A/n: This fic is #1 in a series of 3 connected multi-chapter fics. They will be fully written and will be posted one after the other in the coming months. Parts 2 and 3 will feature a different combination of Avengers, so don't worry if you don't see your fav here just yet—they're coming in the new year. ;)
[ NATASHA ]
"If the Universe came to an end every time there was some uncertainty about what had happened in it, it would never have got beyond the first picosecond." – Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency
Natasha hadn't stopped running since the moment she'd woken.
She had opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by nighttime in some decrepit old building. Natasha sat up, aching and sore, her mind sluggish and fuzzy. Dim firelight from outside flickered along the cracked walls. What the hell? She glanced around to see where her team was, when there was series of bangs and pops. Bits of shrapnel rained down from the wall as bullets punctured the cement.
Natasha had leapt to her feet, all senses and instincts on alert. She'd dodged and rolled, reaching for her own gun but finding it missing. She couldn't see where her attackers were, though, and spun away from the bullets flying to dart into the next room. From there, the next wall was mostly just a giant hole leading out to a darkened urban landscape, and she ran. She didn't know where she was. She tried to take stock of her surroundings but the gunfire followed her. She ducked and sprinted.
Wherever she was, it was a war zone. Buildings crumbled against each other, burned out and blackened shells. They were reduced to rubble or were abandoned, decaying skeletons with sooty scaffolding reaching helplessly to the night sky. Debris and garbage littered the streets, barrels of fire sat scattered at intervals like streetlights. The only people she caught glimpses of seemed to be the ones shooting at her: shadows in windows or lumpy, blurred shapes that pursued her as she sprinted onwards.
"That's it! Run, you craggin' Scud!" someone hollered after her. She peeled away from another round of gunfire.
Natasha looked for signage as she ran—any clue to where she was. There was evidence of shops and stores, long since gutted, the signs above their doors covered with years of graffiti. She passed a shop holding a charred mannequin, painted white; a rope circled its neck. On the wall behind it, read sprayed painted words: Fuck the Coalition!
She slowed her pace for a second to stare. The Coalition ? She didn't recognize the name at all. Before she had time to further question it, bullets spattered over her head. With a jolt, Natasha took off again.
She raced for her life for what felt like a long time—perhaps twenty minutes, now. Her adrenaline kept her going, but fatigue was fast taking its toll and she struggled to keep going. The bullets aimed her way grew fewer and farther between—she'd lost her pursuers perhaps eight or so minutes ago, but she refused to slow too much and chance that they'd catch up to her.
Her limbs burned and the cramp in her side twinged with each hard step. Her pace had decreased significantly, and sweat soaked her clothes, but the edges of the dead city finally neared. Past them, there were no more lit garbage cans or piles of burning debris; it was a lake of darkness, unbroken with no moon or stars visible above. A crooked, broken metal sign once marking the city limits had been spray-painted with the words: Dead Zone.
Natasha forced her body to keep going, aiming for the black. She could survive in the shadows. She'd been doing that all her life.
Natasha doggedly put one foot in front of the other. The darkness was thick and stretched for eternity.
After leaving the urban area bursting with shooters behind, she had so far discovered nothing but empty desert, spotted with boulders, random debris, and the odd cactus or desert shrub. The sky was devoid of any stars; probably hidden by cloud cover. It was inconvenient; spotting the moon or some constellations right now might at least be able to help her nail down a continent.
As it was, Natasha was fairly confident she could rule out Canada and most of Europe. There were no deserts like this—open, flat, and red—in Canada. The longer she walked without running into any signs of life, the more certain she grew that her location was not in Europe. She would've been able to see something in the distance by now if it had been. But no faraway city lights colored the sky faintly orange, no sounds of planes broke the silence, no sign of animals marred the ground—nothing. Just her and her tired feet crunching over dirt, sand, and occasional clumps of spiky grass.
She wished the blast hadn't damaged her watch so she could've at least had an estimate of how much time had passed. She knew from experience that adrenaline and then the lack thereof could make time seem to pass far slower than it actually was. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed she'd left the burning city far behind. Based on distance alone, she guessed she'd been walking for a solid two hours.
Natasha did her best to logically sort out what had happened to her and the team, and what her next course of action ought to be. But with so many unknowns, it was a frustrating course of thought. She hoped wherever the rest of her team was, they were faring better than her.
