Chapter 25:
[Natasha Romanova POV]
[Weeks later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City, USA]
[Living-area.] I hate lies. Lying, I'm okay with; it's a necessary tool in my trade. Being lied to, I hate. Everything Ivan used to say to me was a lie. I haven't thought about the man in a long time. Years even. Not after I killed him to free myself from the RED ROOM. I shift uneasily in my seat. A sudden thought. Even after all these years, I can never fully escape Ivan. No, that isn't right. The blood that was traded for freedom eats away at me. Ivan was the conductor of the RED-ROOM's WIDOW program. The program stole my life, autonomy, and independence and turned me into a bio-enhanced assassin. A tap on my shoulder snaps me back to reality.
"You zoned out for a moment there. You okay?" Rogers asks. I nod, "Yeah." His eyes linger on me for a short while, then discard the matter. The two of us have been pulling some much-needed R&R time after a three-day mission. Rogers is busying himself with his journal. Curious, I take a peek over the man's shoulder. He was writing his thoughts on the mission, particularly how he enjoyed my company. For a split second, the phantom of our kiss touches my lips. As much as I didn't want to admit it at the time, that kiss stirred something within me. Pinch of a feeling I had never felt before in my entire life. A foreign emotional response I was not accustomed to. Something Ivan had a hand in trying to erase, but it was still there.
[Spartan POV]
[Training-area.] Wanda flips me onto my back and then places herself on top of me in a full mount position. "Nice. Your CQC has gotten a lot better," I tell Wanda. She narrows her eyes, "You better not be letting me win. I do not want you to treat me like some delicate flower because we're together." In response, I trap Wanda's arm to my chest, then flip her onto her back, catching her by surprise, "I wouldn't insult you like that." She smiles, trying her best to stifle a laugh. "What?" I ask. Wanda angles upward and then kisses me on the lip, "I can feel your stiff." My cheeks blush red. It's hard not to rock a stiff training with a beautiful woman wearing a tight sports bra and perfectly fit yoga pants. "We could lock the door and go for it," Wanda states seductively. 'Oh, that is tempting. Very.'
The mood is quickly killed as Wanda swiftly takes hold of my arm, throws a leg across my face, and drops me to the side, putting me in an armbar submission. Despite the shooting pain going up my arm, I'm impressed by how far Wanda has improved her skills. Wanda beams, "I win again." She lets go of the hold. We stand. "You cheated. You use your sexiness to win," I complain jokingly. She raises a brow, "No such thing as a fair fight." I smile, "Touche."
[Living-area.] Working up an appetite, Wanda and I walk into the lounge area to get a bite to eat. Off to the side, Natasha and Cap are shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch. The two of them have been spending a lot of time together. Wanda settles two plated sandwiches and then sits down next to me. On TV, a graying-haired bearded man steps in front of a sea of reporters from different news outlets. Owen Wilhelm, the mayoral candidate. "Thank you. Thank you, everyone. A humble man like myself is not used to such a ringing endorsement. Now to the meat of the matter, this city has burned with corruption and greed under Mayor Hutton's authority for too long. But I promise you a vote for Owen Wilhelm is a vote to finally put your foot down and say 'enough.' Together, we stamp out the fire and save our great city. We can rebuild it into something better, something beautiful. Something to be proud of. Thank you."
With everything going on, the mayoral election has gone completely forgotten. "With Wilhelm's rising popularity with the voters. He has a good chance of becoming mayor," Natasha says. I nod in agreement with Natasha. The man made big promises. Whether or not he fulfilled them is a different story. Politicians tend to talk a big game but only do a little action. As a rule of thumb, I never put too much trust in any politician, regardless of their political standing. At the end of the day, they're still people with agendas, and agendas can change at a flip of a coin.
