Chapter Four: Hostage
The Freezer
Warren was surprised to find he had woken up before Monet, although in hindsight he had taken a much less powerful blast; he was after all, much less powerful when it came down to it. Monet was still unconscious, though tossing and turning fitfully and muttering in French. She had been thrown none too gently into the freezer, and had skidded across the cold floor and against a wall. Her dress had ridden up her leg, revealing a long expanse of leg that in any other circumstance Warren could have spent a great deal of time enjoying. As it was, he was worried she would freeze, as he had no idea of the limitations of her powers. His avian physiology was adapted to let him survive at great heights, which included extreme cold and thin air, but Monet was probably not so fortunate. He had to do something quickly, and pulling the dress back down was a perfectly good start. Of course, by its nature the clothing was rather revealing, though tastefully so, and was not designed with prolonged sleep in a freezer in mind, and he would have to be much more inventive than that. She twitched again and he thought she was waking up, but she soon subsided again. Warren stood up and flexed his wings to try and get blood circulating through them again. Unfortunately, his wings were about sixteen feet across, and stretching them involved a great deal of clattering and crashing of tins and frozen food. There was an immediate rapping at the door.
"Hey, listen up freak-show. Stop clattering around in there, 'cause I'm only going to open the door to shoot you, got it?"
"Yeah, I got it," Warren snarled back at the guard. Belligerence was just about the only defence left to him unless he could find a way to get that door open, but before he could do that he would have to try and help Monet, who was moving much more infrequently. He was not sure whether that was good or bad, but it was not a chance he really wanted to take. He sat down next to her and pulled her close to him, wrapping his wings around them both. In her unconscious state, Monet's face had lost its usual fire but found a surprising innocence, and Warren found himself smiling despite himself. Monet had threatened to break him in two merely for dancing, he shuddered to think what she would do if- no, when- she woke to find herself in such a compromising position. He also remembered his reaction to that threat, the same he would apply to this one: it was worth it. Of course, he would trade it in an instant for a way to get out of here and back at those Reaver thugs who had put him here, but that did not seem likely right now. All he could do was watch and wait.
The Ballroom
Natasha had hoped that the guards would grow slack and lose focus once the initial excitement died down and the captives became more compliant, but she had hoped in vain. The man in charge, known only as Pierce, was competent and clearly intelligent, and had arranged the guards into small patrols to stop them growing too complacent. Natasha realised that she could not afford to wait for long, she would have to take a chance on the Reavers not realising her ultimate plan. She quickly pulled her shoes off, but even that small movement drew the eyes of every guard in the room, the closest one swiftly bringing his gun to bear.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I'm just taking my shoes off," she said, trying to sound as nervous and confused as an ordinary citizen would in her situation instead of a trained and experienced spy. "My legs hurt if I wear them too long..."
Being male, the Reaver had absolutely no experience regarding heels, but he could very well believe that they would be painful to wear. Natasha's were five inches high, to hide the blade, and for all her training remained more uncomfortable to wear than any of her combat clothing and equipment. He nodded uncertainly.
"Alright... but put them over there-" he pointed to a spot several metres away "-then come back here."
Natasha frowned; these people were not taking any chances whatsoever, whether through genuine suspicion or good old fashioned paranoia. She obeyed the instructions though, moving slowly and carefully. She made her way back to her original position, hoping for a chance to retrieve the concealed weapon. Fortunately for her, at that precise moment Pierce made an appearance and started muttering orders to the other Reavers. Several of them accompanied him as he headed towards where Stark and the other hostages had been taken earlier- and amongst those leaving was the one who had been so suspicious of her footwear. By the time another Reaver came to take his place, she had already snapped the heels off of both shoes and palmed the left one circumspectly.
"Back against the walls, lady," the Reaver snapped, waving the gun pointedly. Natasha backed up hurriedly, and found herself right next to a middle-aged gentleman with dark good looks.
"What's so important about a pair of heels?" he murmured, too quietly for the guard to hear. Natasha was impressed and a little surprised that someone had noticed her subterfuge, but that didn't mean she was going to take him into her confidence. The first rule of her trade was trust absolutely no-one, not even yourself if you suspected a telepath's involvement. Even with her mental discipline and shielding, a sufficiently powerful psychic would be able to at least read her thoughts, if not control them.
"They make my legs hurt," she said, injecting just the right tone of whining petulance into her usually husky voice. The man was obviously not totally fooled, to judge by the calculating look he was giving her.
