[ NATASHA ]
Sarah Connor: "We're here to stop the end of the world."
Detective O'Brien: "I can work with that."
– Terminator: Genisys
It wasn't until late at night, a few days later, that Garrett came by her room. Edie was already fast asleep and stirred only slightly at the knock.
"Something wrong?" Natasha whispered when she opened the door to see him standing there.
"No, I was just—Red—Natasha—can we talk a minute?"
She nodded and stepped out of her room, gently closing the door behind her. She hadn't seen much of him since they'd been rescued following the mission to get the fuses; they'd both been tended to in medical, and her chemical burn was healing nicely. Whatever creams they'd used were damn near magic—already she only had a hint left on her hands.
She knew he'd been busy getting the EMPs prepared, while she'd spent most of her time resting, reading, or working out in the bunker's small gym. She'd been back to a holding pattern, waiting for something to happen. And there was still no more word from Bruce.
Garrett led her through the dingy halls until they reached one of the briefing rooms usually reserved for high-priority missions. Natasha settled into an old blue chair while Garrett grabbed a plastic orange one. He spun it around to sit on it backwards and folded his arms on top.
"Seriously, is everything okay?" Natasha asked.
His forehead was creased with worry but not the weighty, world-weary kind she usually saw on him. This was more like he'd spent hours convincing himself of something and still didn't believe it, like the look Thor wore after Manhattan.
Garrett opened and closed his mouth a few times before he blurted in a rush, "Were you true back there?" At her questioning look, he added, "After the thundertempest?"
Tread carefully, Natasha, she thought. She liked him and he trusted her and she was loath to lose that, especially if he thought she was truly crazy.
His lips quirked at the corners. "Did you really fall through the space-time continuum?"
He said it like it was still a fun joke, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes that she would say it was true. His position on the chair was relaxed yet she could read the tension prickling his every muscle. Hell, the fact that he'd come to her late at night three days later told him the idea was eating at him, whether he wanted it to or not.
She watched him, considering, then said, "Yes."
Garrett nodded slowly and tugged his fingers through his hair. "Keen. Keen, keen…um. I…keen." He fumbled for words, sneaking glances at her that ranged from surprised to confused to awe and back again. "Um…so…"
Natasha leaned forward and she told him what she could risk: she was from the year 2012, part of an elite team of people working to save the world from impossible threats. That one of those threats and his stupid magic bomb had launched her into this insane, post-apocalyptic world that made so little sense to her.
"So you're a Super?"
Natasha lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Not exactly. But some of my teammates are."
"That's why you were unclassified! I knew from the sec we peeped you, you were different. Never expected this, though—this is…crazy sideways. Cragging, cragging sideways."
"Tell me about it," murmured Natasha. "I'm the one living it."
"So what do you do? How do you…or are you stuck…shit, I don't even know what to ask."
"I don't know." The answer was a heavy rock in her stomach. The longer she went without a second contact from Bruce, the more worry clawed at her ribs. She refused to give into it but it was hard not to.
Garrett fell quiet. He kept inhaling to say something then changing his mind. Twice he got up to pace, looked at Natasha, then sat back down. She sat still and silent, letting him work through his jumbled thoughts.
"I haven't told," he finally said. "And I won't, if you don't want me to. Everybody thinks you're bleached anyways, so we can stick with that."
"I think that'd be the best idea."
"Could you tell me—I mean, if you're from—well, shit." Garrett laughed. "You don't know a thing, do you know? No wonder you needed the books and the…"
Natasha smiled a little. "Yeah."
He pinned her with his blue-eyed stare. "How are you even functioning?"
She hesitated. "Honestly? One day at a time."
By the end of that week, Natasha was a cog in an already well-oiled machine. She went out on supply runs with Veer and cleaned floors in the Cantina with Ophie. She helped Edie and Vika reorganize the library when Hattie and a scav crew came back with a huge box of dusty, water-damaged books. She even went out on two more minor missions with Garrett to gather more pieces for the engineers to finish up the EMPs.
True to his word, he never mentioned that he knew her real story. Nothing changed, except his looks to her were maybe a little softer than before. It wasn't quite pity—something closer to empathy. It should have chafed, but she welcomed it instead. The days were easier, somehow, with someone knowing her secret.
