A/n: Hey guys! FF has been down all day for me, hence the late chapter (I've literally been trying periodically for eight+ hours now, oyyy). Hopefully next week I can get us properly back on schedule!
[ NATASHA ]
"Gosh, that takes me back...or forward. That's the trouble with time travel – you can never remember." – The Doctor, Doctor Who
Natasha hauled her beamer to a stop inside an old garage. Wind whistled between the wall's rotting wooden slats. Ditching her white jacket, she hopped out and retrieved the beat-up gray hoodie from the beamer's trunk and slipped it on, then yanked off her pants. Underneath, she wore tight black shorts. Her fancy white boots went next, replaced by practical hikers. She jammed the white clothes into the trunk and ran, leaving footprints in the sand-coated floor.
She'd lost the Pockers when she'd entered the city, but wasn't about to give them time to catch up and find her. Not to mention she now had to hide in a Dead Zone, which was sure to be crawling with Scuds, many of which had likely not missed her blaring entrance. The faster she hid herself, the better. She hurried down the cracked, ancient sidewalk as the wind tugged at her clothes, kicking up enough dust to make her cough.
In the distance, past a half-crumbled, burnt out apartment building, she heard rounds of gunfire. Was that the aggressive, black tattooed Scuds or the damn Pockers? She remembered waking up in hostile territory immediately after Lazarus' bomb went off. She wasn't sure which she was hoping it'd be. Maybe with any luck, it was both, shooting at each other and forgetting entirely about her.
Natasha ducked under a broken awning in front of a hollowed-out shop at the edge of the street. She ripped a hole in the arm of her hoodie and scooped up clumps of soot and dirt to streak across herself. She'd had to look spotless to be a Coal—now she needed to look like a mess to be a Scud.
She scooped up a yellowed shard of glass to shred some rough holes in the rest of her clothes, then scrubbed off the last of her white circlet. Natasha scooped up a burnt stick that left her palm blackened and used the end of it to trace a black circlet on her wrist instead. It wasn't great, but it would pass as long as she kept her arm moving.
Ditching the stick, she continued on, taking care to get some dirt and soot into her hair too. The first time she caught sight of another person, it was a filthy child digging through a pile of garbage. She jerked up in surprise when Natasha approached, tense and ready to bolt. Natasha didn't acknowledge her past a quick look and instead kept walking. The child crouched down and waited, then resumed her task.
Natasha exhaled a breath of relief.
The second person she saw—or rather, didn't see—tried to jump her. He darted out from behind a shelled out, rusted car. Natasha heard his footsteps and ducked just in time. He sailed over and landed in the dirt with a grunt. She backed up and he hopped to his feet, waving around a spiked club. Natasha dropped and dove at his legs. He roared and collapsed. She spun and kicked him in the head. He flailed and she smacked her hand into his throat, making him gurgle and release the club. Natasha scooped it up and planted her foot on his chest.
"I need a ride out of here," she told him.
He glared up at her with a savage look in his eyes.
"Transportation," she said. "A beamer. Anything."
He snarled and smacked at her legs, trying to dislodge her. Natasha pressed her heel down and he yelped.
"I'm not gonna ask again." She couldn't take the same beamer back out—too conspicuous—and she couldn't steal a Pocker's vehicle—there were too many of them for her to take on. She needed some piece of junk that she could coax a few hundred miles out of to make it back to the base.
"You can't—" the man sputtered, spittle spraying into his unkempt beard. "Get outta the Zone."
Natasha leaned forward, driving her heel harder into the man's chest. "Watch me."
She shoved him away from her and he rolled, cursing and holding his arms to his head and chest.
Thankfully, the third person she met was much more willing to help her cause. She suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that she now had a spike-riddled bat and had the Scud on his back wheezing for breath in three seconds flat.
"T–that way!" the man whimpered. "Leeka's got a rumbler w–working! P–parked it. Cragging t–take it, just d–don't be killin' me!"
The rumbler, as it turned out, was a vehicle that clearly came sometime after cars but before beamers. It was built like an oversized beamer—at least twice as wide and long—and when she started it up, it puffed exhaust like a poorly maintained car. She winced. It wasn't great, but it was better than nothing.
