A/N: There's a bit of body shaming at the beginning of this chapter between two skinny characters, but it's very much framed as wrong. As always, if you have any questions or would prefer a version where it's omitted you can always let me know. Thank you!
Chapter Eighteen: Reign of Terror
"She's tired of planting her knees on the cold, hard floor of facts / Trying to act like the other girl acts." -Fiona Apple
The Red Room's policy on escaped widows had remained the same since its establishment in 1919—they needed to be eliminated. Nadiya Beliskova had attempted to flee the program in 1924 and been subsequently beheaded by Peter Koschev, that era's executioner. Katarina Sobolevskaya went missing after a mission in 1951. Three days later, her body was found in the Yangtze River, her teeth in a small velvet bag in her pocket. In 1983, Svetlana Boroskeva attempted to run away with her mark in Los Angeles. The Red Room had her buried alive in the Hollywood Forever Cemetery.
The point is—nobody escaped from the Red Room. Organizations like these had a standard expectation of dirt. That is, they harbored so many secrets that nobody came into contact with them and left in the same state. Every agent was a liability, and they had careful measures in place that functioned as a sort of insurance. Widows were no exception. Leaving meant loose ends.
The Executioner, historically, had been male, but as the world changed, the Red Room wasn't afraid to change as well. For any spider to thrive in its environment, it needed to adapt. Transform. Evolve.
January 19, 2013 - San Francisco, CA
Colette Lemire didn't like the Bay.
Working for the San Francisco Ballet Company had been fine, except that it was so obviously a step below her usual gig at the American Ballet Theatre back home. Not to mention–being in San Francisco was like being in Brooklyn: the rich people didn't know how to properly be rich. What should've been designer was from goodwill, and what should have been Michelin three-star was Yelp five-star.
It wasn't like she even had the comfort of knowing she'd be back on the Upper East Side soon. It was the opening night of Swan Lake, and she'd be stuck here performing it for another two months in this socialist hellhole. If she hadn't been dumb enough to sprain her ankle in Louboutin stilettos at last year's Met Gala, she wouldn't have ended up at a second-rate company this season, but she'd been stupid enough to try the cocaine her brother brought back from his "volunteer" trip in Israel and ended up wasted.
"How are you feeling?"
Colette looked up from her phone, where she'd been swiping mindlessly through tinder, to meet the eyes of one of the other principal dancers. Oksana something or another. She was mousy and small and had never spoken much in rehearsals. When the rest of the company went out for dinner, Colette and Oksana were usually the only two not to go. Colette knew she wasn't invited because she was a bitch, but she didn't know what Oksana's deal was.
They'd both arrived earlier than their call time, and were now in the dressing room alone. For that, at least, Colette respected her a bit more. Oksana was already beginning on the grueling process of the Black Swan's makeup; Colette didn't envy her. The White Swan's look was simple stage makeup, a routine that, by now, she knew well enough to do in her sleep.
"I'm fine," Colette replied, swiping left on the most recent guy bragging about her startup in his bio. "You?"
"Nervous," Oksana admitted, lifting her leg to the side of her head in a stretch. Colette noticed, with a pleased smirk, that Oksana's legs were slightly broader than her own. When the brunette dropped her leg, she cracked her knuckles and said, "This is my first principal role."
"Oh, it's not bad at all," Colette assured her, looking back down at her phone and pursing her lips. "I've had a ton. I was the Sylphe in La Sylphide last year. Super easy."
"Where?" Oksana asked, settling into her chair and pulling her bag—cheap and pink and tacky—onto her lap.
Colette set her phone aside, sensing that this conversation wasn't going to be ending anytime soon. "The American Ballet Theatre. It's in New York City. We perform at the Met."
"Wow," said Oksana. "That's very impressive. I'd love to live in New York someday." She rifled through her bag of makeup brushes. "I have...family there," she added.
"Where are you from?" Colette asked, reaching down to her bag for a hairbrush. She started pulling her blonde hair into a tight ponytail.
