[ NATASHA ]
"I thought you might appreciate it if I gave you the impression I knew what was happening. We could panic, but where would that get us?" –The Doctor, Doctor Who
At first, they kept her confined to a white cell containing nothing but a simple cot.
Blank walls surrounded her and the only sound was a dull hum of the air system hidden somewhere in the flat, featureless ceiling. The bed was as devoid of detail as the handle-less door—smooth and flush, with no legs, edges, or springs. The head of the bed was raised, soft, and rounded, like a built-in pillow. There were no visible light fixtures, yet the room was brilliantly well-lit. Everything was white, including the jumpsuit she found herself wearing.
There was nothing she could pry up, break, or bend to use as a weapon. Years of training kicked in and she simply sat back on the bed and waited.
If they think any of this'll break me, she thought, they have no idea who the hell they're dealing with.
After the shoot-out at the abandoned building with Garrett and company, she'd woken up here, her wrists encircled before her by a peculiar, smooth thing. It wrapped around both wrists and met in the middle, binding her hands. It looked plastic, but a couple of experimental hits against the wall had it vibrating like some sort of metal.
She was no stranger to being a prisoner. The fact that she was one now, frankly, bothered her a hell of a lot less than the unanswered questions she had about what she'd stumbled into and where she was, exactly. She'd always been a master at adapting, but it was impossible to adapt if she didn't have an inkling what she was she supposed to be adapting to.
It was difficult to tell how much time had passed, but eventually someone came for her. She could've snapped his neck and made a break for it, but there was no sense blindly charging out into some unknown situation. Natasha let him lead her out of the cell—she'd play the prisoner role and learn what she could.
The guard led her from the white cell, down white corridor after identical white corridor. She had to work hard to remember their route as every hall was exactly the same, like the place was some very deliberate maze. She tried to take in any details to help her determine her location—or anything else, really—but there was nothing. Just more white, everywhere she looked.
Natasha clenched her jaw tight and plodded forward.
The guard marched her through a door. The room beyond, as with everything else, was stark and white. The walls, the high ceiling, the chairs surrounding the glass table, the invisible lights that made the place glow softly, the guard's uniform, and the clothes of man waiting for her. It was inexplicably almost pleasant, albeit completely sterile and bland.
She got the impression it was a Very Important Room. At one end of the long, opaque glass table sat a slim, bored-looking man with thinning gray hair. He gestured for her to take a seat at the other end of the table and she did so warily. The guard who'd escorted her exited the room, leaving Natasha and the gray-haired man alone.
He regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment and she met his green-blue eyes, showing nothing in her own expression.
"Who are you?" His voice was soft and smooth. He didn't fool her for a second.
Go ahead and play the good cop, she thought. I can do this all day. She didn't answer aloud.
"Who are you?" the man repeated. "You're clearly one of those treacherous rebels, but what is your name?"
She didn't react aside from blinking.
He fiddled with the tablet before him—it was so thin it resembled a sheet of stiff silver paper—and returned his gaze to her.
"Can you speak?" he inquired. His mouth rested at a slightly crooked angle, like he had an amusing secret he would never share.
She once again declined to give him anything, still assessing him while he attempted to assess her. Curiously, the man—who Natasha was going to call "Gray" for now—looked unbothered by her silence. He returned to poking at his tablet. Tiny holographic readouts flashed above the tablet's surface.
Natasha held her ground as the quiet stretched on. If Gray expected her to get uneasy enough that she would spill her guts, he was sorely mistaken.
"Scans indicate your vocal chords are undamaged," said Gray without looking up. "So my conclusion is that you simply don't wish to speak."
Point for you. She wondered where and how he'd scanned her, and fought away a flutter of nerves in her stomach.
"Scans also indicate that you're unclassified," he continued. "Which is a significantly more curious matter."
There was that word again: unclassified . Natasha was torn. She could ask that meant, but asking meant showing her hand. It meant admitting she was freaking clueless about everything thus far. Her eyes flicked to his wrists, not quite covered by his long sleeves—a white band circled his left. No, she wasn't going to him an inch.
"Very curious indeed," said Gray. He yawned.
Natasha wondered if he was in fact playing electronic games on the tablet before him, based on his apparent focus on the thing and his disinterest in her. Just his tactic, she decided. She'd stay impassive—she'd give him nothing. Not until she had a card of her own to play.