Natasha pressed the accelerator gently and the vehicle chugged out into the street. It belched acrid smoke for the first minute, and Natasha regretted climbing into the thing. It was giving away her position and would probably die at any second. But after she got it going and drove it for a few streets, it stopped smoking and settled out.
She rode it down several blocks until she spotted a half-collapsed parkade, with steel rods poking out of broken cement. Natasha steered the rumbler through the entrance and hunkered down to wait until sunset to travel again.
Twice, she had to defend her new ride: a group of Scuds came upon her in the afternoon. They wandered in, talking quietly, and were surprised to find her guarding the rumbler; she had an advantage for a few seconds. Once she had one woman and two men on the ground—she didn't even need to use the club she had—the last one ran away shouting in fear.
Natasha backed up to catch her breath and moved deeper into the parkade, deeper into the shadows, but still in view of the entrance. The two she'd knocked down soon got themselves up and hobbled away as quickly as they could out of the parkade, shooting scared glances over their shoulders.
The second group that came was a little sneakier. They must've heard about her from the others and came better prepared, with weapons, extra people, and a strategy. Natasha watched them split up into two groups of four from her position, crouched behind a cement half-wall.
"She's here," she heard one say. "They said she was in here by the red and white graffiti, at the south end."
Two knives, three homemade clubs, a couple gutsy ones who're relying on their fists and size, Natasha silently assessed, flexing her hands. And whatever that is. One of the male Scuds had what looked like a two-by-four with one end covered haphazardly with nails. All strong, tense—ready for a fight.
Natasha held still, patiently waiting for the opportune moment to strike. The Scuds moved slowly, creating a wide circle around her rusty rumbler, weapons at the ready. They crept closer one at a time, and it wasn't until the closest few were only ten or so feet away that Natasha attacked.
She leapt out from behind the wall and was on one Scud before the rest knew what was happening. Natasha smacked the woman with her club and the Scud tumbled to the ground, clutching her arm and yelping in pain. The other Scuds gasped and shouted and cursed as Natasha snagged the wrist of a second Scud, knocking his head hard into the first. Blood spattered over her boots and the cracked floor.
The third Scud closest to her swung his nail-board at her chest. She ducked and rolled and took him out at the legs before he finished swinging. He fell with an oof and a thud, and Natasha smacked her heel against his temple, knocking him out.
Three Scuds bolted in her direction to help their fallen pals. Natasha jumped to her feet and catapulted herself at the rumbler, sliding across its hood, getting herself behind them. She swung her club and missed; one Scud in a ragged Coca-Cola shirt dove at her torso, knocking her back. She kicked him away but lost her grip on the club. It clattered out of reach. He roared and made to tackle her again, but she kneed him in the nose.
The others jumped in right behind him, hoping to overwhelm her. Natasha spun and punched out, hitting a woman with scars criss-crossing her furious face. One Scud landed a lucky blow against Natasha's cheek with his knuckles, sending sparks in her vision for a split second. She dropped to avoid another fist, but caught the business end of a knife across her shoulder.
Natasha hissed but didn't slow, swinging herself around to send two Scuds crashing into each other. Coca-Cola lurched to his feet and snarled at her, blood from his nose staining his mouth red. He looked like some savage animal, with his shaggy, unkempt hair and wild eyes. He ploughed into Natasha, shoving her against the wall and punching the breath out of her. She jabbed her elbow into his neck and he fell back, wheezing.
The last remaining Scud charged with her knife. Natasha lunged into her space and with a couple quick, sharp movements, she disarmed the woman, sending the knife tumbling to the floor. Natasha twisted the woman's arm and the Scud screamed. She lashed out wildly with her other arm, smacking Natasha in the head. Natasha grunted and hooked her leg around the woman's and dropped her to the ground. The Scud's head smacked the pavement and she rolled, curling in on herself. She didn't get up.
Now that all the Scuds were down in unconscious or moaning heaps, Natasha staggered back against the rumbler's hood, panting and sweating. She leaned against the vehicle for support, her legs rubbery. There was no way she could keep this up all night.
What if you had to? she thought. What if you were here, branded a Scud? What if this was your life? Fighting for your one scrap of dark rubble and a crap, piece of junk car?
She shut her eyes.
We have to fix this. We have to stop this from happening.
