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projectromanoff · 9 years

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Title: Of all the damned luck Word Count: 7584 Summary: Caught in an infiltration gone awry, Nat blames the espresso and carries on.

by Pageturner 66

Dust and sun, eternal partners in the clay oven that was the Chihuahua province of Mexico. The sun was hot enough to make the marching soldiers assume they were in the lowest, driest, hottest part of the world. In reality they were technically in the tropic of cancer, north of the equator.

Their tromping, stamping feet kicked up dust as they marched the last quarter mile into the abandoned factory complex. They’d been made to walk by the complex’s lords. They thought they were asserting their authority over the newcomers, forcing on them the indignity of a hot, sweaty march while the native soldiers watched from the shade of metal overhangs or from the window of a single air conditioned office.

The soldiers had arrived in a single truck, and there were about twenty of the armor-clad militants marching in. They wore black uniforms with kevlar pads covering their vital organs. Solid black helmets covered their heads with masks over their faces. It would have to be sweltering in those outfits, but not a single soldier moved to adjust their clothing in any way. They might have been marching through the north pole or the sahara for all the discomfort they showed. The smoked glass visors allowed them to see out, but no one could see in. No one knew if their eyes were on them, watching them, perhaps preparing to line up their shot.

On each shoulder was the skull and tentacles symbol of Hydra. Not a hyrdra itself but what their movement represented to their enemies: Death, and an appallingly wide reach.

[Insert Read More here]

As the soldiers marched into the factory, the Cartel’s men gave each other curious glances. They were all armed, some with a pistol in each hand, some with automatic weapons, and a couple with rocket launchers. Without doubt they could make mincemeat of the newcomers if they chose. But those glances betrayed concern.

They were there to intimidate, to exert the cartel’s authority in this transaction. They were already feeling the pressure Hydra’s re-emergence was having on the black market. More and more of the trade was dancing to Hydra’s tune. Control over the trade was the Cartel’s means of ensuring their goods fetched a high price.

Now Hydra was using them as functionaries, as a storage depot. They were a foot locker. And even though they were there as an expression of the cartel’s might, their dominance in Chihuahua, they couldn’t help giving each other nervous glances as Hydra’s faceless, eyeless troops passed under their guns neither a pause nor a glance.

As far as these troops were concerned, the cartel’s soldiers weren’t even there.

These weren’t men used to being ignored. The effect was to be both unnerved and a little angry. It was a sentiment shared by their boss, Arturo deSofia.

In a lawless environment, the strongest survived. But in the criminal environment, there was always the chance for someone of more sense to thrive, if he could keep the paychecks rolling in. That was what deSofia did. The factory’s ‘manager’ for lack of a better word was an unlikely prospect to be one of Chihuahua’s most dangerous men. He stood just over five feet, and was painfully nearsighted requiring a thick pair of glasses. He wore a suit modeled after the Mexican army’s uniform. The cartel had no uniform of such, but as their commander he needed to be immediately recognized.

He watched the marching Hydra soldiers from two stories up in his air conditioned office. Three of his soldiers flanked him, each almost a foot taller and definitely a foot wider. They were tough and strong but, as was known only to deSofia, not without sense. He wanted men who could protect him physically, yes, but he also needed men who knew a plot when they saw it, who could sniff out intruders and spot hidden weapons.

They, and his other lieutenants scattered through the factory to keep tabs on his soldiers, were better paid than the rank and file. Better paid in cash, in privilege. They formed a unit within the factory, keeping it well under control.

So it annoyed deSofia greatly to see their concerned faces in the window’s reflection. deSofia himself did not move and did not look around. He wasn’t afraid of the small army moving into his territory, equipped and armored like death’s own battalion. But his men clearly were, and that annoyed him. If he could see it, then it was without doubt that Colonel Marquis, the Hydra representative who held custody of the cargo, had seen it as well.

The Colonel and his cargo, along with the four Hydra operatives who had accompanied him, had been smug, haughty, and increasingly unwelcome guests in his factory. Guests of necessity. deSofia’s higher-ups wanted no trouble with Hydra, and they were willing to pay for the temporary shelter they’d required.

But the balm of that bonus was wearing thin on deSofia’s patience. The Colonel had his men outside at all hours of the day ‘training’. They were making skill shots with their rifles, performing push-ups and sit-ups in full armor for what seemed like an impossible amount of time.