Oksana poured foundation onto the back of her hand and began stippling it over her sharp cheekbones with a brush. "Russia," she said, sounding sheepish. Her eyes darted over to Colette, ready to gauge her reaction. Good. This was how Colette liked it. Her favorite place to be was in control.
"Jesus," Colette remarked, trying to mask her carefully measured response. "They pump ballerinas out of Russia like it's a factory." She shifted in her chair and leaned back, propping her legs up delicately on the makeup table.
Oksana's reaction was disappointingly minimal. A slight laugh, and then she brushed her hair behind her ear. "It's important to many of us," she conceded. "It can be a way out. A path towards a brighter future."
"Yeah," Colette said absentmindedly, turning back to her own reflection. She watched her mouth as she added,, "Can't imagine what it must be like to grow up in a place like that. And to have to train there, too. I trained at the Paris Opera, if you've heard of it. It's very prestigious, and I—"
"I know of it," Oksana interrupted. She gave Colette another small smile. "I trained at the Bolshoi Academy."
Colette's mouth clicked shut, displeased. "Oh."
Oksana shrugged, still annoyingly humble about it all. "Paris is beautiful," she added. "Much more beautiful than Moscow, especially in the winter. It must have been fun to work there."
"It was," Colette answered, stretching her mouth into a thin, mocking smile. "But you wouldn't know."
Reeling as if slapped, Oksana stuttered before admitting, "No. I guess I wouldn't."
January 20, 2013 - Avengers Tower - Manhattan, NY
Audrey had been asleep when Fury called, and her dreams, as per usual, had been nightmares.
They'd been bad enough before she tanked her entire relationship with Bruce. The visions of the Soldier and a gun to her head, the Madame's fragile, bony fingers on her neck. The other girls. The words. Now they were worse. Now, Audrey dreamt of losing control.
When she slept, she dreamt of her body being puppeted while she was forced to watch through her own eyes as her hands became fists around the necks of the people she loved. And when Audrey woke up, there was nowhere to go. She spent no time on the common floor or in the labs; instead, her life had become an endless monotony of her apartment, the gym, and weekly therapy sessions.
Bruce had been her best friend and she'd ruined it. She'd been sloppy and messy and embarrassing, and he'd rejected her about three times in one evening, and the whole thing had been so horrific when she woke up the next morning and realized that she started avoiding him and then it felt too late to ever stop. So maybe she would just never speak to him again.
There was something very stupid about her, Audrey knew, but it was as if she couldn't help it. Whether she wanted to or not, it felt like every decision she made was the wrong one. And the worst part of it all was that nobody else on the team was creating this kind of chaos. Everybody else was professional and kind and she was horrible and messy and everything she did felt humiliating in some way, even if she couldn't explain how.
Her ringtone cut like a knife through the dream and Audrey jerked up, her neck tensing into a knot. Her whole body ached from the position she'd fallen asleep in—sitting on the floor in her living room, surrounded by files, the light still on. A sheet of paper stuck to her cheek with drool
She rolled her eyes at the contact name and slumped back against the front of her couch, one hand reaching up to massage the back of her neck. Closing the curtains had slipped her mind before she fell asleep, so when Audrey cast a glance out her window she was met with the glittering lights of a hundred Manhattan skyscrapers. Something about Manhattan made her feel miserable and lonely in a way that Brooklyn never had. Night, especially, filled her with an aching that seemed to split her chest open and leave her open and exposed.
Hitting the green button on her phone, Audrey braced for the worst. "Good morning, Carter. Sweet dreams?" Fury was cheeky, the only thing more menacing than his usual snark.
"Sweet as apple pie," she grumbled back.
"Glad to hear it. You've got twenty minutes to pack a bag."
For a moment, she considered protesting, but then she looked around at what she'd managed to accomplish in the last few weeks: tearing her way through Red Room files again before burying herself in anything S.H.I.E.L.D. had on the fall of the Soviet Union. Not very useful.