Natasha gingerly touched the knife wound on her shoulder, and though her fingers came back wet with blood, she determined the cut wasn't too deep. She rubbed the blood off on her shorts, retrieved her club, and climbed into the rumbler. She drove it sluggishly through the parkade, away from her attackers, on alert for Scuds. Thankfully, she didn't encounter any more.
On the north side of the parkade, close to another entrance, Natasha hauled the shuddering vehicle to a stop. She switched off the ignition with a sigh and dragged herself out of the driver's seat. She had to be ready, in case she had more company.
By the time the sun had slipped below the horizon, no one else had come for her. Natasha exhaled and stood to stretch after crouching and hiding for several hours. She rolled her shoulders and the scab on her left one pulled and stung.
Though the sound of gunfire in the distance pretty much hadn't stopped since Natasha had burst into Port Augusta, she wasn't going to stay here all night. The Pockers might've gone home for reinforcements, might still be deciding whether to brave the Dead Zone to find her or not, and she didn't want to stick around to find out if they would. Besides, she had to get back to Garrett and the gang to tell them what she'd learned at Zuiver Tech.
Natasha inhaled a few steadying breaths as she climbed back into the driver's seat of the rumbler, preparing herself to take another run through the Dead Zone. The air was warm and stale and dusty; everything smelled like ash and death. She fired up the rumbler, peeling past an ancient parking meter on her way out.
Natasha didn't get far before bullets pinged off the old, dented vehicle. She kept her head as low as she could and her club up to offer some modicum of protection. The rumbler shook, threatening to give out on her, but she pushed it on, aiming for the city limits.
Occasional barrels filled with fire dotted the sandy streets and shouts punctuated the air as she blew by. Bullets sparked and sizzled against the rumbler and Natasha floored the accelerator. A bullet streaked so close to her head, she thought it might've singed her hair, and she pressed herself lower in her seat. One snapped into the console by her hand, and she jumped, nearly sending the rumbler into a building.
"C'mon, c'mon," she mumbled. Wind slashed through the holes in the rumbler's damaged windshield.
She veered around a corner and finally saw the edge of the Dead Zone, marked with a crooked, crusty sign. Natasha held her breath until she soared past it, out into the ocean of darkness.
The vehicle had no headlights, so for a few seconds, Natasha flew completely blind, narrowly avoiding smashing into the odd cactus. As her eyes adjusted to the shadowy landscape, the sliver of moonlight highlighted obstacles. She exhaled and sat up straight, though her grip on the rumbler's shaky steering didn't relax for several more miles.
The rumbler belched out a puff of smoke and Natasha gritted her teeth, praying the thing would get her far enough away. She glanced over her shoulder and already Port Augusta was a dark smear with the faintest hint of orange on the horizon.
Natasha made it another dozen miles or so, she estimated, when the thing ran out of fuel. She coaxed it as far as she could until it puttered unceremoniously to a groaning stop.
"Great," she said with a grunt. Really, it'd performed much better than expected, but she'd been hoping to get even farther into the desert, away from the Dead Zone.
Natasha hauled herself out with a heavy sigh and started walking in the dark. She smirked a little, feeling like her time in New Australia was starting over again. Here she was, tromping through the desert at night on aching limbs after escaping another vicious Dead Zone.
At least this time, she had a direction and a purpose. And a clue about what the hell was going on.
Something like a few hours later, when the heat of the day had been replaced by crisp, biting air, the hum of a beamer sounded. Natasha froze, listening. She glanced around but there was nowhere to take cover—empty, flat land. She readied herself to play crazed Scud if the vehicle turned out to be a Pocker. She squinted in the darkness and made out the shape of a beamer with no lights skimming through the dark.
She opened her mouth to call out but hesitated. Ally or not? Then it didn't matter—they'd spotted her silhouette in the faint moonlight and headed straight for her.
The booming laugh as the vehicle approached filled her with relief so intense, she almost collapsed to her tired knees.
"There you are, little red girl," Veer called out.
Natasha's worn features burst into a wide smile. As was customary amongst the rebels, she replied, "What took you so long?"
After she cleaned herself up and was seen to by medical, Natasha debriefed Garrett and Veer in the main meeting room. She drew the layout for Zuiver Tech, noted camera positions, explained how far it was from the front doors to the server room, and from there to the elevators. The three of them debated strategy late into the night before finally breaking off to head to bed or tend to other duties.
