Where Have All The Criminals Gone? (2/?)

Day Two (Wednesday)

"So," said Clint as he took a sample of Talia Romanez' diseased blood, "you settled in yet? Made any friends? Found our target?"

Natasha swung her legs to and fro, fingers resting on the edge of the hospital bed. "The dealer likes me."

"Oh," said Clint, "the dealer. Yeah, that's good. If you find her stash then you can blackmail her, threaten to throw her to the guards if she doesn't help you."

"Or I could just ask her nicely," Natasha replied, and Clint chuckled. "I was being serious."

He looked up from his clipboard. "What, really? That's not your style. You think you've got her under your thumb, then."

"No. She's got too much sway in here to fall for fresh meat like me. I just don't particularly want to piss her off."

"I'm sure you could handle her," said Clint, "if you did."

"That's not why," Nat told him. "What? I'm allowed to like people, aren't I?"

"Sure you are," said Clint, "it just makes me feel less special."

"If you're jealous, you can put on a wig and join me in here. The soup's delicious."

"I'll pass, thanks. So, you got nothing new?"

"Nope."

"I'll see you Saturday, then. Say hi to your new girlfriend for me."

"Will do," Natasha said, hopping off the bed and leaving the box room. A guard was waiting for her, and put a coarse hand on Nat's shoulder as she was led back to her cell. It was early morning, an hour or two before they would be allowed out into the courtyard, and being stuck in a small space was making Nat restless. It wasn't like she couldn't break out – she had spent most of last night lying awake, making up escape routes that were each more likely to succeed unnoticed than the last – but that she knew she wouldn't, not until she had found out the identity of the Blue Moon killer. And then she could get out of this damn place, with blankets almost as thin as those of the Red Room.

It got harder to remember where she was when she closed her eyes and sleep was near. In the hour of the wolf the previous night the prison had been as quiet as it was going to get, and Nat had listened to the distant cries and occasional night-terror scream that echoed around the stone-and-metal building. The New Mexico prison was a world away from Soviet Russia, but then it had felt like she was home again. It was not a pleasant feeling. The small amount of sleep that Nat had managed to get was saturated with nightmares and old memories that she would much rather forget.

There had been one saving grace, and that was waking up from her fitful sleep to see Melanie sat on the floor of her cell, counting inventory of a stunning amount of contraband. Natasha had watched the woman, illuminated by moonlight, as she leafed through packets of cigarettes, Ziploc bags filled with rainbow-colored pills, mobile phones, tampons, make-up, dope, fancy underwear and a hell of a lot more besides. The green emergency lighting from indoors and the silvery glow from outside had sapped the tawny tint from her skin, but her eyes seemed brighter in the dark and practically shone, cat-like, as they flashed over her goods.

Melanie had swept all of it up with one hand and disappeared from view – Natasha heard the sounds of her mattress being rearranged. Ten minutes later the woman had started snoring again.

That had never happened in the Red Room.

Melanie was, unsurprisingly, asleep when Nat returned to her cell, but woke up half an hour or so later. "My doctor says hi," she told her, and Melanie gave her a thumbs up as she shuffled towards the sink. Natasha observed, almost idly, that she was only wearing panties, and not the prison-issued ones at that. They were black, and tight, and made the colors of the butterflies tattooed on her back pop.

"Nice to know," said Melanie, splashing her face with water. She hesitated for a moment, then glanced at Natasha. "This ain't making you uncomfortable, is it?" she asked, waving a hand at her naked torso.

"Not even slightly."

"You're cute," Melanie smiled. The curve of her lips knocked her piercing slightly askew, and Natasha had to fight the urge to correct it. "You ever play poker, Romanez-Talia-Romanez?"

"Sometimes."

Melanie left the bathroom and began to dress, reaching beneath her mattress and tucking a packet of something into her bra as she did. "You seem like the kinda chick to have a damn good poker face," she observed.

Natasha tensed slightly. "Why d'you say that?"

"Well," said Melanie, "I was wandering round shirtless a moment ago, and you weren't salivating. I'm almost insulted." She walked up to Natasha and stared at her with her perfect eyes, so close that Nat could have counted her lashes. "Should I be?"

