Chapter 2: The Hospital
Waking was hard, but necessary. Within the darkness of sleep was the sound of violence and death. She was sure the screams of the dying would haunt her for a long time to come. Yes, the waking was necessary so she could have some peace.
After a struggle, her gummy eyes pried themselves open. The world was blindingly bright, with a lightly acrid scent to it. A few rapid blinks later, her eyes adjusted. She finds herself in a very clean and extremely high-tech hospital room. Her head turns from side to side, trying to take it all in. It is certainly the most advanced hospital she has ever been in.
"Good morning," a nurse in a crisp white uniform says. "Nice to see you awake."
The woman shifts in her bed and gasps as pain shoots up her left leg. "Where am I? How long have I been asleep?" Her voice cracks; her throat is dry. Her head is full of so many questions that need explanation.
The nurse hands her a cup of water. "Four days. As to where you are, I'll let the Director explain." She depresses a syringe into a tube attached to the woman's arm. "A little morphine for the pain." She then proceeds to wash the woman's face and brush out her hair. The nurse makes a note on the clipboard that another bath will be necessary soon.
Once the nurse leaves, the woman settles back into the pillows. She fights the soporific effect of the morphine. She does not want to return to the place of darkness and screams. Her fingers fiddle with the sheet. Four days of sleep has left her restless. She wants to be up and moving, but the sear of pain in her leg reminds her that movement may not be possible for a long time.
After some time – there is no clock so the woman has no way of keeping track of just how much time – a formidable man with an eye patch enters her hospital room. His presence commands attention and respect. His attitude reminds her of some warlords she has seen in newsreels.
"It's good to see you awake." He settles into the chair beside her bed. "We were concerned that you would never wake. You were severely malnourished in combination with suffering from smoke inhalation. I am Director Nick Fury. You are being treated in a highly specialized hospital run by the agency S.H.I.E.L.D."
"I thank you for your treatment, Mr. Fury." Her voice is slightly accented, a combination of something Eastern European and Middle Eastern. "Can you tell me where the children are?"
"Your children are being treated here as well. They are just in the next room."
"You misunderstand me, Mr. Fury. They're not my children. They are my students."
Fury leans back in the chair to survey the woman laid up in the hospital bed. Someone had washed her hair in the past four days. It gleams like ebony in the bright fluorescent hospital lights. With the dirt scrubbed from her, she appears younger than Fury initially thought. "Perhaps you should explain from the beginning, then. Let me understand what was going on at that refugee camp."
The woman takes a few sips from the water glass before speaking. "The beginning. That is somewhere I have not thought about for a long time." She breathes deeply, willing the memories to cease swirling around in her head. Watching her hands she beings her story. "My name is Olena Sokolov. I grew up in a Russian orphanage. Life wasn't particularly pleasant, but what Russian's life really is?" Her mouth twists in a wry smile. "I grew up wanting to help people. I suppose I have the orphanage to thank for that. Once I was old enough I worked for many years, saving up money to go to university. I earned a degree in social work from St. Petersburg University. Afterwards, I traveled, working in poverty stricken communities all over the world, though mostly in the Middle East."
"How did you end up in that refugee camp in Afghanistan?" Fury questions.
Olena raises her eyes to look at Fury. "A colleague needed some help. He sent a few of us a very desperate letter. He told us about so many terrible things that were happening in that valley. Our work there was to get those families to safety. The camp you found us in was a staging point. Families would come and stay there until we could move them out to a safer location."
Though Fury wants to know so much more, he questions Olena slowly and carefully. "What did you experience in that valley?"
A shadow crosses Olena's face. "We dealt with the Taliban daily. Their force is strong in that valley. The hills have confusing networks of caves throughout them, providing perfect hideouts. There were a number of small attacks led against us because we were educating the girls. But there was something in those hills that even the Taliban feared. None of us ever got a good look."
"The attack a few nights ago, who do you think led it?"
Olena shifts in the hospital bed, wincing as the motion jostles her injured leg. "I can't be sure. Maybe the Taliban? They had been quiet for a while, which usually means they were planning an attack on us. I was concerned with keeping the children safe that I never left the building until your agents took me out."
Fury pats Olena's hand. "Thank you for your help. I'll let you rest now. I'm sure the doctor will be in shortly to explain your condition and what your treatment plan is. I will like to ask more questions later, to see if you can remember anything else."
"Thank you, Mr. Fury, for saving my life."
Fury shakes his head. "It's not me you need to thank, Miss. Sokolov. Captain America saved your life; it's him you should be thanking."
Olena's next few weeks are spent in recovery; gaining strength and watching the burn on her left calf heal. She has no shortage of visitors. All of the refugees who were rescued come to check in on her. Everyone comes in, murmurs a prayer for healing in Pashto, then distracts her with other, more trivial, conversation. Olena takes comfort in the prayers of her community. After the first week, she feels strong enough to resume teaching again. The young Afghani girls gather in Olena's hospital room and eagerly resume their lessons. The familiarity of the scene keeps the nightmares at bay sometimes. Olena regularly sees a S.H.I.E.L.D psychiatrist, making sure that her mind is adapting to the things that have happened to her. Sleeping is not quite such a terrifying thing anymore, but the screams are still there. Dr. Matthews assures her that this is normal and with time the screams will fade.