Yumi and Ophie returned from a recon mission of their own early the next morning. They sorted out plans and schematics with Garrett in a secure room, deep in the restricted access west wing of the bunker. Yumi sat down at a wide table pushed against the wall, covered in an array of mismatched, beat-up looking ham radios to send intel to fellow rebel bases.
"Won't the Coals intercept the signals?" asked Natasha,watching Yumi adjust dials and knobs.
Ophie shook her head. "We thought so back when, too. Turns out these old beasts"—she gestured over her shoulder at the mess of radio boxes, cords, and wires—"broadcast at a low enough frequency that it flies straight under the Coals' fancy radars." She grinned.
Natasha thoroughly enjoyed knowing that broken radios scavenged from abandoned, dead cities had been repurposed to help the rebellion succeed.
"We limit our use of 'em, talk in code, bounce the signal around as sideways as we can, just in case. But it's been workin'," Ophie continued. "Even had some Coal official defect, about four years back now, confirm it—the government has no cragging clue."
Ophie joined Garrett at the table. Realizing she wasn't needed, Natasha left to go help Veer clear out Jeks' room and box up his personal items. Some of the practical things, Veer distributed to others who needed them. The rest, he took back to his own room, and Natasha left him alone to grieve for his friend.
After lunch, two Scav crews flew in weighed down with crates full of old, garbaged tech. Natasha joined the volunteers unloading the battered silver crates and taking them to a crowded storage room in one of the restricted access hallways where they'd later get picked over for usable parts.
The storage room was so jammed full with shelves and crates, haphazardly shoved inside, Natasha could barely get in, let alone add more.
"What the hell is this?" she asked Veer, who'd come to help as well.
"Yeah, if there's one thing people here are not so good at, it's putting stuff away in an orderly fashion," he grimaced.
Natasha scowled at the mess. It was not unlike Clint's basement, once upon a time, years and years ago. Before she got in there and organized the crap out of it so he could actually find his Christmas decorations and spare tools.
She planted her hands on her hips. "Making stuff fit happens to be another thing I'm pretty good at." She flashed Veer a smile and he chuckled.
"On your own head, Red."
Natasha set her shoulders, cracked her neck, and got to work. Three and half hours later, she was coated in sweat, but had made incredible progress.
"That's the last of them," said Veer, shiny and smelly himself as he dropped another crate in the corridor outside the storage room.
"Thanks," Natasha replied absently over her shoulder.
He leaned his head in the doorway and gave a low whistle, glancing around the compact storage room. "Sheesh, Red, you're a cragging miracle worker!"
Natasha smirked. "Nah, just good at organizing crap." She stepped back and pointed as she spoke. "Over there's all the stuffed labelled electronics. That there's the mechanical stuff—beamer parts and what not. Those are the miscellaneous bins, that's the stuff I didn't what to do with, and these are the new crates waiting to be sorted."
Veer whistled again and clapped her on the shoulder.
"It actually does all fit in here if you don't just toss it through the door into a big pile," she added with a smirk. Veer let loose his signature deep, belly laugh.
"Right on that," he agreed with another pat on her shoulder. "D'you need a hand with these last few?"
"Nah, I got it."
"You sure?"
"Promise." She shot him another smile.
"Keen. See you in the Cantina." Veer gave her a nod and headed down the corridor.
Natasha grabbed the handle of the nearest metal crate and lugged it across the floor to the neat stack she'd created in the corner. The storage room was cramped, but with everything tucked away in labelled bins and boxes, it felt much more spacious than when she'd first walked in.
She remembered the look on Clint's face when he'd laid eyes on his freshly organized basement.
"Did you make it bigger?" he'd asked suspiciously and Natasha had rolled her eyes.
"Don't mess it up or I'll slug you," she'd told him, then gone upstairs to order them some Chinese takeout.
Natasha heaved the crate onto the stack and shoved it into place. She hadn't had Chinese takeout in ages, come to think of it. Since living at the Tower, there often was somebody around to cook, or, more often than not, they just ordered pizza. With the demigod built like a brick house, the super soldier with an insane metabolism, and the "Other Guy" influencing Bruce's appetite, she imagined the Tower was largely responsible for keeping a number of pizza joints nearby in business. Not that she and Clint were slouches when it came to putting away pepperoni and cheese and—
"Whoa!" a voice exclaimed, sudden and loud and directly in front of her.