“Just to pass the time,” Marquis had suggested placing wagers on who could hit a target, who could pin their opponent, who could win a footrace, between the Hydra soldiers and deSofia’s.

As the Colonel’s victories rapidly piled up deSofia came to realize that there was more to Hydra soldiers than just training and conditioning. Hydra had done something to them, he was sure of it. Or there was something in the armor. Perhaps it was drugs.

Whatever it was, he had to salvage the situation.

And that meant secretly bribing the Colonel with nearly his entire bonus to get his Hydra soldiers to lose a few times.

The Cartel’s pride survived, but deSofia’s was still bleeding.

Hence the little demonstration, the greeting party. The hundred armed men waiting at all levels of the factory, weapons trained on Hydra. The demonstration to show that he, Arturo deSofia, was the man in control of this facility. This was his factory, and if Hydra crossed him or even upset him he would shred them.

Instead of being unnerved, Hydra had simply walked into his home as if the threat were the normal bill of fare.

Because it was their orders. And Hydra had ordered them not to fear deSofia, and that was all that was needed.

He was thankful for the air conditioning. It would not do to have the Colonel see him sweating at the thought.

“Well, Arturo, is lucky day,” The Colonel said in a broken Spanish. It was the one thing deSofia could lord over him. Marquis’ Spanish made him sound like a child, “Friends of mine have come. Time soon to be going. At night. Yes.”

deSofia nodded, watching the last of the black-clad troops disappear under his window.

“Come, let’s see them in,” Marquis had reverted back to English. Perhaps thinking deSofia’s silence indicated a garbled tongue.

They moved into the loading docks. In fact, the cargo was ready to go whenever they decided. It was a black cannister roughly a foot high and eight inches in diameter. The top rim was surrounded by a set of digital buttons and a readout whose symbols meant nothing to deSofia. He hadn’t seen inside the cannister, no one had. The Colonel hadn’t let it out of his sight, carrying it with him whenever he left the room, even to use the bathroom. When he slept, it was in the same room, and he had two of his officers watch while he did.

There’d been moments, brief periods of consideration, when deSofia had considered sating his curiosity by taking the cannister for himself.

Hydra was fierce, but he had over a hundred soldiers and workers on hand at this factory, and Marquis had only four. No matter how well trained they were, four soldiers couldn’t defeat a hundred. It would have given him the greatest pleasure to snap his fingers and end the Colonel’s life. Perhaps the value of what he protected would make the hassle of Hydra’s wrath worth it.

The idea was far more than tempting, but deSofia was not a gambling man. A cannister full of plutonium or vibranium would have been worth it. But suppose it was something else? Hydra’s takeover of the black market was largely to fund their cutting edge scientific projects which, while certainly a novel curiosity, promised no profit in their sale.

As schematic for nuclear enrichment might sell for millions to Iran. But suppose it was something that made stronger proteins? Or maybe a plan for an engine which, at this point, was entirely theoretical?

It could even be a bomb, for all the sense deSofia could make of his observations, made at a distance, of its display. A bomb which would detonate if a man with more pride than sense decided to put his face over the volcano to see what it looked like.

No, the gamble just wasn’t worth it. Not with Hydra. The risk wasn’t worth the cost. Better to take what they’d been paid, even his measly remainder, and be done with it.

And good riddance.

Mateo was not happy with what he was seeing. He and his brothers, his fellow lieutenants, were used to seeing their factory as their own little kingdom. Having Hydra come in was like having a foreign power occupy them.

He looked to Arturo, but the old man was stoic as ever, unmoved by the display. Mateo straightened up. Never show fear to an enemy, or to an ally.

The Colonel, or ‘Baby Hydra’ as the men had started referring to him in their mother tongue when he wasn’t around, stood in front of his men and addressed them. He congratulated them on the completion of their basic training, and exhorted their composure and professionalism. All of them were little barbs at the Cartel’s soldiers who, disciplined or not, had the look of a rag tag outfit.

But scruffy or not, he and his brothers were on the road to being millionaires. He wasn’t even sure Hydra soldiers were paid. Fanatics, all of them.

Highly trained idiots, as Arturo would say.

Baby Hydra gave half of them the order to stand down and, like he was a waiter, instructed deSofia to bring them food and water.