"Somewhere tropical?" she asked, even though she knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. had never been directly involved in sending agents to topple democracies in the global south—they only sponsored the external directives financially when coups did happen. It wasn't better.
"San Francisco. A bomb went off at the Ballet Company's opening performance of Swan Lake."
"Why is this S.H.I.E.L.D.'s jurisdiction? Bombing should be local police, or FBI."
"We already had an ongoing investigation at the 'Frisco Ballet. Human trafficking. Your old team, actually."
"Sir, nobody calls it Frisco."
"I do, and I'm your superior."
"Copy that. Can I ask why Tac Team Q isn't taking on this investigation as well?"
"They are. We're having Dubois look into ballistics and Liau run tests on the scene. But Carmichael and Biswas are currently following another lead regarding their previous investigation and Carmichael specifically asked for you to step in if anyone was going to cover her,"
"That's nice of you."
"I'm always nice."
Audrey didn't comment on that.
"Your ride will meet you on the Tower's landing pad. Bring an umbrella, I hear it's rainy in the Bay this time of year."
"Yes sir," said Audrey, and then the line went dead.
She blew out a breath and stared out at her empty apartment, now bathed in a dull yellow glow. Technically, Audrey knew that Fury couldn't make her go on the mission. Her request for six months of leave had been granted in October. But work—as retraumatizing as it might be—was better than nothing. And if Caroline had asked for her to step in, she owed it to her to help out.
Audrey flipped over to her contacts and found Lindsey.
[1:21] Audrey Carter: Are you in SF?
[1:22] Lindsey Dubois: Yeah. HQ's had us stationed here since the New Year. Caroline's been jetting back and forth.
[1:22] Lindsey Dubois: Why?
[1:23] Audrey Carter: Fury called me in.
[1:24] Lindsey Dubois: Heard that. They're sending Romanoff too.
Audrey raised an eyebrow. If Natasha was coming, she had a real reason not to be late. Mostly, since the news of her heritage had come out, Audrey had some pull at S.H.I.E.L.D. and was able to push for five minute extensions when she wanted to, but she wasn't going to play the legacy card with Natasha. She respected her too much.
[1:26] Audrey Carter: I'm heading out now. See you soon?
[1:26] Lindsey Dubois: You know it
After brushing her teeth and straightening up the pile of files on her table, Audrey threw the work clothes from the top of her drawer into her bag and headed up to the roof. It was freezing and windy when she stepped outside, especially so high above the ground. There'd been a break in the almost nonstop snowstorms a few days ago, but without the cushion of the clouds, a bitter chill had settled over the city.
A quinjet was waiting already, propellers deafening as if the wind wasn't enough. Natasha stood waiting, clad in heeled boots and a long, black coat. Audrey grimaced as the blades of the engine sent wind in her direction that managed both to be bone-chillingly cold and scalding hot.
"Good morning," Natasha greeted wryly.
"Morning, I'm all too painfully aware of. Good, I'm still questioning." Audrey gestured with her arm towards the ramp, and Natasha took the opportunity to head inside the helicopter. Audrey followed, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.
Besides the pilot, they were the only two people in the jet. It was more than strange to be alone together. Even if they lived together, and had seen each other on what basically amounted to a daily basis, Audrey didn't totally know if Natasha trusted her. Audrey wasn't even sure which was the easier option: if Natasha didn't trust her, Audrey was determined to fight tooth and nail to convince her. If Natasha did, Audrey needed to make sure she didn't accidentally mess things up horribly.
Natasha leaned into the cockpit as Audrey settled, buckling into one of the seats. "All passengers are accounted for," she told the pilot, then sliding the dividing door shut. "You've got toothpaste in your hair," she told Audrey.
Audrey jerked a hand up to her hair and found, miserably, that Natasha hadn't been lying. In that moment, there wasn't much she could do about it, but it wasn't exactly easy to ignore. She threaded and unthreaded her fingers anxiously. "Well," she said dumbly.
"What are we looking at?" Natasha asked.