Relief washed over Natasha when a dark building loomed in the distance, though it was quickly replaced by wariness and a spike of alertness. She didn't relish getting shot at again. Instead of approaching the building head-on, Natasha skirted it wide, coming at it slow and using the various boulders scattered around for cover when she could.
A heavy-duty fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the building. Her first thought was, Thank God, a government building, because that was something she could work with, even if it happened to be an unfriendly one. She infiltrated buildings like this on a regular basis. Hell, maybe if she was really, miraculously lucky, they'd even be affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D. and she'd be able to get in touch with Fury or someone.
However, as she observed the building more closely as best as she could in the dark, it was as shelled-out as the city she'd left behind. The front gate had been blasted open at some point and was a dusty twist of metal. The building itself was missing most of its roof and all of its windows. A swift perimeter check revealed the entire back half of the building was fire-damaged and riddled with holes.
Natasha frowned. What kind of a warzone had she woken up in?
Even as abandoned as it appeared on the outside, Natasha wasn't stupid. She was no stranger to warzones. Everything wasn't always as it appeared. Just because a building looked empty didn't mean there wasn't half an army hiding inside. But seeking shelter for the rest of the night seemed like a good idea. She could regroup in the morning and give her aching limbs a rest while she could. She retrieved a knife from her belt.
Natasha was as silent as the shadows around her as she made it to the building. She crept past walls, slipped in through open windows, and kept her knife out and ready. Her senses were on high alert, her body fluid and ready for any threat… but none came. As she moved about the building, she discovered nothing but dust and rubble.
Satisfied and weary, Natasha chose the far corner of a room in the least-damaged section of the building, and settled down for a light sleep. She didn't loosen her grip on her knife, though, just in case.
"Hey. Hey. "
Natasha blinked and jumped to her feet, the sleep fog clearing fast as she got into a fighting stance, knife out and ready.
"Hey, whoa, relax," the man in front of her threw his hand up in defense. His other arm shouldered a large gun, however, so Natasha did anything but relax.
In the time it took for the guy to take a few steps back and put his hand up, Natasha had already taken in the entire scene before her. One man: tall, blonde, stubbly beard, scarred arms, large gun, five feet straight ahead. Three men and one woman behind him, all armed, wary and suspicious but not yet on the offensive, ten feet away. Another woman, also armed, standing guard at the room's entrance, back to the others.
The group was clearly some sort of team, though, judging by their stance and organization, they were not military. At least, not all of them—the black woman standing guard and the red-headed guy to left of the blond in front of her both held themselves like former military. It was also daylight outside, probably morning, though there was an unusual hazy quality to the sunlight streaming in the holes in the ceiling.
"Where're you from?" the blond man asked. There was an odd lilt to his voice, some accent Natasha couldn't quite identify yet.
She had no idea where she stood with these people—enemy? Or friend?—nor what kind of an answer to give. New York? Russia? she thought. Out there? That city back there where everyone was trying to kill me?
"I'm Garrett," said the blond with an amiable nod, as if introducing himself would put her at ease. He peered at her with concern. "You keen?"
Before she could reply, the eyes of the brunette woman to Garrett's right went wide with astonishment. "Holy cragging hell, she's unclassified."
Garrett's gaze went to Natasha's hands and he gaped at her.
He lifted his arm up and she tensed, ready for an attack, but he merely showed her his wrist. Encircling it was a tattooed band of white. Natasha flicked her eyes to the others. Of the wrists she could see that were not shielded by clothing or weapons, they each had a band of color tattooed on them. A few sported a blue-gray one, two wore black. She couldn't see if anyone else had white like Garrett.
"How's that even possible?" the red-headed guy behind and to the left of Garrett asked nervously.
"She must've had rebel parents who kept her hidden," Garrett replied with a shrug, lowering his arm, but he sounded unconvinced. To Natasha, he said, "That about right?"
Natasha hated feeling so in the dark and completely off-kilter like this. She had yet to glean any information to help her determine whether being a rebel's kid was a good thing or a bad thing with this crew. She didn't love the idea of taking a 50—50 shot at her answer, only for them to kill her if she chose wrong. Granted, none of them seemed aggressive, but most people didn't immediately seem aggressive.
And what the hell did he mean by 'unclassified'?
Taking in her still defensive stance and tight-lipped silence, Garrett raised both his hands slowly to shoulder height.
"Hey, look, we're not here to hurt you," he said. He dipped his head and fixed her with his open, seemingly sincere, blue-eyed stare. "We were patrolling past the Dead Zone when we found you. We were only checking to make sure you weren't a Scud."