"So why did you keep the heels?" he asked pointedly. "Look, you're obviously far too clever to be one of Stark's usual bimbos. I don't care what your game is but if it involves getting out of here, deal me in."
Natasha reconsidered her decision to exclude him totally. He was clearly intelligent and observant, and could be useful in his way. Besides, even if she did sketch an outline of her plan, she did not have to colour it in- she could tell him the minimum necessary. First she had to work out just how useful he could be.
"You don't get dealt in without putting up a stake," she replied. She had slipped naturally into mimicking his style of speech and mannerisms, the mark of a consummate spy. People always responded better if they felt they were speaking to a kindred spirit.
"My daughter is the girl who tried to rescue us earlier," he explained. "She's a mutant, her powers can help you."
The mutant part Natasha had worked out for herself- there were not many girls who could fly, or survive being hit by an advanced energy weapon, much less both. However, it did help that she now had someone who could explain more fully, as well as acting as leverage should the girl prove reluctant to compromise.
"Your daughter was last seen getting hit by a weapon beyond military level," Natasha said coldly. "By being stupid enough to fly straight towards heavily armed mercenaries. I think I might prove more successful on my own."
She was taking a chance on alienating one of the few people competent and willing to help her, but if he was the kind of person to give up that easily there was no chance of her trusting him with her plans. His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, but he swiftly controlled his anger.
"But you might not. My daughter has telepathy and superhuman strength in addition to her flight- you can't tell me that wouldn't level things out."
Natasha had to admit that it sounded promising, particularly the telepathic abilities. She had fought enough psychics before to know that muscles were meaningless compared to the mind that controlled them- but if the mutant girl had the muscle also, well Natasha wouldn't discard it out of hand. Of course, the hard part would be actually getting the girl out.
"What's your daughter's name?" Natasha asked. "If I'm going to contact her, I need to know."
"Monet," the man said. "Monet St. Croix."
Natasha memorised the name as she tried to work out her next step. The odds of Monet just incidentally happening to contact Natasha's mind were practically infinitesimal, but all of Natasha's training had been to keep psychics out of her mind, not invite them in. The basic technique was to imagine walls around your brain, and this would somehow create a kind of psychosomatic shield. Logically (as far as logic could ever be applied to mind-bending mutants) the next step would therefore be to reverse the process, and imagine the opposite of a wall. That of course raised the question of what the opposite of a wall actually was... a wide open space perhaps, or a field? So she had to think 'Monet' very... widely. She tried it, hoping she didn't look as ridiculous as she felt.
The Freezer
As far as Warren could tell, Monet was at the very least not getting any worse, though nor could he tell if she was getting any better either. She was twisting in her sleep and muttering about someone called James; for his part, Warren was torn between jealousy, and being annoyed at himself for being jealous of a man he never had and would almost certainly never meet. Suddenly, Monet bolted upright and looked around wildly. Warren was sure she was about to pummel him for what she no doubt considered molestation, but in fact she barely seemed to notice that he was even in the room, much less that he had quite possibly saved her life. On the other hand, even his limited knowledge of the girl suggested that should have come as no surprise. Gratitude was far from Monet's strongest suit.
"Wha-? I'm - I was - who said that?" she looked around, looking uncharacteristically dishevelled and confused. Warren for his part hadn't heard anyone say anything, but was smart enough not to mention that fact. Monet put a hand on her forehead and winced.
"Will you shut up?" she hissed. "My head is quite painful enough without your incomprehensible yelping."
"But I didn't even-" Warren protested.
"Not you, idiot," Monet snapped. "That ridiculous Russian spy. What? You tell him. What? But you can contact me perfectly well, so why not... Fine! ... Damn right I'm the telepath, and don't you forget it, Romanov."
Warren realised that he had been eavesdropping on a primarily telepathic conversation. Whether or not Monet realised she was relaying her half of the dialogue aloud was unclear, but it soon became a moot point when Monet managed to relay the conversation psychically.
*... on my own,* Romanov was saying. *But you two are no good to me trapped in there.*
*Yes, because surrounded by armed guards is an excellent position to start a rescue attempt,* Monet snapped back. Warren winced at the clear animosity in the two women's tones, but wisely kept his silence, or at least as best he could.
