Chapter 25:
[Natasha Romanov POV]
[Weeks later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City, USA]
The complex web of lies has always been a familiar companion to me. In my line of work, lying is a skill I've honed to perfection. It's a tool, a means to an end. But the act of being lied to fuels a fire of resentment within me. Ivan, the man who manipulated me under the guise of mentorship, was a master of deceit. His every word was a calculated falsehood. Memories of him had faded into the distant recesses of my mind until now. Years have passed since I took his life to wrench myself free from the suffocating grip of the RED ROOM. And yet, a restlessness gnaws at me, triggered by a sudden thought that pierces through my composure.
The realization dawns on me that, even after the passage of so much time, I remain entangled with Ivan's legacy. No, entangled isn't quite the right word. It's as though the blood spilled in pursuit of my freedom has left an indelible stain, an eternal connection to him. Ivan orchestrated the cruel symphony of the RED ROOM's WIDOW program, an orchestrated tragedy that robbed me of agency, independence, and identity. The echoes of his orchestrations reverberate within me, a constant reminder of the anguish I endured. Amid the weight of these thoughts, a tap on my shoulder jolts me back to the present moment. It's Rogers, his concern evident in his inquiry, "You zoned out for a moment there. You okay?" I offer a subtle nod, my response concise, "Yeah." His gaze lingers, a fleeting connection that speaks of understanding. He lets the matter go, but the residue of his observation lingers, an unspoken connection formed through shared battles and silent camaraderie.
In the aftermath of a grueling three-day mission, Rogers and I have found solace in the refuge of our living area. His attention is captured by his journal, a private sanctuary for his thoughts. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I steal a furtive glance over his shoulder. His words dance across the pages, recounting the mission's challenges and victories, all underscored by an unexpected appreciation for my companionship. It's in that instant that the memory of our shared kiss resurfaces, a phantom touch that grazes my lips. I can't deny the tumult of emotions it stirs within me. It was a fleeting moment that defied the boundaries I'd erected around myself. For all my training, for all my conditioned detachment, that kiss stirred a foreign and unfamiliar response. It's as if a dormant aspect of my humanity, carefully suppressed by years of conditioning, was momentarily rekindled. It's a sliver of vulnerability that Ivan, in all his sadistic manipulation, sought to eradicate. Yet, against all odds, it endures, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of even the most heartless attempts to extinguish it.
[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.] A pang of hunger nudges Wanda and me into the lounge area, our appetites demanding attention. The familiar comfort of this space envelops us as we seek a respite and a quick bite. Amidst the room's ambiance, a scene catches my eye — Natasha and Cap, side by side on the couch, engaged in conversation. It's evident they're developing some level of companionship that goes beyond mere friendship, but I don't bother to dwell on it deeply because it isn't my business. Wanda sets down two plates, each bearing a neatly assembled sandwich, before settling next to me. Meanwhile, the television screen commands attention, unveiling a figure of authority amidst a throng of reporters from diverse news outlets. Owen Wilhelm, the mayoral candidate, stands before the media spotlight.
Natasha's voice cuts through the moment, her observations sparking about the mayoral candidate. "Wilhelm's popularity surge among the voters is undeniable. The possibility of him claiming the mayor's seat is quite strong," she remarks, her words carrying a weight of analysis born from her years of observing human nature. I find myself in agreement with her assessment, the scenario painted with shades of uncertainty.
Wilhelm's campaign undoubtedly revolved around promises of change and progress. Yet, history casts a shadow of skepticism over such pledges. The world of politics is rife with grand speeches that often yield underwhelming results. The chasm between words and deeds is a well-known chasm, and my experience has taught me the value of cautious optimism. While words can inspire hope, action is the true litmus test of a leader's sincerity. I nod, my thoughts aligning with Natasha's insights. "Agreed," I reply, my tone carrying the weight of past disappointments. Political figures, regardless of their ideological inclinations, operate within a realm driven by motivations that aren't always transparent. Their agendas can pivot with surprising speed, leaving behind fragments of commitments unfulfilled.
In a world where loyalties can shift with the capriciousness of fate, it's prudent to approach political promises with a discerning eye. The coin of allegiance is a fickle one, and blind trust is a luxury that experience has taught me to withhold. As a result, I navigate this landscape with a healthy dose of skepticism, always mindful that even the most eloquent speeches can crumble in the face of the complexities of governance.