[Hallway.] I walk Wanda to her room. As we walk, I note the troubled expression on her face from the corner of my eye. "Something bothering you?" I question. She blinks, then glances over her shoulder toward the living-area, worried, "It's too quiet. The guilt eats away at them." I peer over at Wanda, understanding what she means. Since the incident, the team has been dealing with the traumatic experience in their own way. A slow process but a process nonetheless. "I think Karai is taking it the hardest," Wanda comments, "She refused to seek therapy." I bark a sad laugh, "Karai isn't the therapy type. She doesn't like the idea of spilling her feelings to a person being paid to pretend to care for her mental wellbeing. Her words, not mine."
Wanda chuckles slightly, "She is very stubborn." I shrug my shoulders. Try to push the subject to a different topic, "How's mage training going?" Wanda's frown deepens, "Different from how it started." I raise a perplexed brow in a question. "Since the whole fiasco, Auron has been keeping a distance. Like he is terrified of me, or rather the power dwelling inside. It's frustrating cause I can barely remember what happened during that part of the event. All I can recall is feeling an overpowering force roaring to be unleashed, and I allowed it to take control." "I'm sorry you're going through that," I say, taking her hand in mine. Wanda flashes me a small smile, "Thanks. You put yourself through hell for me." "Would've done it for any one of the AVENGERS," I tell her, placing my forehead on hers.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[Room.] My eyes snap open. I glance around my empty room for threats. A habit that never faded out. My ears perk up at a distant noise coming from the training-area. Curiosity at its peak, I go check it out.
[Training-area.] I walk into the state-of-the-art gym to find Natasha going off on the sparring drone. She has been going at it for a while with her breathing and sweat. Nat stops when she sees me at the doorway. I couldn't help but eye her body for a quick moment. Noting her perfectly toned body. "Want to talk about it?" I say to her, scratching the back of my neck nervously. Sandness clouds Natasha's features. It's so sudden and quick that I question if it even happened. The woman truly knows how to scold her emotions, but small cracks are there. She blots her forehead with a rag. We walk toward the bench and take a seat. There's a long pause as Natasha gathers her thoughts. "Thinking about my sister. Yelena Belova. Today is her birthday," she tells me. I glance at the woman next to me in shock. Mostly at the fact that she had a sister. A family member she has never spoken about before now. 'Did they have a falling out?' I hold back questions, patiently waiting for her to elaborate.
Her eyes fall to the ground, "We're not sisters by blood. More like sisters by choice." I nod, understanding what she means. "Yelena and I were both abducted and forced into the WIDOWS as children. Trained to be weapons. We were Ivan's top and favorite tools. We grew close after a while, slowly becoming sisters." "Ivan?" I ask, brow raised.
"The architect of the WIDOWS," Natasha says through gritted teeth, "The monster who stole away my life and freedom." Her hands ball into tight fists, shaking with controlled anger. The pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place. Natasha pushes on, fighting desperately to hold back tears, "I killed my sister, Steve. After we were forcefully BIO-ENHANCED, our ability to have children was severed. Ivan created a chemical compound to hijack the mind to obtain absolute obedience. My sister and I attempted to escape. We didn't get far. To save me, Yelena sacrificed herself." "Sorry," I state to her, remorseful. Natasha shakes her head, "Weeks later, I cross paths with Clint. He was sent to kill me by SHIELD. You can fill in the blanks of the rest of the story." Can understand she wanted to stop. I didn't know what to say or do. What Natasha laid out is heavy. For a moment, I couldn't help but see a few similarities in our life experiences. Suddenly, Natasha throws her arms around me and lets herself cry. I gently tighten the embrace, "Let it out."
[Natasha Romanova POV]
After my little emotional breakdown, Steve gave me a cup of water. I drink the cool liquid within the bottle. It does the trick to calm me down a bit. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," I bob my head in thanks for the emotional support. Not used to this level of vulnerability. Being compromised could lead to a bad end. Sitting there next to Steve, my mind starts to drift, recollecting those rare happier times with Yelena. We were truly sisters. I will never forgive Ivan for what he did. If there is a hell, I hope he's burning in it. In an intent, a notion crossed my perception. Shared life experience. Steve's words. I gaze over at the man. We're the same. To a certain degree, our lives had similar parallels. Wonder if this is the pain he felt when he came face to face with the Winter Soldier- No, Bucky. That's the man's name before HYDRA stole his mind and body, turning him into their asset/assassin against his will. Then place the two men- brothers against each other.