Reaching for the button on the holographic display table, Audrey shuffled in her seat, eventually growing annoyed with the chest restraint and releasing it. Several briefing files were presented to her and Audrey opened the first, skimming through it. Tactical Team Q had been investigating Briony Byrne, an Australian dance teacher, for human trafficking for the past month, suspecting that she had been bringing girls into the United States to act as ringers for various ballet companies. The investigation had been stalled for the last few days, and they'd almost considered shutting it down due to a lack of evidence until last night, when an explosive had gone off in the middle of the pas de deux between Odile and the Prince in—
"Swan Lake," Natasha laughed bitterly.
Audrey raised an eyebrow cautiously. If Natasha was laughing at something that wasn't at Clint or Tony's expense, it was probably not a good thing. "Swan Lake…" she repeated slowly.
"I did Swan Lake," Natasha explained. "Several times. I was the best Black Swan the Bolshoi Theater ever had."
Sometimes, Audrey got so caught up in the assassin part of the Red Room's history that she completely forgot about the ballet component to the Black Widow Program. There was a reason that Natasha's fighting was always so elegant, and it hadn't developed from sparring. Imagining her in a pancake tutu and tights was beyond Audrey's imaginary capabilities, so she pushed the thought from her head.
"Nobody was killed, but two girls were injured," Audrey said, reading through the incident report that Tac Team Q had submitted. "Oksana Godunova and Colette Lemire."
"Godunova. Russian," Natasha noted.
Audrey was afraid to make any connections prematurely, but human trafficking, ballet, terrorism, and the Russians had a very specific brand to it. "I'm pulling their files," she said, reaching for her laptop and logging into the S.H.I.E.L.D. database. Usually, she didn't have the luxury of every single person's information, but the existing S.H.I.E.L.D. investigation had called for recon. After a moment, she was able to retrieve their intel reports.
At first, she couldn't tell if Oksana's file was short, or if Colette's was just extremely long. Six DUIs, three cocaine charges that had been dropped, a car accident in Paris, assault of a security guard in Brussels, and twelve million instagram followers. Born in New York, educated in Paris, and currently residing in Manhattan's Upper West Side. Next to her, Oksana's file was bare. Born in Kazan, educated in Moscow.
"Oksana was trained at the Bolshoi Theater," Audrey read aloud, eyes flying up to meet Natasha. "Without jumping to conclusions, can I ask–"
"The Red Room contracts dancers to the Bolshoi," Natasha replied flatly, her lips straightening into a miserable looking line.
"But Bolshoi dancers aren't all Red Room, are they?" Audrey asked.
"No, no," Natasha answered. "Most of them are—they're normal. The Widow program contracted out so that the girls who had family left could see proof that their daughters were actually receiving a prestigious ballet education."
"Right," Audrey said. "So it might not be—Oksana could be a normal person."
From across the jet, Natasha gave her a get real look. Audrey chose to continue hoping, if only because she had come away from her last encounter with the Red Room deeply, deeply scarred, and she was less than excited about another run-in with them.
Still, she kept talking. "The Red Room wouldn't contract with—with a ballet company in San Francisco," she pressed. "That's not even a very pro-Russian city compared to other cities in the United States. Let alone the world."
Lifting an eyebrow in consideration, Natasha nodded slowly. "That's true. They tend to keep all their assets in one place. It makes management easier. Missions were always quick and highly supervised."
"So how did you get away?" Audrey asked, before she could stop herself.
Natasha gave her a glare that warned of something worse if Audrey didn't hold her tongue. Even so, she answered the question, albeit curtly. "I played dead."
January 20, 2013 - San Francisco, CA
Though the fire had been put out, the San Francisco Ballet was in shambles when Audrey and Natasha arrived. They'd both spend the hours aboard the quinjet studying up on any relevant files. It was much quicker to travel via government issued jet, but the cross-country flight had still been long.
S.H.I.E.L.D. agents from the San Jose base had done a sloppy job of wrapping the building in yellow tape, but it was effective enough. Audrey ducked under the line of tape the same way she did when she was jumping into the ring for a sparring session. Immediately, she was met with the smell of burnt wood.