"No," Natasha replied, "I'm just very good at poker."

Somewhere in the back of her head, a voice that sounded a little like Clint Barton and a lot like Phil Coulson was screaming at her to keep it professional. But Natasha was good at keeping business and pleasure separate; she could easily endear herself to this woman, form a meaningful and above all useful relationship without falling for her in the slightest. She had done it hundreds of times before.

A loud buzz echoed around the prison and the doors clicked open, accompanied by the guards announcing that it was time to get some fresh air, ladies, get off your asses and move. Melanie raised an eyebrow at Natasha and led the way.

%

"I don't give a damn if you got all the dope I can smoke, Chavez. I ain't having no white bitch sit with us."

"I'm half-Hispanic," Nat said, as Melanie handed the large Latina woman a joint.

"You don't look it."

"She's half-Hispanic," Melanie said firmly, and that was that.

The Latina clique of San Helios sat in the sunniest corner of the courtyard, and smoked, and played cards. If the guards noticed the contraband cigarettes and dope, they didn't do anything about it, and Natasha was slightly surprised to see that Melanie engaged in neither of the two activities, nor did she fall asleep. Instead she lounged on the wooden bench that ringed the edge of the courtyard like a throne, seemingly unpaid for the goods she had brought, and watched the poker game unfold.

The large woman who seemed to run the clique was called Maria. It became clear from the outset that, even if she wasn't in for killing, she clearly didn't have a problem with it, but she seemed to messy, too personal, to keep a secret like the identity of the Blue Moon assassin. Her girlfriend, a tiny woman with a pixie cut and tattoos over her entire visible body, could be read like a book – Natasha, who was not playing, had guessed whether she would fold or not successfully every round. Then there was Tina, who was betting high with her contraband tampons and winning even more of them back; Nat kept an eye on her, but considered her unlikely as she was serving time for a one-off occurrence of drug-smuggling and clearly wasn't the criminal type, and certainly not the type to associate with assassins. In fact, none of the dozen or so Hispanic women sounded any alarms for Natasha.

The Blue Moon assassin had gained their name because kills cropped up with their modus operandi. more often than PR complaints about Jasper Sitwell, and sarcasm was the closest SHIELD got to humor these days. They had been responsible, according to SHIELD records, for the deaths of eight high-ranking SHIELD officials, several congressmen and three reality television stars since the turn of the century, more than thrice the average for the kind of hitmen Nat was used to dealing with, and if SHIELD could get hold of the killer themselves they could find out why those particular people had been targeted. The victims' financial records had shown payments into their accounts a dummy corporation, and Fury wanted to know who the hell had been bribing some of his most trusted advisors (as well as the politicians and celebs), and why they had been killed. Since the dummy corporation was a cold lead, he had called in Strike Team Delta to find the killer and figure out if they were private or freelance, enhanced or just plain talented, and most importantly whether or not they should be eliminated.

Nat herself did not know all of this, and had no problem with Fury's compartmentalization of the issue. All she knew was that she and Clint were expected to find the Blue Moon assassin, and that everyone in certain illicit circles knew he was fucking somebody in San Helios penitentiary – or at least, he had been before she had gone inside. Since that was pretty much the only thing anyone knew about him, Natasha had ended up here.

"Do they do conjugal visits here?" she asked, and Melanie raised one slender eyebrow at her.

"Missing somebody, Romanez?" she asked coolly.

"Just wondered."

"Once a month," Maria told her, as Melanie snapped her fingers. Someone handed her a cigarette and she lit it with a match she struck on the sole of her non-regulation boots. "Whoever it is you wanna screw needs to get in contact with the governor. That's the deal, ain't it, Chavez?"

"Mmm," Melanie said, taking a drag on the cigarette.

Maria's girlfriend leant towards Natasha. "It's how she talks to her supplier," she whispered. "Fuckin' miracle the guards ain't caught on yet. There's only a half dozen bitches in here who get conjugal visitors, anyway."