And as long as she kept herself busy, it left little time for thinking. Thinking made her lonely, made her miss her team. As much as she appreciated the band of rebels she was getting to know in this new world, she couldn't help curling up in her bed at night and wishing she could reach out and touch Clint. She missed waking up to the sound of Tony clanking around the Tower with some new gadget he stayed up until dawn making. She missed Thor's breakfasts and Bruce's suppers and sparring in the gym with Steve.
Doing kept her from dwelling too heavily on the realities of this world, too. She was a little too used to running for her life, so blasting away from a group of patrolling Coals didn't phase her. Helping Veer, bleeding from the leg, onto a transpo as they made off with some tech was like any number of S.H.I.E.L.D. missions she'd been on. That part wasn't the problem.
It was travelling past Dead Zones, brimming with crazed and furious Scuds that made her gut clench with horror all over again. It was soaring over burnt landscapes, cities that were nothing more than empty ruins. Flying over massive craters and shelled-out homes. It was infiltrating a Coal building, dressed all in white, pretending to be as ignorant and cold as they were.
That was roughest, the first time the rebels dressed her in those starched white Coal clothes.
"Lots of people don't wear white in the Coal capitals," explained Ophie as Natasha got changed behind a patterned screen. "But the government officials all do. They're obsessed with the craggin' color."
"That why all the interior of the…" Natasha searched for the right word.
"Prison?" Ophie supplied. "Yeah. That's why everything in there's white. Government building. They think it means purity and shit. That's why the Coal brands are white, too."
"Speaking of," Natasha said, coming out, fully dressed in a white power suit, complete with shiny white high-heeled boots. "I'm gonna need one of those." She shoved up her sleeve and waved her bare wrist.
Ophie nodded. "Next thing on the list."
Yumi, the one with the steadiest hand in the group, sat Natasha down in the main meeting room with a bottle of paint.
"It won't hold up under close scrutiny but it won't flake off easily either," she explained as she delicately painted a thick white circlet onto Natasha's wrist. "As long as you don't get it wet, it won't smudge."
By the time she was done, her circlet looked exactly like Garrett's. Next up in the preparation for Natasha's mission into the city was a set of glasses that faked a retina scan and threw off facial recognition. They'd been stolen and locked up in a lead lined case for months, waiting for a mission such as this.
Last was the restored beamer, painted to mimic a Coal Inspector's vehicle. Garrett went over the map a fourth and sixth and twelfth time—she'd cross the desert, skirt the ruins of Kimba, and fly on to the city of Whyalla.
"She's got it," Yumi said, grasping Garrett's arm and dragging him away from the beamer's side. "Relax."
Natasha's lips quirked up. "Trust me," she said. "I've been through much worse."
Garrett's expression was a mix of understanding and curiosity. Natasha tossed him a wink and put her foot down on the accelerator. The beamer shot out of the hanger and she sped over the red desert.
No one looked at her twice when she blazed into Whyalla. She slowed the beamer down and wove gently through the streets, as if she were in no big hurry. A few citizens bustled out of her way, and Natasha was struck by the differences between this place and the one she'd left behind an hour ago.
Everything was stark and clean. Sharp, modern lines contrasted with smooth, white facades, big doors, and tons of windows. The people were groomed, immaculate, standing up straight and walking in straight lines and blissfully ignorant and unburdened. Lush, green lawn after perfectly manicured lawn.
Natasha clenched her jaw, thinking of the bunker, buried deep in the mountains, full of broken people, scraping by, and fighting every day for something better. Her fingers tightened on the steering rods and she shoved her emotions away.
Focus, Natasha.
She wove down the streets towards the massive glass and metal monstrosity that was her destination. Curiously, the city didn't grow any denser—it was still spacious and lush and so excruciatingly clean, it made her skin itch. She was tempted to dig through the beamer to find a scrap of garbage and toss it on the ground just to make the place look more real.
Natasha pulled the beamer to a graceful stop in front of Zuiver Technologies Inc. and disembarked. A couple men in suits glanced at her with surprise and concern, then hustled away, with hurried conversation as Natasha adjusted her glasses. Sunlight poured down, making the building hard to look at, but she held her head high and stalked forward.
It was easy to slip into the persona she needed. Her flat, no-nonsense manner had the receptionist at the front desk scrambling in seconds. Natasha had all the right credentials and looked the part. She trailed behind the harried receptionist who was none too pleased by this supposed inspection of the server room.
"We weren't supposed to have one for another week," the receptionist mumbled, twisting her hands in front of her.