Across the room, Audrey recognized Claudia's distinct figure as she leaned down to collect samples of something.
"Is this place evacuated?" Audrey asked the agent by the door.
"Mostly, ma'am," he responded. "We have the two victims who were onstage still onsight for questioning." He pointed to two girls, who were sitting on the velvet chairs in the orchestra section of the theater, both wrapped in shock blankets.
"Thank you," Audrey said. She turned to Natasha. "How do you want to play this?"
"One at a time," Natasha said after a moment. She folded her arms across her chest. "Somewhere more private than the theater's house, hopefully."
Audrey nodded. "Okay."
The two girls were talking to each other in low, even voices when Audrey and Natasha reached them. Both looked up, dark circles around their eyes and blood smearing their faces. Colette's leg was in a cast, and Oksana's wrist had been strapped into a brace.
"Hi," Audrey greeted, smiling gently at them. "I'm Agent Carter, and this is Agent Romanoff. We work with S.H.I.E.L.D."
Oksana offered a small, polite smile. Colette just rolled her eyes.
"You took so fucking long to get here. I just want to go home," she snapped.
To be fair, they had been kept almost four hours after an extremely traumatic event. Audrey couldn't blame Colette for being annoyed with them, especially given the circumstances. She eyed the cast on Colette's leg—it went past her knee; Audrey wasn't anything near a doctor, but she doubted Colette would ever be returning to pointe ballet again.
After exchanging a look with Natasha, Audrey settled next to Colette. "We'll arrange for you to head back to New York as soon as we ask you a few questions about everything that happened."
"I want a lawyer," Colette demanded.
"Okay," Audrey said. "Call your lawyer."
She furrowed a brow. "But he's in New York. Can't you get me one from here?"
"You're not under arrest, though. We just want to collect a statement."
Colette groaned. "Fine. I'll have my dad send a lawyer here."
"Okay, great," Audrey said. "He can observe both of your statements."
The younger blonde opened her mouth, as if to protest, but Natasha shifted at Audrey's side and right after, Colette clicked her mouth shut. Audrey wasn't sure what the assassin had done to warn her, but it had worked. She leaned back and pulled the blanket tighter around her.
"I'm gonna check in with Liau," Audrey told Natasha, who nodded. She turned, leaving her with the girls and heading towards the stage. Claudia was humming "Don't Stop Believing" to herself as she photographed the blast from different angles, a song that Audrey had never liked and found ever worse in this context. From her pocket, she dug out a pair of latex gloves. "Hey," she greeted.
Claudia looked up and jerked back in surprise, nearly falling into the gaping hole that the blast had left in the stage. "Oh," she said. "It's you."
"Yes," Audrey replied, trying not to take offense at her less-than-enthused tone. "So. What do we have?"
Claudia stood up from her squat and shrugged. "Not much, yet. We collected everything that seemed to be from the bomb's casing and Lindsey's back at HQ trying to reassemble and material-trace. I'm searching for fingerprints but it's a stage. We don't know the identities of every single person who's ever touched it."
None of that was good news. Audrey reached down and traced over the jagged edge of the hole. "How far into the show were they?"
"I don't know shit about ballet, but like two-thirds through. I couldn't give you a plotpoint."
"That's okay."
"Ceiling and vaulting didn't collapse, which suggests it was small. It's a bit of an odd-looking scene." Claudia pointed up at the ceiling. "The lights moved, but they didn't fall. Unnaturally controlled for a bomb."
Well, that was something at least. A weird bomb was better than a standard one. Standard bombs could usually be traced to manufacturers, but then it became an ordeal of subpoenaing sales records and involving less-than-wholesome contacts in the mission of finding out who had purchased it. Tracing weird bombs, though less clear-cut, involved less steps between beginning and end.
"Anything else?" Audrey asked.
