowns out his voice with her own thoughts, thinking why S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA wanted the information. HYDRA hadn't cared all that much at the time when she was in the Red Room on who she'd been training with. They never asked about the other girls, though she did mention Romanova on several occasions to Baron.
Hermione considers the notepad and imagines the girl's names on them and then it dawns on her why they're asking. It could possibly be they wanted it as a sign of good faith or compare it to the list Romanova gave them. But then again, there's a chance she never gave them a list of the Red Room girls. Because even though she switched sides, revealing every girl who attended would be the ultimate betrayal. Not of the KGB but of friendship. Sisterhood, even. It was a crime even the famous Black Widow couldn't commit.
It's a test. Sitwell. HYDRA, they're testing Hermione's loyalty. Again. If she doesn't write downs the names, she'll be seen as a traitor. They'll think she's gone native or something.
Oh, God, she wants to vomit. She can't. She can't do it. Those girls. Even though HYDRA always had her heart, the girls around her were the only tangible things keeping her sane when the walls would close in. They nurtured and instructed her better than teachers and better than the instructors at the HYDRA facility. Better than Baron.
She's not loyal to the KGB, but for those girls, she would almost do anything for them.
She swallows. "I can give you names of high-ranking operatives of the Chechen Republic who plan and organize attacks…"
Sitwell's expression turns somber and disappointed, and she lurches forward to grab his hands, surprising him. "You don't know what you're asking of me."
"I understand, Abegglen," he tells her softly. "I really do. But you will be tried and imprisoned for the rest of your life. Capital punishment could even be a possibility because we know not all the things you did in Kuwait and Pakistan were good. Civilian casualties. A maid at the hotel. A man you used as a living shield to protect yourself from gunfire. There are a few others. Romanova also may or may not have divulged that you killed in the Red Room an MI-6 agent and a CIA agent, both working as double agents."
Sitwell lets go of her hands and puts the pen in right one. It hangs loosely between her pointer and middle finger, and she says numbly, "Romanova didn't give you anything but me out of the Red Room. This isn't to compare anything."
Sitwell says nothing, and she stares at the blank sheet of notepad once more, realizing what she's about to do is worse than what Natalia did to her. If Coulson wasn't lying, then Natalia betrayed her to save her or something like that. Hermione writing down the other girls' names would be about saving her own skin.
She could lie. Make up names, but she'd be found out and then what?
Then what?
And really? She shouldn't be so attached. So sentimental. They're the enemy, but she can't help but hate herself and be enraged with HYDRA as she scribbles down twenty-six names which include the three who were killed.
Hermione reckons Natalia will regret coughing her up if the woman ever finds out what she did.
"Good," says Sitwell taking the pad from her. He has to wrench the pen from her grip, though, because she's contemplating stabbing him in the neck with it and painting Fuck You HYDRA on the walls with his blood before stealing his gun and blowing her own brains out.
God, she's being dramatic. But her insides hurt. She needs to shift gears. She needs to stop thinking emotionally.
She forces the ache from her chest and her mind to find peace in the larger picture that is HYDRA. These are small sacrifices and will lead to a more controlled and brighter future for everyone. These girls were practically her kin but could very well pose a threat to a new world order that will surely come soon.
Right?
She's shaking. Rage and grief toxify her bloodstream.
The pen breaks and ink drips over her hand.
"That's quite a grip you got there." Sitwell chuckles nervously, his eyes darting around pleadingly.
"You will not tell Natalia what I did."
Sitwell seems to consider her words and then his chin dips. "Your entire interrogation is entirely confidential."
"I would like to go back to my cell," she tells him.
"Your interrogation is just beginning."
"I would like to go back to my cell," she repeats.
Sitwell touches the skin below ear. "All right," he whispers. He then looks at her. "It's fine. We'll take you back. Get you some breakfast."