"You know, I've dealt with hundreds of your kind, so this little silent routine is nothing new." He dashed his finger across his tablet. "All I want to know is who you are and why you were in an abandoned facility in the Dead Zone with that group of illegals."
The expression on his face turned into something patronizing with a shade of sympathy.
"You know, of course, that area is off-limits," he said, raising his dark, thick eyebrow at her. "And that band of merry men and women are wanted criminals."
She blinked at him.
He straightened in his chair and there was a hint of irritation in him now, she was pleased to note. Maybe the silence bothered him. She kept still, kept watching him watching her.
"How do you know my son?"
Son? That was a curveball.
She flipped through the faces of the people she'd met and landed on the leader, Garrett. The shape of his face fit with Gray's. Interesting.
"Are you another of his… rebels?" Gray, apparently Garrett's father, asked. The word dripped with distaste. "Mixed up in something you in fact know nothing about?" There was that patronizing, sad expression again. "He wouldn't talk to me either, if it's any consolation." He flexed one of his hands, making a fist and stretching his fingers out.
Natasha's gut jolted. So Garrett hadn't gotten away. She couldn't help feeling sorry for him—he'd seemed like a decent guy, and getting captured and interrogated by his own father had to be a pretty grim experience.
"Natasha?"
She almost flinched when she heard her name, and barely managed not to react further to hearing Bruce's voice. Across the table, Gray shook his head and looked to his tablet again. He gave no indication that he had heard Bruce.
"Natasha, hey, can you hear me?" the physicist tried again. "Natasha?"
She sensed movement at the edge of her vision and glanced down at the glass table before her. Where before there'd been an opaque reflection of the glowing white walls and ceiling, now there was a reflection of Bruce. She only just stopped herself from gasping out loud in surprise.
"Hey, can you see me? Can you hear me?" he moved his head from side to side.
She snapped her eyes to Gray. He hadn't moved aside from flicking his finger across his tablet. His brow was creased and his eyes darted back and forth as he read something. She looked at Bruce again and gave him the smallest of nods.
His shoulders sagged in relief. "Okay, thank God. How are—are you okay?"
Her pulse raced. She swallowed and kept her features still, her body made of marble, but hell was it good to see a familiar face.
Natasha checked on Garrett's father again—she couldn't exactly answer Bruce without alerting the man that something was up. It was already a puzzling miracle he couldn't hear or see Bruce same as she could. She shifted in her seat a little bit again, moving her arms from the edge of the table, positioning her hands close to Bruce. She gently tapped her finger on the table in a series of beats, careful not to click her nail on the glass surface. She really hoped Bruce could read Morse code.
Fine. Lost. Captured.
"Natasha? Can you—oh..." Bruce's brow furrowed with worry and there was a long pause as he waited for her to complete her message. He leaned out of frame, mumbling, and the image of him jiggled and fizzled for a moment. It steadied and he asked her to repeat her message, slower this time.
She in turn waited while he translated her taps. He murmured them out loud after each one.
"Er," said Bruce. "I don't suppose you at least know when you are? What, uh… year? Or century?"
Her eyes widened despite herself.
Bruce explained how Lazarus' machine had scattered the team in time, as well as physical location.
Well, thought Natasha. Her insides writhed with a wave of shock. That explains a lot. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to stay calm, despite the spark of panic in her chest.
It was easy to see now that she knew. Based on the technology she'd encountered and the other clues she'd come across so far, she didn't think she was in the past.
Future. She tapped to Bruce—though she had yet to have any indication of how far in the future.
"Year?"
No.
"Hmm, okay, do you know where you are, then?" asked Bruce.
New. Natasha tapped.
"Your vitals are exceptionally curious," Garrett's father, Gray, piped up. His voice startled Natasha. She resumed her gentle tapping, trying to finish her message to Bruce.
"'New'?" Bruce repeated.
"They indicate you are much older than you appear, yet you show none of the usual genetic manipulation markers," Gray continued. He tapped at his lip thoughtfully. "Where, oh where, did my wretched son pick you up?"
"Who is that with you?" Bruce cut in, speaking at the same time as Garrett's father.
Australia. Natasha softly drummed her finger against the glass. She struggled to focus on both Bruce and Gray as they talked over each other.
"You are a puzzle, though one I frankly can't be bothered to unravel at this juncture." Gray sighed.