"The little Level Ones are sweeping the audience seats, but a lot of stuff was left behind when everyone started running," Claudia replied. She hopped off the stage and Audrey followed, watching as she retrieved a giant plastic bin from the front row. "It's all here. Mostly those stupid tiny purses with no handles."
"Clutches?"
Claudia rolled her eyes. "Yes. Those. The worst."
She shoved the box into Audrey's chest and the blonde nearly stumbled back. "Thanks," she grunted, digging her heels into the floor and watching as Claudia climbed back onto the stage, camera still in hand.
The lost-and-found smorgasbord of shawls and purses could at least be something. the bomb's position on the stage meant that it was unlikely to have been an audience member, but with no better leads to chase, Audrey set the box down in the aisle and started sorting through it.
Mostly purses. Coat check hadn't been touched, but Audrey resolved to check if the bin yielded nothing. Identification, and other significant things, were usually kept with a person instead of being left behind. Clutches. Small, designer wallets holding California driver's licenses and multiple credit cards. Audrey scanned each one with her phone, running them through the S.H.I.E.L.D. database, but they each came back with matches.
A loud, tinny vibrating began to shake the entire box. Audrey rummaged through, her gloves catching on the clasps of purses. A phone ringing wasn't surprising—loved ones trying to get in touch after a traumatic event. Still, she dug through scarves and shawls to find it.
When she finally grabbed it, Audrey raised an eyebrow. Who used a flip phone anymore? The clock was set completely wrong, as if it had only been recently purchased. Even the minutes didn't line up—Audrey's own watch read 4:53 am, still set to East Coast time. The phone in her hand said 7:19 pm.
"Natasha?" she called over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off of the device. She flipped the phone over, finding that the bottom half still had a protective plastic sheet over it. It had been purchased recently and set up haphazardly.
"What's up?" Natasha asked, bending over at Audrey's side to see the phone.
"It was ringing. Time's off. Bottom's still got plastic on it."
"It's a burner," Natasha said. "Can I see?"
Audrey nodded, placing the phone delicately into Natasha's gloved hand. She straightened, watching as the redhead analyzed it carefully.
"Taking a burner phone to the ballet is a bit out of place," she remarked. "Wonder if—"
The phone started ringing again, but Natasha just spoke over it.
"I wonder if we can pick up prints from the plastic?"
"Claudia?" Audrey called.
Claudia looked up and Audrey waved her over. After she hopped off the stage again, Natasha held the phone up. "Can you get prints from this? Plastic was left on the bottom."
Claudia shrugged. "Yeah. I don't even need to pull them, I can just take the sheet off. Here?" Natasha passed the phone to her, and it started ringing again. Claudia peeled the plastic off and pulled an evidence bag from her pocket, placing the sheet inside. She handed the phone back to Natasha.
"Huh," Natasha said, leaning into the screen. "499. That's a Moscow area code."
Audrey winced. "So...a burner phone getting calls from a Moscow number is found on the scene of a bombing that involved a ballerina trained in the same place as the Red Room contracts out dancers." This case was looking less and less normal with each development.
The buzzing died out, only to immediately pick up again. Natasha slipped her thumb through the phone's jaw and flipped it open, holding it between her and Audrey's ears and pressing the speaker.
"That little swan better be careful before somebody wrings her neck." Natasha pulled the phone away from her ear cautiously, ending the call. She didn't say it—neither of them did—but for once, Audrey knew what Natasha was thinking. Red Room.
Natasha scrolled through the phone's call history. It began only a few hours earlier, and was made up entirely of the same 499 number. No voicemails, no contacts, nothing.
"I know that voice," Natasha said after a moment. Her stormy expression grew even darker. "Tatiana Denisova."
In all the files on the Red Room that Audrey had consumed, she hadn't found anything on Tatiana Denisova. Most of the files on the Widow program didn't include names, and if they did, they were dead ends, ghosts, and aliases. Nothing tangible.
Natasha noticed her look of confusion. "The Executioner."