*On our own, neither of us will be much good* he risked intervening. There was a definite sense of hostility but very little of it seemed to be aimed directly at him, and neither woman turned their scathing comments on him, so he assumed he would survive saying more. *We'll have to work together to achieve anything.* It was not exactly Scott Summers-level inspirational pep-talk, but it did get both of the women to stop sniping and pay attention. *And we'll need a plan.*
*I have a knife and a gun,* Romanov explained. *I can handle a few guards, but only if I can slip away without them noticing.*
*A distraction,* Warren said, rather unnecessarily. He hadn't in fact intended either of them to hear it at all, merely run the possibilities through his mind, but he was too new to telepathic conversations to understand the finer nuances. Monet was the first to respond.
*A distraction? Why doesn't Romanov just lean slightly forward? With that ridiculous dress on the guards would soon-*
*Monet! That is not helping!* Warren said sharply. Monet's constant superiority was initially intimidating, but also grating and the latter was swiftly replacing the former. He sensed Monet's surprise that anyone would dare take that tone with her, but she soon regained her former hauteur.
*Yes, and this is not caring.* She folded her arms and turned aside slightly, but her petulance was obvious even without the physical gestures.
*I don't care either,* Warren snapped. *I don't care what the hell your problem is, or where your little insecurities came from, or why. But I do care about getting out of here and rescuing my father, and no spoilt arrogant little princess is going to stop me, got that?*
Now he was more used to the psychic link, he could pick up sensations as well as words through the mental connection: astonishment and grudging respect from Monet, and well concealed amusement from the Russian spy. He wondered if his own surprised satisfaction was just as apparent, but discarded the notion as irrelevant. He had the metaphorical floor, now was his time to make use of it. *We're stuck in what looks like a freezer room,* he explained for the benefit of the Russian. *There's at least one guard out there, presumably with one of those energy weapons. I don't know anything about numbers or positions of the others.*
There's six in the main ballroom, all armed, and five others including the leader have apparently gone to examine the other hostages.* Natasha filled them in on the situation.* I don't know how many there are guarding the two of you.*
*I hope there's a lot,* Monet said darkly. *I've got a lot of aggression to work off...*
*Your father said you have enhanced strength,* Natasha ignored Monet's resentful posturing and kept her tone professional. *Is it enough to break out of where they're keeping you?*
*It wouldn't even slow me down,* Monet predicted confidently. *But it pains me to admit that those guns of theirs are rather dangerous, even to me.*
*Let me handle those,* Warren interjected. He had been giving a lot of thought to the issue, as he lacked Monet's invulnerable skin and a direct hit from one of those guns could easily prove fatal. The two women's surprise was obvious, which Warren found rather irritating. He may not have a gamut of powers, or years of training, but that didn't mean he couldn't handle himself.
*Your funeral,* Monet said callously. *But what do we do once we get out? I'm not going to break out just to be shot and imprisoned again.*
*I'm going after the prisoners,* Natasha explained. *Come and find me as soon as you can.*
*That's your master plan? Sneaking off while me and fly boy get used for target practice?* Monet did not sound impressed. Warren wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect either. Monet's description of their role was dismissive but accurate, and it would only take one good or lucky shot and Warren would be seriously hurt at the very least.
*Yes,* Natasha said simply. *Unless you can think of a better one...*
Warren could not say that he could. The only other possibility was the reversal of roles, but Natasha would most likely prove an even more fleeting diversion than he would, and there was no realistic way for him and Monet to even reach the prisoners without being blown out of the air, much less set them free. He saw Monet scowl as she reached the same conclusion.
*Fine,* the telepath said sulkily. *But you'd better fulfil your side of the deal Romanov, or no amount of goons with guns is going to stop me frying your brain in your skull.*
*You just worry about doing your part, St. Croix,* Natasha replied calmly. *I'm a professional.*
Monet was about to reply when Warren sensed the mental link terminate from Natasha's end.
"'I'm a professional'," Monet mocked the Russian bitterly. "I think I might just fry her mind anyway... and as for you-!" She whirled on Warren, clearly still annoyed by his audacity in addressing her so disrespectfully.
"Look, I'm sorry if I offended you, but you were out of line," he said firmly. "We've all got to work together if we're going to pull this off."
Monet's angry expression became one of irritation, then of resignation. In fact, Warren was surprised to see her lip twitching slightly, as though trying to suppress a smile.
"Well, you're brave, I'll give you that much," she said. "But try it again and I tear your wings off."