Breakfast is a bit more luxurious than dinner. And it could be because Sitwell or whoever sympathized she had to give up all those names. She is served French toast with fresh fruit and peppered bacon. The eggs are reconstituted, but everything else looks good. Even smells good. But tastes like ash. Her stomach coils and coils, heart low and souring in the pit of her stomach.
On the breakfast tray, there is a small capsule with two pills and a tiny note. For sleeping, it reads. She pops them into her mouth and downs them with the rest of her chocolate milk. After using the noisy toilet, she climbs into her cot and lets the pills do their magic. When she wakes up, there's a woman standing against the opposite wall, smartly dressed and sporting black-rimmed designer glasses. There should be a briefcase or something occupying her hands to complete the image of pure professionalism, but there's nothing. Her arms are folded softly and right above her ribs.
"Good afternoon, Agent Abegglen," says the woman, her voice rich and African accented. "I'm Dr. Diana Chikelu. I'm going to be helping you and assisting Agent Sitwell for the next while in adjusting to S.H.I.E.L. D. and seeing whether you'll make a great asset to us or a more fitting prisoner."
"Hm."
The woman steps forward and offers her hand. She's wearing a plain gold band on her middle finger. Hermione can see a small v-like shape engraved in it, and she purses her lips. The doctor is HYDRA but not a descendant from Red Skull. She's from an older sect of the theology where Hermione knows very seldom about, but just that Gideon Malick is deep in that part of it.
Hermione takes the woman's hand, shaking it. "Nice to meet you, Doctor."
In the back of his mind, Baron Von Strucker holds worry for Milas. He truly does. She's special to him, and if he allowed himself. he might even love her. But he's a practical man at the mercy of even more practical-minded people. They were right in saying she's a disaster waiting to happen. They're also right in saying it'd be foolish to kill her when there's a chance she may one day come in handy. Weapons akin to the atomic and hydrogen bombs aren't necessary for every hurdle HYDRA encounters, so they'll hold onto her despite her having her own mind.
But just in case she needs to be put down like a rabid dog...
There's a knock on his door, and Strucker allows the woman to enter his office. Ms. Bērziņš rushes in, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Good news, he takes it. After six years of failed tests and tireless research, a damn victory is due.
"Yes?" he asks.
She nods her head. "We have a break-through. We have stabilized the product."
"Excellent. Start human trials."
The woman bristles, her lips parting in surprise. "Mice are more practical. Besides, we don't have any human subjects ready-"
"The children."
"Strucker, no."
"They're shutting us down, Olga." Strucker slowly walks to his window. It's early. The sun is barely starting to discolor the night, and he sees small shadows clumped together, sprinting about. He feels for them. He really does. ""we are in the middle of a civil dispute. HYDRA does not want to put up the money for relocation. On top of that, the ones who graduate live an average of seven years before they are killed."
"Those are just the ones meant for the field.
"In the past thirty years, we have but produced maybe ten outstanding operatives." He gestures to the window. Her skin has paled considerably in the last few seconds. She knows she can argue all she wants, but the situation is out of their hands. These children, are in many ways, more hers and than his, and he can sense the devastation from within her. There are forty-seven children in the compound, and the serum is basically poison. As mentioned before, Strucker is a practical man. He knows forty-seven children won't be enough. All the tiny and pubescent bodies will reject the toxic elements but maybe then, he can move on to mice before taking on more human subjects.
"There must be another way."
"What would you suggest? Round them and get a firing squad?"
"Well, we can't just distribute it like it's their vaccinations. The first few die, they're going to put two and two together and know what's happening. They'll rebel. They'll fight us. They might even succeed. We trained them to."
"Then we distribute it all at once. Figure out a way."
Ms. Bērziņš gives a hesitant nod and then leaves when just a few minutes ago, she'd been so pleased and excited. A shame, really.
Strucker watches the younger teenagers take their turn around the facility. Such promise and energy in their uniform strides.
Such a shame.
To Be Continued...