Blowing out a breath, Audrey tried to sort out her thoughts. "It sounds kind of self-explanatory, but do you think you could explain to me what the Executioner does? just to...confirm."
Natasha gritted her teeth. "The Red Room likes to keep things clean. The Executioner ties up loose ends. If Widows escape. If a kill goes wrong and there are witnesses. It's about eliminating anything that endangers ongoing missions or could leak intelligence."
"Right." Audrey pursed her lips. "Can we trace the number?"
"We can try," Natasha said, "but it's definitely been re-routed a few dozen times. Tracing it will give them enough time to cut off the number and sever all ties to the phone company." She jutted her chin out to the door. "Lawyer's here," she said.
Audrey followed her eyes to the towering bald man in the doorway, arguing with the agent Audrey had spoken to earlier.
"Can someone please do something?" the man called. "I'm here to see my client, Colette Lem-eye-r. Le-meer? Whatever. I'm here to see her."
This was the best lawyer that Colette's money could buy? Audrey wasn't complaining, but she felt like there had to be some sort of catch.
"You ready?" Natasha asked.
"Yeah," Audrey returned, even though she felt anything but. She dug her nails into her palm. The Red Room had kidnapped her for a few days, but they'd controlled Natasha for the better part of her life. If she could go into this unafraid, Audrey should've been able to do that too.
She recalled Bruce and his verdict on bravery. It brought an ache to her chest that she didn't have time to deal with, but the core of it all held true. It wasn't about whether or not she felt afraid—it was about what she did in spite of it.
And for now, Audrey decided she would do her job.
"Can you tell us what happened?" Audrey asked Colette. They'd moved up to the mezzanine for some privacy, and she and Natasha had clustered around the front row of seats. Colette's crutches were digging into Audrey's ankle, but she bit her tongue.
"I have a pas de deux in the third act," Colette said. "I enter stage left as Odile exits stage right." Audrey didn't know enough about ballet to know off the top of her head who Odile was, but she guessed from context that it was Oksana. "I've rehearsed this a thousand times. I can do the combinations in my sleep." She rolled her eyes. "You know, I used to dance in New York?"
"You mentioned that, yes," Natasha grunted.
"Anyway, then a bomb went off."
Well. It was a concise retelling of events, if anything.
"Do you remember anything from after?" Audrey asked.
"Uh," Colette said, giving her a look like she was stupid. "No, I don't, I had just gotten bombed."
"Right," Audrey said, bracing her hands on her knees. She knew this wasn't going to be very helpful, since Colette was determined not to cooperate and she wasn't going to try and force her to. Not when she had just survived a bombing and probably had to reckon with a very sudden change of career plans.
"Have you ever been to Russia?" Natasha asked.
"Ew," said Colette. "No, gross. My parents are proud patriots. They would never let me go anywhere communist."
Audrey narrowed her eyes, trying to figure out if Colette was aware that the Soviet Union had collapsed more than twenty years earlier, or if the fact that it had ever existed at all was enough for her parents to ban her from visiting. She didn't ask. Instead, she stood and said, "Thank you for your time. I hope you feel better, and here's my business card if you ever need to get in touch."
Colette took the card, gave her a smarmy smile, and then tore it in half, dropping the paper on the ground and grabbing her crutches. A less than productive interview, but at least they were covering all their bases.
When they retrieved Oksana, Audrey said, "The lawyer can stay for your interview, as well."
To her surprise, Oksana shook her head. "I would rather speak to you alone."
"Okay," Audrey said, sending a cautious look in Natasha's direction. "Come with us, then."
They settled back in the mezzanine, where Oksana fidgeted nervously with her hair. Audrey waited for a moment as she relaxed. The charcoal-dark makeup she'd been wearing was smeared into something fearsome looking, and her tattered tutu matched. She looked young—younger than Colette. Impressively young to be dancing a main role at a prominent ballet theater.
"Can you tell us who you are?" Audrey asked. "Name and birthdate."
"Oksana Kristina Godunova." Her voice was incredibly small. Audrey almost leaned in to hear it. "I don't know my birthday but I'm seventeen years old."