"Or a Coal," one of the men tattooed with a black band chipped in.
Garrett smiled. "Yeah, or a Coal."
Natasha had no clue what the hell they were talking about and told them so.
Garrett's handsome face pinched with confusion. "Wait, what do you mean?"
"What do you mean? Where am I?" she tried instead.
The people surrounding her exchanged puzzled and mildly concerned looks.
"In the desert outside the Dead Zone," the brunette woman answered.
"No, what country ?" Natasha bit out, hating that she had to ask. It felt like tipping her hand and she already was at a major disadvantage.
Garrett peered at her like she was on drugs. "New Australia," he said. "Were you captured? Did the Coals do something to you? They bleach you? It wouldn't be the first time we've run into this sort of cragging shit."
It was like he was speaking a brand new language. New Australia? Coals? What the hell? At least now she could place the accent influencing his voice, though it was mixed with shades of other accents. But New Australia? Natasha was pretty damn good with geography. There wasn't a country called New Australia.
But she could also tell when people were lying, and this Garrett guy absolutely believed the words he was saying. His eyes had taken on a look of genuine worry that was as confusing to her as the words coming out of his mouth. He frowned and swore under his breath.
"I think she's definitely been bleached," he said to his companions. To Natasha, he held out his hand carefully, palm out, his features open and trusting. "Look, it's okay, we can help you. We don't work for the cragging Coalition, and we're not Scuds either."
"Not anymore," the man with a black band on his wrist assured her.
"We shouldn't be lingering out here with all that open space," Garrett continued. He gestured at the desert visible through the nearest crumbling, glassless window. "We'll get you to a base and we can talk. Sound keen?"
Natasha had a thousand and one questions. The last thing she wanted to do was blindly trust this stranger and his band of weapon-wielding pals. But what choice did she have? They hadn't killed her outright which was a good sign, but they severely outnumbered her.
She decided to go with them for now, until better options (or answers) presented themselves. She relaxed her stance and lowered her knife but didn't let her guard down in case this was all a trick.
Before she had the chance to say anything, however, one of Garrett's companions stationed outside as a lookout hollered out a warning.
"Incoming beamer!" he shouted. "Get gone, get gone! "
Garrett's team readied their weapons as they ran for the nearest exit, yelling orders and commands back and forth. Natasha barely refrained from breaking Garrett's arm when he snatched up her wrist and started running, recognizing he was trying to help her and not trying to hurt her.
Gunfire erupted outside, and Garrett dove for cover. Natasha followed. There was the sound of roaring engines, more gunfire, and Garrett told her to stay put. He jumped up and ran out of sight. Voices screamed in pain, and Natasha's hands shook as she squeezed the hilt of her knife.
Usually, if she was in a warzone, she knew who the enemy was. She would have an idea of who was shooting at her, and most of all, she usually was at least somewhat familiar with the location and could formulate an exit strategy.
Now, she had never felt more blind and frightened.
She wanted to bolt, but where the hell would she run? She had no clue where on the globe "New Australia" was, no idea if running north or west would take her to safety or civilization or into the waiting arms of the enemy. But she sure as hell couldn't stay here and get shot either, no matter what Garrett had said. Frankly she didn't know him from Adam, and she had no reason to trust him yet aside from the fact that he hadn't shot her dead the moment he found her.
She took a deep breath, shoving her fear deep, putting it away to feel later. She peeked over the crumbling wall she crouched behind. A handful of bodies littered the ground. The gunfire moved a little farther away, to the south. She braced herself and took off for the north entrance.
The moment she crossed the threshold of the building, she regretted her decision.
A dozen men and women clad in white-and-black armour were waiting for her. Her instincts flew into overdrive. Natasha kicked and punched, knocking away guns and batons. Something struck her between her shoulder blades, like a quick stab of electricity that made her stumble, but she didn't stop. It must've been some sort of tranquilizer—the next thing she knew, her legs wouldn't support her, and she crashed into the dirt with black spots swirling in her eyes.
She fought to stay conscious, trying to get back up, but her limbs wouldn't respond. Three of the armoured people crowded her and wrestled her useless arms behind her back. Shouts and gunshots melded together into something indiscernible. Natasha caught a glimpse of Garrett and a red-headed woman barrelling out of the building. She wanted to warn them away, but her lips only twitched. The armoured people converged on them, tackling them to the ground. Garrett howled like a lion until they zapped him, too.
Then the world melted into darkness.