Mateo couldn’t let that kind of insult stand on his commander. Not in front of the troops.

Before deSofia could answer Mateo stepped forward and, turning his back on the Colonel and said, “I will handle this, Commander.”

That earned him a nod and a smile from deSofia, and he hoped an irritated frown from the Colonel. Mateo didn’t turn to see. He went off to grab a cooler of water bottles they always kept on hand and bring it back.

For food he grabbed a cannister of Slim Jims which, if he counted correctly should hold enough for each Hydra soldier to have one.

When he brought the cooler back, carrying it on his shoulder and letting it down with a loud slam, ten of the twenty Hydra soldiers were relaxing in the air conditioned room. They’d each taken their helmets off, and the sweat drenching their hair suggested they were human after all. They didn’t speak to each other, and when they looked at Mateo the dark, hard eyes unnerved him.

Mateo had killed men and women, and he did not blink over it. But that was his job only if someone got in deSofia’s way. These people were paid to kill. No, not just paid. They signed on to it for the glory of the cause. They killed for a cause. They wouldn’t back down.

The group represented a range of origins: There was an Asian man with a scarred, milky eye. A redheaded woman with a stony face and red hair cropped nearly to the scalp, a smiling black woman who looked delighted to be at work, a bald white man who gave Mateo a sneer when their eyes met, and drew a finger across his throat.

Mateo’s eyes widened and he ground his teeth.

You think you can threaten me, man? Here in my own house?

Mateo walked right past deSofia and Marquis, both in conversation. He threw open the door.

Marquis won’t miss just one.

The big bald man saw him coming, and smiled, waiting. He didn’t even rise to the fight. Mateo was beneath him, or so he thought.

Ten steps away, he cracked his knuckles. The other Hydra agents weren’t moving to assist or to get out of the way, but all their eyes were trained on him.

Five steps away.

Three.

Then he stopped.

His eyes locked onto the redhead’s face. He knew that face. Where had he seen it.

The redhead herself hadn’t moved, still staring, waiting to see what Mateo would do, whether he was going to start a fight.

But Mateo was no longer in a fighting mood.

That face…and coffee…

Yes…I remember her.

Mateo turned around without a word. Without throwing a punch.

He went right to deSofia. Neither of them had noticed him leave, or his return. He had to clear his throat to get the commander’s attention.

“What is it?” He asked, no derision in his voice. He knew his lieutenants wouldn’t have interrupted without cause.

“The girl in there,” He said without looking, “The one with the red hair. I know her.”

deSofia turned to look at the glass office and the resting soldiers. It wouldn’t be hard to pick her out. Even with the short crop she was hard to miss.

Colonel Marquis spoke up, “What is he saying?”

deSofia shifted into English for the Colonel’s benefit, “Tell me where you’ve seen her, before.”

“In the capital,” He said, “I was getting coffee. I saw this American with bright red hair in a braid. She was beautiful so I followed her. When she saw me following I chased her, but she eluded me. One minute she was on the road. Then when I turned a corner she was up the wall, making her way over a fence. I could never forget that face.” He turned to look. No mistake. It was the same face and eyes.

“And how long ago did you see this woman?” The Colonel asked.

“Three years ago,” Mateo said. To deSofia.

The commander gave the colonel a curious look and asked, “How long has she been with Hydra.”

Mateo suspected he would get a raise for the look on Marquis’ face as he considered his answer. His answer, as it turned out, was to snap to a trio of his still armored soldiers. They followed him into the office, and were unknowingly trailed by deSofia who was trailed by Mateo, who refused to let his commander enter a dangerous situation without him.

Once inside, the commander quickly approached the girl, who immediately stood at attention when she saw he was heading for her.

“Karina Oppen,” He said.

“Sir,” She replied, stiff as a coiled spring. Mateo couldn’t help feeling that same bit of fire looking at her eyes.

“How long have you served Hydra?”

“Eight months and twenty-one days,” She said without delay.

“And where were you recruited?”

“Los Angeles.”

“And why are you with Hydra?”

“Because the world is out of control. It needs it.”

The colonel’s lip curled at this very political answer, and he pressed further, “And why do you think the world is out of control?”

Again, she didn’t miss a beat, “Because any world that let my brother die in prison because one of his students left a bag of cocaine in his car needs fixing.”