I'm trying to understand why I did what I did next; my body just acted independently. Maybe the emotional pain was too much to bear, and I desperately wanted a moment to forget it all. Leaning into the super-soldier, my lip touches his. Steve places a hand on my shoulders and gently pushes away, "No. Nat, you're not in the right headspace for that. Feels wrong." Always the boy scout. One of the many qualities why I find myself drawn to him. Despite being a little disappointed, I'm happy about the outcome. "Sorry," I say, putting some respectable space between us. He shakes his head, "No, I get it. Been in that spot. It feels good at the moment but afterward. Dirty." I raise a brow at that, "And here I thought you were a 100-year-old virgin." He breaks down into a small laugh, "That's a popular misconception." He doesn't go into details, and I don't push the subject. It's none of my business anyway.
There's a short pause, thankfully not of awkwardness. A small smile appears on my face of a memory surfacing, "My sister used to fantasize what our life would be like if we were never a part of the WIDOWS. Yelena imagined being an adventurer. An Indiana Jones type. Seeing the world with her own eyes and not through a sniper scope. Married. One child." "What did you come up with for yourself in this imaginary setting?" Steve asks, curious. I frown a little, "Never did it personally. But Yelena made one up. In her imaginary world, I'm a science teacher. Lives out west. Have a son. I'm married to a carpenter who's a bit of a dork but lovable." "Your sister sounds like an amazing person," Steve says, setting a comforting hand on my shoulder. I drop my eyes low, "She was."
[Karai POV]
[Bar, New York City]
As I'm making my way back to the bunker, I decide to stop at a local dive bar. To keep myself busy, I've been more active on patrol lately. Unfortunately, tonight has been fairly quiet. Honestly, I don't like the silence. It allows the guilt to eat away at me. Even though everyone understood I wasn't in control of my actions, it doesn't change the fact that I still committed the act. I can't wash the innocent blood off my hands.
Soon as I park myself onto a stool, the bartender comes by and asks for my order. I request a bottle of tequila. Even though I can't get drunk, I keep up the appearance regardless. On the stage, there's a band performing, singing a mix of rock and rap. It's terrible, but no one really cared. After my fifth bottle, I drop a 100-dollar bill on the table, to the bartender's surprise. "Don't want to open a tab?" the bartender asks. I shake my head, "No thanks." At that moment, a girl approaches the counter. Judging by her appearance, she has to be somewhere in her mid to late teens. She catches me eyeing her. "What are you looking at?" the girl barks. "An underage girl at a bar in the middle of the night," I remark. She flashes a fake ID, "I'm 23." I smirk, "No you're not. Carrying a fake id is a class D felony in NYC." "You a cop?" she questions, worried. Technically under SHIELD, but I don't play the role much. Not wanting to push her luck, the girl walks away, grumbling.
Just as I'm about to leave, a drunken shady character catches my attention. The guy walks over to the counter and places down cash, "Let's have a drink together." Obviously, the bartender is uncomfortable, but she plays it off like a pro, "Thanks. I'll grab it later." He isn't taking that as a satisfactory answer, "No, have one with me now." The bartender shakes her head, "I'm on the clock, Dude. It's against work policy." The guy forces a smile, irritation setting in, "Come on. I know how this works. If you don't drink with me, you'll keep my money. And I don't want to just give you my hard earned money. And I'm wondering how far those tattoos go down your back." 'Oh now you definitely don't have a chance with that shit line,' I roll my eyes. Hate these types of people. They truly believe they are entitled to everything simply due to their status. A terrible trait for both men and women.