The threat was slightly undermined when her facial muscles failed her and the smile broke through anyway. Warren couldn't help smiling back. It seemed vaguely ridiculous to be arguing with each other with family members in peril and armed mercenaries with high tech weapons and itchy trigger fingers lurking outside.
"So how do you plan on handling those weapons then?" Monet demanded. Warren smiled again, this time with genuine satisfaction. He was rather pleased with his solution.
"Those weapons don't have much kinetic impact," he explained. "Otherwise they would just bounce off you. They worked by some sort of neural disruption, that's why it doesn't matter how tough your skin is, they affect nerves and muscles directly."
Monet had absolutely no idea how he had managed to work that out, but was far too proud to admit it. "I see."
Warren was not convinced that she did understand, but it was probably for the best that she accepted the explanation without asking too many questions. For one thing, the main reason he had worked out how the weapons worked was that the principle was very similar to a device once produced by his father's company- designed as part of the now-defunct Sentinel Project. That was not an association he would want to explain to a very powerful and very angry mutant.
"But that works in our favour," he went on. "It means we can deflect and block the attacks much more easily. In fact, with a reflective surface we could probably even redirect them wherever we wanted..." His voice trailed away as he looked around pointedly. Monet did likewise and soon grasped the point he was making. The freezer was full of chrome and polished tiles; in short, as many reflective surfaces as they could wish for. There were several metal trays lying around as well, easy to turn into impromptu shields if needed.
"Shut up in there!" a voice interrupted their discussion. It was the same guard that had threatened Warren before. "Or I'll shut you up permanent like."
"Now that was just rude," Warren said, shaking his head.
"I think we ought to teach him some manners," Monet agreed.
"Would you like to do the honours, Ms St. Croix?" Warren asked, stepping politely aside.
"With pleasure, Mr Worthington," she replied.
There was the sound of footsteps and an angry voice from outside.
"Listen, freaks, I ain't going to tell you agai- aarrghhh!"
The Reaver's threats were cut short as one hundred and twenty five pounds of angry Algerian mutant smashed into the door, tearing it out along with an impressive amount of wall. His unconscious body was ignored by Monet as she tossed aside the door.
"Shoddy masonry," she observed, brushing crumbled plaster off her shoulders. Warren alighted next to her and nudged the door experimentally with one foot.
"Good solid work on the lock though," he noted. Further witticisms were halted as an energy beam sizzled past his head. Another guard had appeared in the doorway and was aiming a second shot. Warren ducked but started edging backwards as the Reaver aimed again. "Time to make ourselves scarce, I think."
He and Monet both flew back into the freezer room. The Reaver sidled closer, gun raised defensively. He lifted his communicator to his mouth and started whispering urgently.
"The mutants are out, repeat, the mutants are out! They smashed down the door, they took out Delandro as well." He flattened himself against what remained of the wall.
"Give us a sit-rep," a voice ordered down the line.
"They retreated back into the, uh, cell," the Reaver whispered. "They're talking about something, I can't quite see what they're-" He risked peering around the corner, but all he received for his troubles was a metal plate hurled like a Frisbee, catching him between the eyes and skimming merrily away.
"Foley! Foley! Do you copy? Foley!" the communicator squawked. "Okay, you three go check it out. Weapons on full power, and will someone please tell me where the hell the off switch is on this thing?"
The signal died. Monet and Warren looked at each other.
"Three? I don't know whether to be amused or offended," Monet said. "You just let me handle these, no need for us both to waste our time."
"Are you sure you can handle them on your own?" Warren asked. Monet gave him a look scornful look.
"Oh please. They won't even slow me down. If you really have to help, just stand there looking menacing."
"Menacing?" Warren asked, but Monet had vanished from sight. He shrugged and took a boxing pose, wings furled ominously. Three Reavers appeared in the ravaged hole in the wall and brought their weapons to bear on Warren, who poised himself to spring into action.
"Alright, take him!" The central Reaver barked, but before fingers tightened on triggers, a row of frozen food toppled towards them, spilling tins and platters across the room.
"What the fu-" A dark shape rammed a fist into the Reaver's stomach mid-curse, propelling him across the room. The quicker of the two remaining mercenaries snapped off a shot, but Monet was already gone. She appeared behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, but as he brought his gun to his shoulder she wrenched it from his grasp and slammed the butt into his forehead. He collapsed with a groan and Monet threw the gun at the last Reaver, who ducked. He straightened up only to find Monet standing right in front of him. One hand yanked his gun from his hands and threw it into one corner, while the other grabbed his collar and lifted him into the air.