The borrowed boots made a soft thud with each footstep. "We had a scheduling miscommunication," said Natasha, her voice cutting and cold like a blade of ice. "But I was assured that my visit would not be a problem."
"It's not, no, of course it's not!" the woman babbled and picked up the pace.
Natasha let out a huff, and the receptionist's cheeks flushed.
Natasha's eyes roamed the halls, taking in as much detail as possible, though there wasn't much. Like the Coal prison, everything was just an overwhelming amount of white. At least they'd accented this place with colorful if meaningless art installations or fake potted plants—things that made Natasha relax inadvertently. It was oddly reassuring and familiar. She took note of the route they took, carefully keeping track of distance, doorways, conference rooms—how far they'd have to run, places to take cover, locations of stairs or turbolifts.
The Coals weren't stupid. Though absolutely every facet of their lives ran on tech, they didn't have one giant server room connecting everything to everything—that would've made their world far too easy to crush. But what they did have was a building in the sparkling nexus of downtown of Whyalla, with servers that did connect to some things. Enough things.
Zuiver Tech was situated near a major power station. One giant EMP in the middle of this place could effectively blow out this city's entire system and leave them crippled. And if this was happening in several cities all at once across New Australia? Then Coals would be down for the count, unable to communicate, while the rebels rallied.
At least, that was the plan.
"This is it," said the receptionist. She pressed her hand to the glowing panel beside the door. It flickered and hummed then the door slid away.
Natasha followed the woman inside. Nat surveyed the room, surprised at how small it was. It couldn't have been much larger than her bedroom at the Tower. There were four computer consoles with holoscreens near the door. Beyond that, about half a dozen thin shelves lined with what Natasha assumed must be the servers—devices akin to sleek, closed laptops from her time, stacked ten or so high and ten or so wide per shelf. She'd expected something much more expansive, considering those machines ran the inner workings of more than a dozen buildings and a vast multitude of systems.
What Tony wouldn't give to get his hands on those, she thought. She pictured him rushing about the room in awe, then nabbing one of those skinny machines and ripping it apart on the floor right then and there to explore its inner workings.
"Is this satisfactory?" the receptionist asked, gesturing to the room and landing her hands on her hips. She switched to nervously clutching her fingers in front of her.
There was plenty of room to set off the EMP, Nat decided. The place wasn't too much of a maze and they only needed a handprint to get in. Yes, this would do nicely.
"It could be cleaner," Natasha said. She cut an irritated glance at the receptionist and was rewarded with the other woman's mouth opening in shock.
She snapped her mouth shut and pasted on an insincere smile. "We'll get someone on that right away."
"I should hope so." Natasha followed the woman out of the room. "The Coalition has extraordinary standards that are visibly not being met."
"Of course," the woman sniffed.
Natasha wanted to laugh. As she made for the large glass and steel double doors to the place, she distinctly heard the woman muttering something about "corporate gov snobs." It was bizarrely comforting that, even here, there was still much-hated bureaucracy. As long as there was humanity, she imagined, that would never change.
She casually side-stepped the man mopping the floors, his wrist tattooed blue.
I'm surprised they don't have robots to do that for them, Natasha thought.
Her boot slid on the freshly wet floor and Natasha gasped a little as her ankle rolled.
"Watch it!" shouted the janitor.
Though Natasha recovered her balance, the overzealously helpful man lunged out to steady her. Instead, his hands collided with her and though she spun to stop them both from falling, his flailing sent her crashing into him and they both fell to the floor, taking the mop bucket down with them.
"What the cragging hell, Kex!" the receptionist tore across the lobby in a towering fury.
Kex the janitor babbled fierce apologies and scrambled to help Natasha to her feet.
She batted him away and picked herself out of the suds, glaring daggers. "When I mentioned this office should be cleaner, I did not mean right this second."
The receptionist flushed. "My apologies, Madame Inspector, my deepest, deepest, sincerest apologies. If you need to speak to my supervisor or his or—or any management, I—I—"
Natasha threw her hand up to stem the flow of words. "You will both be dealt with accordingly. I have another appointment to tend to but do not doubt: I will be back." She laced her voice with seething contempt—everything was beneath her, they'd ruined her day, her clothes, and someone would pay …
The receptionist's complexion paled and Kex clutched the mop handle, looking like he was about to be sick. Natasha was about to turn on her heel and march out in a huff when the other woman scrunched her brow.
"Wait…" she said. Her nervousness dissipated.
Natasha realized what was wrong the second the receptionist did.