Natasha let go of the crate handles and jumped back, a pocketknife from her belt out defensively on instinct before she realized what was happening.
"Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to scare you." Distorted by the ribs on the silver crate, Bruce gave her a sheepish smile. "Your face was so close—I, um, scared myself for a second there."
"Sukin syn —Bruce," Natasha exhaled his name and snapped her pocketknife closed. She pressed her hand over her thudding heart and spat out a few more choice curses in Russian for good measure.
"Sorry," Bruce said again, wincing.
"Don't do that again," Natasha told him.
"I'll try not to," he said, suppressing a chuckle. "Um, where are you?"
"Dead tech storage room." She backed up and closed the door so no one saw her chatting with a crate. "How're things on your end?" she asked, stepping close to Bruce again. "You got an update for me?"
"As a matter of fact, I do," Bruce said with another smile, this one excited. "We made a breakthrough, Nat. A big, damn breakthrough, and we're so close now."
Natasha's heart sped up. Close. Home. "Thank God."
"It won't be long now," he promised. "Or, well, relatively—time really doesn't match up with this, um…how long has it been for you?"
She lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. "Three weeks or so."
Bruce's likeness flickered and some of his words were lost. "—sorry. I talked to—" His voice crackled as if he was coming through a faulty radio, obscuring some of his words. "Been—four days—mixed up in—told him not—"
Natasha shook her head. "I'm not getting any of that. Bruce? Hey, Bruce?"
She smacked the top of the crate like he was on some old television set, where the picture was restored after you gave it a good whack. His image wavered.
"Damn it—Natasha?"
"I'm still here."
"We're close," Bruce repeated, and blinked into nothing before he got another word out.
Natasha sighed. "What the hell are you using, Bruce?" she murmured. Really, it was incredible they were able to talk at all, but whatever he was doing was unstable as hell.
With another sigh, she resumed stacking the crates. At first, she smiled to herself, thinking about being back at the Tower and back with her team. She started making a list of things she'd do first—order some good Chinese food, for one—and she thought about relaying stories of her time here to the team, wondered what they'd have to share in turn. She pictured telling Clint about Garrett and Yumi and Veer and...
Her shoulders sunk and sadness edged in on her excitement. When she was gone, she'd never see any of these people again. She shoved another crate into place.
Of course you won't, she thought. They won't even exist, not for over a century. Her heart sank a little lower. If they exist at all.
She'd known that all along but somehow hadn't considered it until now. Going home meant taking Garrett's wide smile out of the world, and that felt wrong.
Natasha swallowed and couldn't help feeling a bit conflicted. The sadness and sudden reluctance to leave chafed against her, unwanted and prickly. She wanted to go home, more than anything. She ached to be back in her own time, her own world, surrounded by her own team once again. She missed them constantly.
But here, she had a job to do and she'd committed herself to doing it. They needed her and the idea that she could be yanked from their midst at any second bothered her. Her part in this fight would be unfinished.
Besides, she'd adapted and survived and gotten herself invested in their fight, in them. Natasha cared about their cause when she genuinely hadn't expected she would. It'd been a wise decision to get involved when it'd looked like she'd be stuck here indefinitely, but now with the prospect of going home so soon right in front of her...
She frowned as a pang of guilt hit her. She didn't belong here, either. And yet, they'd become her friends. Regardless of anything else, she was going to miss them.
Natasha wondered if she should talk to Garrett about Bruce. But what would she say? I just had a conversation with my friend who appeared on a crate, and it's almost time for me to go home. Yeah, that sounded sane.
She rubbed her hand over her forehead and sighed. If Bruce put her back in her correct time, then Garrett wouldn't even be born for another one hundred and forty or so years. He would never know if Natasha disappeared on the mission. He would never know Natasha at all.
The thought did nothing to make her feel better.
Damn it, she thought. When did I start caring so much?
Natasha shook her head and forced her thoughts to center on the upcoming mission. Bruce would get her when her got her, and stressing out about it wouldn't make it happen any faster or slower or more conveniently. She stacked the last of the crates and headed out of the storage room to go eat supper with Veer and Edie.
A/n: sukin syn - son of a bitch