[Hallway.] Walking together down the hallway, Wanda and I engage in a silent exchange that speaks volumes. The shadow of concern etches across her features, drawing my attention. Sensing her inner turmoil, I inquire, "Is something on your mind?" She blinks, her gaze briefly shifting towards the living area before returning to me, her worry palpable. "The silence around here is unsettling. It's like the weight of their guilt is slowly consuming them," she confesses, her words carrying a heavy truth that resonates within me. We share an unspoken understanding of the struggles our team has been enduring in the aftermath of the recent traumatic incident.
My eyes meet hers, and a shared acknowledgment passes between us. Amid our ranks, Karai seems to bear the brunt of the aftermath. Wanda confirms this with a somber nod, revealing, "Karai has been reluctant to embrace the idea of seeking therapy." A wry chuckle escapes me, an ironic twist to a challenging situation. "Karai and therapy? Not exactly a natural pairing," I remark with a mixture of amusement and understanding. It's clear that she's not inclined to bare her soul to a stranger, especially one she perceives as merely paid to feign concern for her emotional well-being. Wanda's response is a soft chuckle of agreement, a testament to Karai's stubborn nature.
Seeking to shift the conversation's focus, I bring up a different topic. "How's your progress in mage training coming along?" Her expression shifts, a mix of introspection and concern dancing in her eyes. "It's taken a different trajectory than how it began," she replies, prompting my brow to rise in curiosity. She goes on to share her frustrations about the evolving dynamics with Auron, her mentor. His newly distant behavior seems to stem from his apprehension about her or, perhaps, the immense power residing within her. Her voice carries a tinge of exasperation as she describes the gaps in her memory, moments during the pivotal event that remain obscured. She recalls an overwhelming force clamoring for release, a force to which she surrendered control.
Regret laces my tone as I respond, "I'm sorry you're grappling with that." In a gesture of solidarity, I reach for her hand, our fingers intertwining. Wanda responds with a small but appreciative smile, acknowledging, "Thank you. You've gone through so much on my behalf." Our connection deepens as our eyes lock, a shared understanding of the depth of sacrifice and devotion. I admit with sincerity, "I would have done the same for any member of the Avengers." A sense of unity envelops us as our foreheads gently touch, a silent affirmation of our unyielding bond in the face of challenges and adversity.
I jolt awake, my instincts kicking in automatically. Surveying the emptiness of my room, I remain vigilant, a reflex ingrained by years of training. My gaze sweeps the surroundings, ever watchful for any potential threats that might lurk in the shadows. It's a habit that's become a part of me, one that time has not eroded. A faint sound catches my attention, originating from the training area some distance away. Intrigue replaces the initial jolt of readiness. With my curiosity piqued, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and rise. The distant noise beckons, pulling me towards it. It's a call I can't ignore. Determined to uncover the source of the disturbance, I make my way toward the training area. The echo of my footsteps resonates in the corridor, a steady rhythm that matches the pace of my thoughts. My mind remains alert, ready for anything, even as I move forward to confront whatever lies ahead.
[Training-area.] I step into the state-of-the-art gym, my eyes landing on Natasha in the midst of an intense spar with a drone. Her exertion is evident, sweat glistening on her skin as she moves. She halts abruptly as our eyes meet, the sudden break in her rhythm almost startling. There's a moment – fleeting yet unmistakable – where I find myself subtly appreciating her well-toned physique before turning my attention to the concern at hand. "Want to talk about it?" I offer, my voice edged with a touch of nervousness, my hand finding its way to the back of my neck. Natasha's countenance changes, a shadow of sadness veiling her features. It's a glimpse, swift enough to wonder if I imagined it, yet it reveals the cracks in her armor, the chinks in her emotional armor that she usually holds so tightly. She wipes her forehead with a rag, and together, we head towards a nearby bench, settling into a silence that stretches between us.
Natasha eventually breaks the quiet, her words heavy with unspoken history. "I've been thinking about my sister, Yelena Belova. Today is her birthday," she reveals. My surprise is palpable, not just at the fact that she has a sister but that Natasha is willing to share this part of her life with me. Curiosity burns, but I hold back my questions, giving her space to continue. "We're not bound by blood. We're sisters by choice," Natasha continues, her gaze dropping to the floor as if searching for the right words. "Yelena and I were taken as children, forced into the WIDOWS program. Trained to be weapons, we were Ivan's prized tools. Over time, we formed a bond, becoming sisters in ways that only shared pain and struggle can create." I nod, a growing understanding of the complex dynamics between them.