As long as you don't get it wet, it won't smudge.
The circlet bled white lines down Natasha's forearm.
The receptionist cried out and dashed for her desk. Kex yelped and lunged. Natasha swung her arm at him and her fist cracked him across the jaw. She whirled and bolted for the doors. Blaring klaxon alarms sounded. A startled man letting himself into the building looked up and Natasha shouldered past him just as she heard electronic locks seal the other half of the entrance's double doors.
"Stop her!" the receptionist screamed.
Natasha dove into her waiting beamer. Half a dozen Pockers streamed through the lobby after her, carelessly tossing aside the poor man at the door and Kex, who'd just regained his footing. They stumbled over the wet floor, two of them going down in a sprawling heap.
The beamer hummed to life. The first Pocker out the door took aim. The shot slammed into the beamer's side, sending blue electricity crackling over the hull. Natasha's teeth buzzed and the hair on her arm shivered with static as the beamer shuddered but didn't stop. She punched down the accelerator.
The next shot sailed past her head and she instinctively wrenched the controls away from it. The charge landed in the street, snapping uselessly. She tore around the corner and the next, putting some distance between her and the Pockers chasing her.
She knew what would happen if she was caught—she'd done that once already. She screamed at a group of citizens idly crossing the road.
"Get out! Move!"
They scattered like startled rabbits. Pocker beamers with wailing sirens soared around the corner in her wake. They hollered at her but she couldn't make out their words. Then she realized they weren't yelling at her, but at the people on their lawns and on the streets, looking up at the commotion. They repeated it every few seconds. Whatever the Pockers said, it wasn't good.
The people on the streets yelled at her. The people on the lawns went from surprised to angry. One man even ran forward to try and throw something at her, though she was too fast for him to hit. Natasha gunned her engines. Her heart pounded in her throat.
She had to shake the Pockers. She couldn't lead them to the rebel outpost, no matter what.
Natasha took a breath, thinking about the map she'd studied at the bunker. She slammed on the beamer's brakes and jerked the controls so hard they cracked against the dash. The beamer swung in a screaming arch, nearly tipping and throwing her out. She gritted her teeth against the force trying to drive her out of her seat. The beamer held and stabilized.
The Pockers roared towards her. She slammed her beamer forward. The Pockers blasted past her and panicked. Two of their beamers whipped around to follow her and crashed into each other. One shot forward, one slammed on his brakes and narrowly avoided disaster. Natasha roared back down the street, the way she'd come.
She retraced her path of flight for couple blocks, before turning sharply and taking a new direction. She estimated she had only a half a minute before the Pockers were on her again.
A young man, maybe sixteen or so, shot out in the road, waving his arms at her. Natasha gasped and slammed the brakes, then yanked the steering rods sharply to avoid hitting him.
"Take me with you!" he screeched at her. "Get me out—"
She was too far away to hear the rest. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him tackled to the street, screaming. Natasha punched the beamer back up to a high speed. There was nothing she could do for him.
She blasted past the shining city's limits and was once again out in the expanse of red desert. Another quick glance over her shoulder told her that the Pockers had regrouped, but at least she had some serious distance on them. Not enough to outrun them to the base, but certainly enough to get them off her tail. Wind whipped her hair in a tangle around her head.
The map she'd studied had been sparse on the details about the desert, but out of habit, she'd made note of anything near the city, just in case things went south. Heading sharply north, she flew over the ground, kicking up dust as she went. The Pockers followed her the entire time. Shots periodically rang out through the air and peppered the dirt in her wake. Natasha pushed the beamer nearly to its breaking point.
Finally, on the horizon, dark shapes emerged from the wavering haze of heat like mirages. Natasha smiled grimly. Port Augusta. Or rather, what was left of it.
The shelled-out, burnt remains of a once-beautiful city loomed before her. Even though she already knew from the map that it was part of a Dead Zone, it still sent chills of shock rolling through her. She'd been here on a mission once—with Clint, in another time, another century. She still remembered walking along Commercial Street, holding his hand as he tried to get chocolate ice cream on her nose.
Now it was a dirty, ugly shell of a place, sooty and sand-blasted with jagged, crumbling buildings. Craters and burnt out cars, the stale smell of decay on the wind. She drove ever closer and stole another look back at her pursuers. Was it her imagination, or were they backing off? Nat didn't question it, pushing her beamer over the scorched, dead land and blazing into a hollowed-out city.