"You tell your boss I'm not done with him," Monet growled at the luckless Reaver. "And he'd better bring his A-game and not send punks like you. Understand?"
The Reaver noticed and Monet tossed him casually aside. He soared out of sight, but Warren heard a nasty crunch as the Reaver slammed into a wall. Despite the fact the man had been perfectly willing to gun him down where he stood, Warren could not help wincing at the sound.
"Well, that was an amusing diversion," Monet said. "Hopefully that Russian bimbo will have had the sense to sneak away."
Bimbo was not the word Warren had associated with Natasha, but he agreed with the sentiment. Monet seemed to be enjoying herself beating up armed thugs, but Warren was more inclined to talk someone out of fighting rather than beating them to a pulp, and was much more sanguine about their prospects of surviving the attack Monet had just called down on them. The two mutant's little rebellion may have proved momentarily distracting, but he doubted it would last long. Natasha would have to act soon if she was not to be too late.
The Ballroom
Natasha had heard the loud crashes and the sound of energy weapons discharging emanating from the mutants' former prison, and could not resist a slight smirk. She had asked for a distraction and that was certainly what she was getting; the Reaver who had taken charge in Pierce's absence was looking distinctly worried and ordered almost all of his remaining followers to deal with the pair, leaving just one Reaver other than himself to watch over the hostages, some of whom were visibly cheered at the prospect of resistance. Natasha had not dared to hope that so many Reavers would be dispatched to deal with a simple distraction, though of course the Reavers had no way of knowing that. As the last of the Reavers vanished from sight, it was time to make her own move. She started walking towards the exit taken by Pierce earlier, apparently oblivious of the threat of the two guns still present.
"Get back over there!" One of the Reavers said angrily. She ignored him and kept walking, and he ran to place himself between her and the door. Instead of backing down, she simply smirked. In his confusion at the illogical reaction, the Reaver was vulnerable for a split second- but that was all Natasha needed. She jabbed the knife at his throat, puncturing his windpipe. The Reaver dropped his gun and staggered backwards, rasping and choking as his lungs found themselves bereft of oxygen. Natasha grabbed him and wrapped one arm around his neck, turning him into a living shield, too weak to resist. She felt her enhanced physiology speed up, everyone else in the room seeming to move laughably slowly.
"Let him go! Now!" The sole remaining Reaver bellowed. Natasha edged backwards, pulling the dying Reaver with her, using his body to mask her movements as she retrieved her hidden gun. She slashed the knife across her shield's throat, blood spurting volcanically as he toppled forwards. Even before the body hit the ground, her gun barked twice and the last Reaver fell backwards, one bullet lodged in his chest, another between his eyes. The whole attack could not have taken more than a few seconds, and both bodies had hit the floor before the first screams started to echo around the room.
"Shut up!" Cartier snapped. Natasha nodded her thanks, glad that at least one of the others had the sense to keep his mouth shut and his brain in gear. Of course, Cartier had an unfair advantage in prior knowledge of Natasha's capabilities. The blonde who had been screaming was so surprised at his brusque tone and apparent unconcern that she complied, although her simmering resentment was obvious. Natasha smiled her thanks to the Algerian.
"I'm going after the other Reavers," she announced to the hall at large. "If you want to help me, the best thing you can do is just stay where you are until we know what we're dealing with."
"The goddamn door is locked!" A beefy man in a tuxedo grunted from the back of the room, kicking the unresponsive wood in anger. Natasha was not surprised; the Reavers knew what they were doing, at least when genetically modified Russian super-spies were not part of the equation, and were far too smart not to leave a door open and unlocked.
"What about my daughter and the Worthington boy?" Cartier asked.
"They can look out for themselves, more than Stark and the others anyway," Natasha said coldly. "They're not my concern. If you can find a way to help them without getting yourself killed, be my guest."
Cartier's attempt to hide his chagrin would have fooled anyone without Natasha's skills and experience, but she remained unconcerned. Cartier was clearly smart enough to realise anyone who could take down armed and armoured mercenaries was more than capable of dealing with a truculent nominal ally. He backed down immediately, but his eyes were dark and his expression grim.
"Don't move from this room. Don't try and escape. Don't follow me. Don't try to help me," Natasha said firmly. "If the other Reavers realise something is wrong, then things really will go wrong... for all of you."
Without another word, she turned and stalked out of the room, gun in one hand and knife in the other.