"Ivan," I interject, seeking clarity on the figure she refers to. "He was the architect of the WIDOWS, the one who orchestrated our torment," she answers through clenched teeth, a wave of simmering anger barely contained. The pieces fall into place – the darkness Natasha had to endure, the battles she fought against forces both external and internal. She presses on, her voice quivering as she recounts the harrowing details. "Yelena and I were subjected to bio-enhancements that robbed us of our ability to have children. Ivan's cruel control extended to our minds, using chemicals to enforce obedience. We tried to escape, but our efforts were in vain. Yelena sacrificed herself to save me." The weight of her confession is palpable; her pain laid bare before me.
"I'm so sorry," I offer, genuine remorse tingeing my words. Natasha shakes her head, her voice laced with a mix of pain and resignation. "Weeks later, Clint and I crossed paths. He was sent to eliminate me by SHIELD. The rest is history." The trauma, the journey, the battles fought – they're all etched into her words, a narrative of pain and survival. I'm left grappling with the heaviness of her story, words failing me. Natasha's revelation resonates deeply, hinting at the shared scars of our lives. As the silence hangs between us, she unexpectedly pulls me into a tight embrace, her vulnerability breaking through the walls she's constructed. I return the gesture, holding her gently as she surrenders to tears, offering only the solace of my presence. "Let it out," I whisper, my voice a soothing presence amidst the storm of her emotions.
[Natasha Romanov POV]
After the waves of emotions and tears subside, Steve hands me a bottle of water. I gratefully accept it and take a few sips, the cool liquid offering a small reprieve from the intensity of the moment. "I appreciate your support," I murmur, a mix of gratitude and discomfort washing over me. Vulnerability isn't a realm I often tread, as it's a potential weakness that I'm conditioned to guard against. Being compromised could lead to dire consequences. Seated next to Steve, a quiet introspection overtakes me. I allow my mind to drift, summoning memories of the precious moments I shared with Yelena. Those fleeting times when we were more than just fellow survivors when we were true sisters. The bond we forged was a testament to the strength that can emerge from shared pain. But even amidst the warmth of those memories, the bitterness lingers – Ivan's cruelty is forever etched in my heart. I harbor no forgiveness for him. If there is such a thing as divine retribution, I hope it finds him.
In the midst of my thoughts, an idea takes root, spurred by Steve's earlier words about shared life experiences. I turn my gaze towards him, realizing the parallels that run between us. To some extent, our lives have taken similar trajectories. I contemplate whether Steve felt a similar pain when he confronted the Winter Soldier – or rather, Bucky, his friend from the past. The man HYDRA twisted into a weapon against his own will. The notion of their intertwined fates, of two brothers pitted against each other, stirs a complex mixture of emotions within me. In a move that I can't fully explain, my body seems to act on its own accord. Perhaps the weight of my emotional turmoil becomes too much to bear, and I yearn for a momentary respite. Leaning closer to Steve, my lips lightly brush against his, a fleeting connection that seeks solace. His hand rests on my shoulder, and he gently pushes me away, his voice gentle but firm, "No, Nat. You're not in the right state of mind for this. It doesn't feel right."
I find myself both disappointed and relieved by his response. Steve's unwavering morality is one of the many qualities that draw me to him. With a soft apology, I create a respectful distance between us. He shakes his head, his expression understanding, "No need to apologize. I get it. I've been there. It feels good in the moment, but afterward, it's like carrying a weight of regret." His honesty is both surprising and comforting, creating an unspoken bond between us.
A brief pause follows, thankfully devoid of awkwardness. A memory emerges, a genuine smile tugging at my lips. "My sister used to imagine an alternative life for us, one free from the clutches of the WIDOWS. Yelena envisioned herself as an adventurer, like Indiana Jones. Exploring the world firsthand, not through the scope of a sniper rifle. She saw herself married, with a child." Steve's curiosity piques, and he inquires, "And what about you? In this imaginary world?" My brow furrows slightly, memories of Yelena's fantasies resurfacing. "I never truly envisioned it myself. Yelena had her vision. In her version, I'm a science teacher out west. Married to a carpenter who's a bit of a dork but lovable. We have a son." I pause, the bittersweetness of the thought settling over me. "Your sister sounds like an incredible person," Steve comments, his hand providing a gentle anchor on my shoulder. I lower my gaze, my voice soft, "She truly 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 strides 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.