"New Australia?" said Bruce and his face wrinkled with worry. "Something clearly happened—"
Gray drawled, "Now, I could sit here, wait you out, perhaps—"
"In history to change things on a global—"
"Employ some scary or brutal interrogation tactics—"
"Scale to cause a new country to form, unless it was a much more local incident…" Bruce trailed off, chewing his lip.
"To uncover the truth about you and your little friends. But I think you and I both know that would be a waste of both of our time and energy, wouldn't it?" Gray offered her a sharp, ice cold smile. "Besides, I've quite had my fill of violence for today, and I have other matters to attend to."
Natasha swallowed and forced her eyes to stay locked on her interrogator. Everything in her wanted to look down and speak to Bruce.
"Nat, if you're in the future, we have no way of knowing what—"
Gray cleared his throat. "Now, I'm a reasonable man and I would hope you are a reasonable woman."
"Happens or what has happened to that point in history."
"I'm going to give you one chance, one choice."
Natasha fought the urge to shout at them both, demanding they shut up. Bruce's image shorted out, while the placid man across the table seemed to be quite done with her.
"You need—outta there, okay?" said Bruce, his face and voice wavering like bad transmission. "Get—safe, find—going on."
"Explain to me who you are and why you were in the Dead Zone with my son and a band of rebels." Gray set his tablet down to steeple his fingers. The screen was blank. "Tell me how is it that you have no circlet. Tell me what he is doing, what he is planning."
"I'd tell—lay low—not mess—history like—others, but—"
"Should you choose to continue to withhold this information, if you choose not to comply, then you shall be slated to be bleached, or—"
"If—far—time—shouldn't—you do, theoretically—"
"Terminated. Violently, as I would terminate a cragging carnie. I have no use for dead weight."
Natasha grit her teeth. She was just about to say something—directly to Garrett's father, but indirectly to Bruce—when her friend disappeared. His voice ceased altogether, and after a quick flick of her eyes, she confirmed his reflection was gone too. For a second she was relieved not to have to contend with the warring voices, but she was disappointed by the loss. She hadn't managed to glean as much as she needed to from him.
Gray sighed through his nose and gestured with two fingers to the guard who'd appeared at the back of the room. Natasha had hesitated too long.
"No, I…" she trailed off. She had no loyalty to Garrett and his rebels, and even less to this man before her, but she also had no information to give. "I don't know anything," she finished.
Gray's lips quirked into a cruel smirk. "Yes, that's what they all say."
When the guard grasped her forearm, Natasha seized the moment. She swung her bound hands at him, catching him in the jaw. The guard stumbled backwards, yelping in surprise and pain. Natasha darted for Gray. He sneered at her and slapped his hand down on his tablet—a move she thought strange, until electricity seized her body, emanating from the cuffs.
Natasha dropped to the floor, muscles tight and coursing with pain. It wasn't quite like her Widow's Bite, but it was similar, and hurt like hell. When the current stopped a couple seconds later, she was too weak to stand, let alone fight. Worse still, she was bizarrely cold, like she'd been dipped in ice water. Her teeth chattered. What had he done to her?
Garrett's father cursed under his breath and stared at Natasha with disgust. "You idiots," he said. "You'd think you'd have learned by now."
Natasha's muscles twitched and she inhaled a shaking breath.
He bent down low, sneer at her again. "Give me what I ask for, crag, and you will be spared and repurposed. Think your decision over carefully." He moved out of her vision. "Get her out of here."
The guard was back and he gripped her forearm again. He heaved her to a standing position and she fought to keep her feet under her with gooey, trembling legs. The weird freezing cold aftereffect seeped away, but she still shivered all over.
They dragged her down several pearly white hallways before they came upon anyone else. An angry scream sounded and two guards hauling a woman came struggling around the corner. Natasha's guard swiftly tugged her to the side and pressed her against the corridor wall. Natasha clenched her jaw, wanting to break the guy's arm for man-handling her.
The woman let out another wild yell. She was bound the same as Natasha and fighting her captors every step of the way.
"You cragging Pockers!" she shouted, lashing out to kick at them and falling in the process. They hauled her back to her feet. "Let me go! Let me go! "
Pocker? Natasha flicked her eyes to her guard. He was tense: hand on the gun at his hip, pointed away from Natasha.
It was the red-headed woman from Garrett's crew. Bruises and cuts marred her face, blood and dirt stained her uniform. The woman threw her hands in the air and wailed.