The bartender pushes herself away from the counter, "Dude, no. I think you're a little too drunk. You should leave." He reaches over and grabs the woman forcefully by the arm, "Hey, I'm just being friendly." Having enough of this bullshit, I intervene, "HEY! Enough! Let go of the woman's arm. Lady is trying to work." The drunk releases her arm. "Thank you," I say, then turn to the bartender, "You good?" "Yeah," the woman says, rubbing her wrist. "Slut," the drunk barks under his breath. I sigh in controlled anger, "Classy. Real fucking classy." "You say something?" the guy states, standing tall, trying his best to intimidate me. I nod, "Yeah, I did." He walks over, cutting into my personal space. Raises a hand to throw a punch. I easily deflect it, pin his arm behind his back, twisting it slightly, "Don't. That's a battle you won't win, friend. Now, I'm going to let go. You're going to apologize to the lady for your behavior, and you're going to leave. Do anything else; you're gonna spend the night in the ER. Clear?" He grunts in sharp pain but nods. I slowly let go of the arm. The man nurses it, then say a quick sorry and fast walks toward the exit.
The bartender breathes a sigh of relief, "Thanks. Deal with those types of assholes all the time." I sit back down on the stool, "Shouldn't have to." "Yeah, well. Things we have to do to pay the bills." I set the money on the table, payment for the drinks, and the slight property damage. The woman slides the money back to me. "No, it's fine. On me." I shake my head, "You don't need to do that." "It's fine. Don't worry about it. It's the least I can do for helping me out," she tells me. I shoot her a grateful nod. "You got a name?" she asks. "Samus," I tell her, "You?" "Chanel," the woman introduces herself, shaking my hand. "So what brings a gal like you to a place like this?" Chanel asks. "Just keeping busy. Burning off steam after a long day of work," I answer, being vague on the details. There's no reason to divulge too much to a complete stranger. The woman eyes the empty tequila bottles on the side, "Honestly surprised you're not hammered." I bark a small laugh, "I have a very high tolerance." Chanel raises a brow, "Clearly."
[Parking Lot.] Before I know it, I'm walking Chanel to her car. "Have a safe ride home," I say, starting to make my way across the street. "Hold up," Chanel calls out. She rests a hand on the passenger door, considering a thought, "You can say no, obviously. Wondering if you would like to hang out with me a little longer." For the first time, I really study Chanel. A striking woman with a perfectly toned body. Her eyes harmonize 'save me' and 'take me' in equal measure, hitting just the right notes. I consider the invitation for a moment and flash a smile, "Yeah, I would definitely like that."
[Drake POV]
[Warehouse District, New York City]
Under stealth-camo, I infiltrate the conclave of the city's major gangs. Not a single individual is aware of my presence. Too busy conversing among themselves. A bold man in his 40s stride around the table, reminiscing on the good old days to the other gangsters, "This is the night for celebration. A night to discuss the future of our syndicate, a sober reflection. There was a time when we owned NYC. Wasn't a fucker who could make a move without giving us our due, and the sorry shit dull enough to cross us paid a heavy price. We had the cops, judges, and councilman at our service." His gaze drifted off, "Somewhere down the road, we got complacent. Lost our edge. Enough for new players to kick us in the balls and dump us to the curve. But now, with the current climate of power shifting we have an opportunity to take everything back!"
Emerging out of the shadows, I vault onto the middle of the table, towering over the gang leaders. In a fluid motion, I pop a flash grenade. The sudden intense light blinds everyone in range. Taking full advantage of the situation, I open fire on the gang leaders' security team. When the shooting stops, the gang leaders slowly compose themselves. The fat gang leader puts up a tough bravado, "You're fucking dead. You have no idea who you fucked with. You're going to die slow!" I flash a grin, pistol aimed. The man freezes up in complete fear. "The hell do you want?!" another one demands, sweating bullets. "Eradicating the competition," I answer plainly. They quickly get the picture, to their horror.