She gave deSofia a withering look, clearly aware of what they manufactured in that factory.

“And have you ever been in Mexico before?”

“I…” The question caught her off guard, and her look turned to Mateo for a split second before turning back to the Colonel, “Once on vacation. Spring break. That was it.”

The Colonel turned to look at Mateo. He’d seen the look she’d given him, and his face suggested doubt.

“Anthony,” He said, “Escort Oppen to this facility’s cells, I’m assuming they have them?”

deSofia motioned to Mateo, who moved along with Anthony to flank the girl.

“Sir?” She asked.

“Routine,” He said to her, “Some suspicion has been cast on your identity. This mission is too important to leave anything to chance.”

“What…” She looked left and right, suddenly extremely nervous. She was sweating again, “Sir, I’m loyal to Hydra! I swear it!”

“Then give Anthony no trouble,” He said, “When we return to base we’ll confirm your identity. And you’ll be let back in the ranks.”

Oppen looked to her left and right like she didn’t believe what was happening. Her team mates were still stony, but was there an edge of concern? Perhaps of disbelief?

She took a deep breath, “Yes sir. As you command.” Without another word she handed her gun to Anthony, then her sidearm and knife. He took them and stashed them.

Wrong girl? Mateo wondered. He was sure he wouldnt’ have forgotten that face, that hair, those eyes…but if she was a spy he would have thought…maybe she was just a good spy.

Okay, Agent Romanoff thought, that was the mother of all bad luck.

Coffee. Coffee of all things. Coffee gave her away. A large coffee. Cafe in Spanish. Caffe in Italian. Kafo in Esperanto.

Romanoff sighed and paced her cell for a moment.

Of all the things in life to betray her…coffee. If ever there were an ally she thought she could trust with one hundred percent of her heart it was coffee. And now she was in a jail cell because of it.

I guess it’s tea from now on.

The cell itself was makeshift. Factories, typically, don’t need to hold onto prisoners. Workers try to stay in their jobs, not leave. Though in a factory like the Chihuahua cartel’s, the workers might lose their lives if their boss took a dislike to them.

Which is what’s happening to you, now. Maybe it’s a good time to stop worrying about hot beverages with sugar and think about how you’re getting out of this concrete box.

It was concrete on all sides but the one facing out. No windows. The only lightbulb was outside the bars. She didn’t even have a chair. No, the cartel didn’t mess around with its captives.

Makes you appreciate Hydra, She thought, They take their time.

So the question was, who was going to take charge of this? Hydra or the Cartel? Stark had put her credentials together. Fabricated a history. Arranged numbers and dates so that remarkably little had changed. Karen Oppen and Natasha Romanoff had the same birthday, at least as far as Stark knew. And several of their life events meet up, making remembering her history easier.

Unfortunately Karen had never been to Mexico. Mainly because Agent Romanoff had never been to Mexico. Not as an agent. She’d gone once for a few days of rest and relaxation and that had been it.

And she’d made the colossal blunder of ordering coffee.

Fortunately they weren’t quite sure of her yet. Or Marquis would have surely put a bullet in her head from minute one.

As it stood, her chances weren’t looking much better. Both Schwartz, one of her erstwhile comrades, and the cartel thug, were guarding her cell. And they were taking the guarding seriously. Both had a gun pointed at her through the bars. Since the bars were the only exit from what was essentially a hollow concrete block, all they’d need is the order to pull the trigger and her cell would turn into a bloody mess.

“Anything from the Colonel?” She asked Schwartz.

He didn’t answer.

Of course he didn’t. They were all supposed to be good little hydralings, and until Schwartz returned her to good standing, she wasn’t going to get anywhere with him.

Time was running out.

“You remembered me?” She asked the guard.

She asked him in Spanish. And hoped she was reading him right.

He smiled, “I remember you in the capital. What were you doing there?”

Schwartz looked back and forth. As she’d suspected, Schwartz didn’t know Spanish.

She shrugged, “You know what spring break is, right?”

He laughed, “Every year, the Americans come to our beaches to go crazy. I go every year.”

“Too bad you didn’t say Hi,” She said.

“What are you two talking about?” Schwartz asked.

“Nothing,” She said, shrugging, “Just passing the time.”

“Si,” The other guard said, “Don’t worry about it.”

Schwartz reddened at this.