Director Fury comes a few times to ask some questions, but Olena is unable to remember anything more. One time he asks, "Is there any possibility of you still having this letter your colleague sent?"
"I think so. He sent it as an email. I just can't remember if I deleted it or not."
Fury hands her a small clear glass tablet. "Pull up your email."
Feeling silly, Olena just stares at the glass. "I'm sorry. Can someone show me how to work this?" She waves her hand at the tablet. "I've been working in poverty so long; I'm not up to date on the latest technology. I think the last computer I worked on had been built in 2000."
She should meet Steve, Fury thinks to himself. The pair would be perfectly out of time together. Fury touches a corner of the tablet. It brightens to life, ready to do whatever its operator wants. "JARVIS, open a web-browser for Miss Sokolov."
"Certainly, Director Fury."
The disembodied voice makes Olena jump. "Is that…." She points to the tablet.
"Yes, Miss, the computer is talking to you." There is a hint of bemusement in the disembodied British accented voice. "I'm JARVIS. I am an artificial intelligence system Mr. Stark designed."
"I…It's nice to meet you JARVIS." She inputs a web address for her email, and then enters her access information when prompted. Her inbox appears after a few moments, flooded with unread emails from months ago. She scans down the list, searching for the right entry. "Dimitry's letter is still here." She pulls it up and shows it to Fury.
"JARVIS print that letter for me in my office," Fury commands. "I want to look it over to see if this Dimitry fellow makes mention of anything we consider important. And while you're at it, find everything you can on him."
When Director Fury leaves her room, Olena sinks back into her bed and sighs deeply. She hopes that she has not brought misfortune to Dimitry by giving the fearsome director his letter. She only wants to be helpful and protect all of the other families that may still be suffering from whatever lurks in those hills. She wrestles with her conscience before falling into a fitful sleep.
After a month of recovery in bed, the doctor finally clears Olena for physical therapy. Aside from brief forays to the bathroom, Olena's movement has been limited. She is delighted to finally begin a physical therapy program to strengthen her damaged leg. Her left calf had been burned badly, and there would be scar tissue on it for many long years to come, possibly permanently. Using it made it ache, but it was an ache that made her thankful to be alive.
During her hospital stay, a small collection of clothing has appeared in the small dresser - undergarments and tank tops, skirts and shawls made by some of the refugee women, and other basic items. Dressed in a black tank top and a long skirt exuberantly tie-dyed by her refugee children, Olena slowly takes a few laps of the hospital wing, leaning heavily on the cane she needs to help her walk. Mostly everyone leaves her alone, but her few regular nurses smile and politely make sure she is doing okay and not overexerting herself. The silence is welcome after spending all morning with the children. Faced with tragedy, the children were remarkably resilient. Some had lost a parent, some had lost both parents, and others still had lost a sibling or two. But they had bonded together, as children will do, and were helping each other cope.
As Olena progresses down the hall, she hears snatches of an argument. It seems to be coming from one of the examination rooms, and the pair was making no effort to be quiet.
"Barton, do you always have to be an idiot?" a female voice chides. Natasha dabs at a cut on Barton's forehead.
"It's nothing," the male voice grumbles. "It's Stark's fault I fell in the first place."
Olena comes up to the door and tries her best to hurry past the door without letting the couple know she was there. She does not want to appear as though she had been eavesdropping. She manages a few hurried steps past the door. The only warning is a huff from the female voice before Olena finds herself falling to the ground.
"Dammit! I'm sorry," the female says. "Let me help you up."
Olena lifts her head and feels her heart stop. Above her is a pair of eyes she thought she would never see again in all her life. Impossible, Olena thinks. She can't be here.
Natasha is equally stunned. Her hand freezes mid-air as she reaches down to help up the poor woman she had knocked over. The pale green eyes of the woman beneath her are wide in surprise. Natasha knows that hers are equally surprised. There are the same pale green eyes Natasha sees in the dreams of her childhood.
"Nattie?" The woman asks in a whisper.
"Olena?" Natasha asks just as quietly.
"What is going on here?" The voice of Fury booms down the hall. "Why is my patient on the floor, and why do the both of them look like they've seen a ghost?"
Olena slowly gets to her feet, wincing at the new ache in her calf, and studies Natasha. "So long…" she murmurs in Russian. Her hand reaches out to touch Natasha's face. "I had been certain that the day they took you was the last I would ever see of you."
"I had thought you were lost to me forever," Natasha replies in Russian. Memories begin to swell to the surface – memories she had thought long buried. The ache in Natasha's heart is too much. She musters the Black Widow mask she has carefully cultivated for so many years and shutters her emotions away. "I am sorry for knocking you down," she says in curt English. With her face devoid of emotion, Natasha turns on her heel and stalks away down the hall.
Olena reaches a hand down the hallway, trying to grasp the retreating image of Natasha. Slumping against the wall, she squeezes her eyes shut. Memories – likely the same ones swimming before Natasha's eyes - play on the back of her eyelids. The old wound on her heart opens, swamping her with pain she had carefully tried to seal away.
"Can you explain to me what's going on here?" Fury snaps at her.
"I can, just not now." She turns away from Fury dismissively. Gripping the cane in her hand, Olena turns down a different hallway, needing to find a quiet spot to think.