That meant six – well, five if she were to exclude Melanie – women in here were the likeliest suspects for the Blue Moon's girlfriend. If Natasha could become the seventh, then there was a fairly good chance she would end up in the same room as the man himself. Okay. That sounded like a plan.

"You didn't answer my question," Melanie said bluntly, and Natasha blinked in surprise as somebody hissed under their breath. "Who you missing, Romanez?"

"Why d'you care?" Natasha replied, and quick as a flash Melanie had darted across the bench and grabbed the front of her shirt in one small fist.

"'Cuz I wanna know who my roomie's fucking," she hissed, holding her cigarette butt so close to Natasha's cheek it almost burnt. "You live with me now, Romanez. Your business is my fucking business, you got that?"

"Nobody!" Natasha exclaimed, Melanie's nicotine-stained breath hot on her lips.

"Say it again."

"I don't wanna screw anybody, I swear!"

Melanie released her and leant back. "Good," she said, "I don't want my roomie fucking with nobody but me. That leads to problems." She stamped out her cigarette and walked back inside.

"And that," said Maria, "is why you do not mess with Melanie Chavez. Crazy bitch. People be in and out of her El Dorado faster than if they was on a conveyor belt."

Natasha pressed a hand to her cheek to check it had not been burnt. "I know about the cellmate that got beat up," she said, "there were others?"

"Gossip's got a price, lady," Maria replied, and Natasha removed a couple of tampons from her bra and handed them over. "That's my girl. Mara? Yeah, she got taken outta there in a jam jar. That fucked Mel up pretty bad, but the one before that, it turned out her boy on the outside knew Chavez, wanted her to pay back some old debts. Used the girl to try and get to her."

"What happened?"

"Long story short, Chavez got another decade added to her sentence," Maria said. "You don't fuck with El Dorado."

%

Natasha returned to her cell to find Melanie asleep, completely hidden beneath her blanket. She sat on the floor and waited in silence for two hours, until her cellmate stirred and sat up, one hand pressed to her face.

"Jesus," she said, peering at Natasha through her fingers, "you're all I need."

"I don't have anyone on the outside," Natasha said, "I promise. Unless you count the doctor. Maria told me about your old roommate, and I get it. Paranoia's probably the safest bet in here."

Melanie glared. "The fuck is your deal, Romanez?" she asked, "hit and run, my ass. I nearly ruined your pretty face earlier, and you didn't even blink. What're you doing in here? Why d'you wanna know about conjugal visits?"

She won't trust me until I tell the truth, Nat thought, and I need her to trust me. But I can't tell her who I am, either.

"I'm looking for a guy," she said, "that's all I can tell you."

"Women's penitentiary is a bad place to find some dick, Romanez."

"I got a hunch."

Melanie dropped her hand from her face and tilted her head to one side. "Any guy in particular?"

"Yeah."

"Is he in your good books or not?"

"Not," said Natasha, "definitely not."

Suddenly, Melanie smiled, a big crooked half-moon of a grin. She ran her thumb over her piercing and bit down on her lower lip, then held out a hand. Natasha took it and pulled Melanie to her feet, who wrapped her arms around Natasha's waist without dropping the grin.

"You want my help?" she asked.

"Why?"

"Because," said Melanie, "I don't think you're planning on staying here long, Talia Romanez. I think as soon as you find this guy, you're leaving. And that means you're my ticket outta here."

In an effort to feel at least a little more in control, Natasha put her hands on Melanie's hips. Her fingers brushed against the skin beneath her shirt, finding it warm and soft. "I don't make deals," she whispered.

"Well, I'm pretty good at 'em," Melanie replied, her midnight eyes steady and serene. "I'm a good place to start, don't you think?"

And then she kissed her. It was lightning-fast and chaste, but it sent a shock through Natasha's body more electric than any torture she had experienced. Melanie still tasted of cigarettes, and her lips were as soft as roses.

Melanie stepped away. "Think it over," she said softly. "You know where to find me. Right underneath you."

A/N still have no idea where I'm going with this. But I think that the next chapter might possibly be a funny one, although you probably shouldn't hold me to that.