The lights in the hall flashed and crackled, though only for a second. The guards flanking the woman bellowed at her and one slammed her in the gut. The woman collapsed and cried out as the binders on her wrist glowed blue. Natasha didn't know how they were doing it but guessed that the woman was experiencing the same icy, electric punishment Natasha had received in the interrogation room.
"Get up, carnie!" the guard on the woman's left spat, giving her a harsh kick.
Natasha flinched, holding herself back. She had the urge to help the woman, but didn't know how with these damn cuff-things on. She'd be of no use to anyone if she landed herself twitching and moaning on the floor beside her.
When the woman groaned and failed to stand, the guard kicked her again.
"I said get up!" he shouted, brutally slamming his foot into the woman a third and fourth time. She let out a shrill wail of pain.
Natasha cringed again. "Stop it," she murmured.
Natasha's guard snapped his gaze to her. "Shut it, crag, or you'll join her." He pressed his arm harder into her collarbone.
Her cheeks warmed and she glared balefully at him. You're going to lose a limb, you bastard.
Tears poured down the woman's injured face as the guards jerked her onto shaking legs. Her eyes finally landed on Natasha and widened with recognition.
"Don't let them kill you," she pleaded. Her guards yanked her forward. "Save yourself—get out! Don't let them win! Don't let the Coals—! " The last part ended in a scream as one of the guards jabbed something into her side. She collapsed, silent. The guards took hold of her arms and lugged her the rest of the way down the corridor. The woman's legs dragged lifelessly behind her.
Natasha's stomach roiled. What the hell had she just watched?
"Let that be a lesson," Natasha's guard snapped. He resumed his harsh grip on her forearm, pulling her away from the wall.
"A lesson for what?" Natasha bit out.
His fingers tightened. "Powers, you crag. Use them and you're dead, just like that carnie."
Carnie? Whatever that meant, it was clearly not a friendly term based on the context she kept hearing it used. She wondered how Clint would feel knowing that word was being used as a vulgar insult. She almost smiled, picturing his scowl and "aww, no" mutters.
Her guard deposited her none-too-gently back in her featureless room.
"Can I get these off, now?" Natasha held out her arms.
The guard snorted and left the room. The smooth white door slid into place noiselessly behind him.
Natasha sighed. "Worth a try."
She settled onto the bed and ran over what she knew—which was terribly, terribly little. Her insides squirmed and she tamped down her fear and frustration. Logic first. Emotion after.
So she was in the future, though she had yet to determine how far. It appeared to be at least a few decades, based on the technology she'd experienced, not to mention the fact there was practically a whole new language and country to contend with. She knew that whoever was keeping her prisoner really, really liked the color white, and that Garrett's father was some of moderate rank (or higher) official. And he did not approve of Garrett running around with a ragtag group of people—of rebels, apparently.
Natasha laid back until the bed's squishy pillow-area cradled her head. Rebels for what? Or against what? Presumably, this whole white setup. But why? Then again, based on their treatment of Garrett's redhead friend, if the rest of the white-clad people were as cruel as the guards—what had the woman called them again? Pockers?—then no wonder Garrett wasn't a fan.
And what had the Pocker meant by "powers"? The woman had raised her hands and the lights had flickered, which implied she had some way to control or disrupt the electricity. Natasha frowned, her mind jumping to Thor. She'd seen people with superpowers firsthand, so suppose this world simply had more of them? Suppose they were in trouble or ostracized?
Natasha sighed again. She still had so little to go on, it was as good a guess as any. Regardless of anything else, Garrett's father had threatened her with "termination" and there was no way that was a good thing. Though she didn't have any helpful information to give him to avoid such a fate, she wouldn't have anyways, and especially not now. Not after that woman.
Natasha was done playing the prisoner. She refused to get marched to an execution. She'd fight her way out of here and fend for herself or die trying. She was screwed either way, and if she was going die in some apocalyptic future timeline, she was sure as hell going to do it on her terms and no one else's. Besides, she'd learned probably all she could from this place. It was time to find somewhere else to learn more.
Unfortunately, there was still nothing in her room she could use as a weapon. She looked down at herself and her clothes. Then again, maybe there was. The binding cuffs were cumbersome, but she could still use her hands, so Natasha curled up and tested the fabric of her pants. Not easily rippable, but she could still work with that.
She turned up the bottom of the pants and used her nails to start picking apart the threads on the seam. With any luck, she could pull it apart enough that she could rip the frayed cloth and then she'd have something. Wouldn't be much, but it'd be better than nothing.
And then she'd get the hell out of here.