Audrey nodded slowly, watching as Oksana's features tightened and she began blinking rapidly. "Okay," she said. "Thank you, Oksana. Do you know where you were born?"
"I'm from the Red Room," Oksana blurted out, her tears spilling over. She pointed to Natasha, who stood by the railing with her arms crossed. "I need your help. Please. They're trying to kill me. I don't—"
She took several ragged breaths, and Audrey leaned forward. "It's okay," she told her. "You can take as much time as you need. We're here to listen to you and to help you."
Oksana hiccupped and swiped at her eyes. "I don't want to do it anymore. You gave me hope, when you left. And then you were on the news. I just—I want to escape from them. I don't want to be a widow anymore."
Natasha sat down at Oksana's side. "Tell me what happened."
The girl sniffled, and looked over at Audrey nervously. She took that as her cue to leave. "I'll be downstairs when you're done."
"How is she?" Audrey asked, when Natasha met her by the coat check. Everything else was pointing towards the Red Room, and she needed Natasha's interview notes to move forward, but she figured that killing time in a way she could pretend was productive when she wrote up her mission report would be better than nothing.
"Shaken," Natasha said. Her eyes were sharp when they met Audrey's. "She killed her handlers to get out. They've been chasing her for a while, but she ended up in a bad deal with that Briony woman."
"We need to get her into witness protection," Audrey said. "I can make the call now."
"No," Natasha objected. "No, witness protection isn't good enough. The Red Room will still find her."
"They didn't find you," Audrey argued. "This is S.H.I.E.L.D. They can handle it."
"The Red Room still found me," Natasha said, and nothing more.
Audrey blew out a breath. Natasha knew better than she did. "Okay. Well. Where's the safest place to keep someone from the Red Room? Where are they the least likely to find her?"
Even as she asked, Audrey knew the answer to the question. It seemed Natasha did too, judging by the way that she sighed as if bracing for bad news. "Probably Stark Tower," she admitted.
"Yeah," Audrey agreed pathetically, dropping her eyes and instead focusing on the charred stage. "It makes sense. Biometric-based security system. 24-hour surveillance. I mean—us, also. The Avengers."
She lifted both her brows in acceptance. "Yeah. Can't argue with that." Natasha pocketed her hands. "Are you good to stay here? I'm gonna take the jet back to the Tower with her while we decide what to do."
"What about Tatiana?" Audrey asked.
The smile that Natasha gave her was more menacing than anything else. "She's a loose end we'll have to tie up."
A/N: Hello everybody! I know this note is really long but please read! I hope you are all staying safe and well right now, especially if you are protesting—please be sure to take proper safety precautions to defend yourself physically, emotionally, and legally. Unfortunately, I am unable to go out and protest due to my health circumstances, but I also know that it is a privilege for me as a non-Black person to be able to choose to stay home and like. Write Avengers fanfiction.
I've decided to try and acknowledge this privilege beyond just an author's note, so I want to share that I'll be donating a dollar to the Black Visions Collective for every chapter I've posted so far, and then again for every chapter I post in the future for the entire series. I will also be donating two dollars for every review I receive for the rest of the fic (or until I run out of money, as I'm currently not working—I will let you know when that happens). I'll provide proof of donation on the fic's tumblr (new url), bravadoseries. I'm also doing a gif fundraiser for other oc authors! Information is on my blog as well, but the gist of it is that if you provide proof that you donated $5 or more to an organization that is supporting the Black Lives Matter movement, I will make you any cover, graphic, edit, gifset, etc. that you want.
As always, thank you so much for reading and let me know how you felt about this chapter! Until next time :)
Chapter 19: A Web Unravelled
"Access file," Audrey commanded.
The computer pinged with an error message. "404: file recently deleted," the AI's voice came back.
She scrunched up her eyebrows. "Deleted when? And by who?"
"File deleted on December 14, 2012. Executive action ordered and approved by Margaret Carter."