Yup, I read them right. Schwartz was under orders not to talk to her. So as to avoid giving information to a possible traitor. But Colonel Marquis wasn’t the only power in this factory. The tension between the more populous cartel and the better armed and equipped Hydra had been palpable.

There was a turf war in the making.

“When we’re done we should go,” She said, “I’ll have some leave next summer.”

“Oh?” He said, nodding to Schwartz, still in Spanish, “You going to give this chica some time off to come play with Mateo?”

“What’s he saying?” Schwartz demanded, his cool beginning to fade in the face of this unpunished insubordination, while being unable to do anything about it.

“Just say ‘Si’,” Natasha told him with a wink to Mateo.

“Si,” Mateo said, with a laugh then, in English, “Go on, say it.”

Schwartz ignored him, but it was clear he was steaming under the collar.

“You sound pretty sure,” Mateo said, “You don’t think we’re gonna kill you?”

“For getting drunk in Tijuana?” She rolled her eyes, “The Colonel’s playing it safe, is all. That’s what makes him a good leader. I wouldn’t follow someone I couldn’t trust.”

Mateo’s eyes flashed to Schwartz, another look Schwartz picked up on.

“I don’t trust everyone,” She said, “You trust deSofia?”

“He’s a good man,” Mateo said, “And a strong one. I like that.”

“He looks it,” She said, approaching the bars. She looked at Schwartz, still uncomprehending and growing more infuriated, then down the hall, “Honestly, I think deSofia would get along with Marquis if they didn’t hate each other.”

Schwartz’s eyes flashed at the sound of his commander’s name.

“That’s enough,” He said, pointing his gun at Romanoff’s chest, causing her to back carefully away, “What the hell are you two talking about?”

“Hey, leave off,” Mateo said with a gentle punch to Schwartz’s shoulder.

Well, that was the wrong choice, Natasha thought.

True to his training, Schwartz’s hand locked onto Mateo’s and twisted it back. In a split second Schwartz had Mateo in his grip while Mateo cried out in pain.

“Go on, you scum,” Schwartz said, “Say something else.”

In doing so, Schwartz backed himself towards the bars, just in reach.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to have Natasha’s arms reach through and grab him around the neck, jerking him towards the bars and clanging his helmet against the twisted metal. Shouldn’t have, but he’d become so locked onto Mateo he’d forgotten to watch his surroundings.

The bang wasn’t enough to knock him out. It wasn’t meant to. Everything depended on one thing: Just how angry had she gotten them.

Angry enough, it turned out, as Mateo pulled himself back up and barreled into Schwartz. Natasha was barely fast enough to get her arms out of the way and avoid their being broken on the rebar. Smooth as a viper, she unclipped Schwartz’s baton from his pants and pulled it into the cell with her. Then gave Schwartz another shove in Mateos direction, pushing the two together again shouting “Get him!” so both men could hear it.

Whether they heard or not she wasn’t sure, but it was enough to get the pair grappling again and, now that he wasn’t being caught off Guard, Mateo’s taller stature helped to make up for Schwartz’ training. The fight was more even. But it wouldn’t last long.

The rebar twisting across the cell door was made so the cell would have no locks to pick. Only twists of steel that required tools and leverage to maneuver.

Which was why Natasha was taking off her pants.

Don’t look this way, She thought to her erstwhile guards as, bare-legged, she wrapped the tough Hydra-issue fibers (built to provide insulation, air-exchange, and avoid wear and tear) around two of the bars, then tied them around Schwartz’ baton.

Three twists tightened it up.

Now let’s see how tough standard-issue really is.

The baton was made to be a weapon and a tool. Everything Hydra built, to Romanoff’s frequent amazement, was meant to be multi-purposeful. Adaptation was a trait of theirs that the Avengers sometimes struggled to embrace.

Three twists and it became hard. Romanoff had to tug and yank with every ounce of strength for progress as, slowly, very slowly, the bars moved. Metal bent, twisted, and slowly a gap in the bars widened. Widened enough so that Romanoff could, with a scrape to her knee, get through.

On the other side she slid Schwartz’ baton out of its holder and approached Mateo, who was then pounding his fist into the face of an unconscious Schwartz.

The Cartel soldier took one look at her in stunned surprise before she cracked the baton across his skull and put him down to nap with Schwartz.

Okay. Guards are down. I’m free from the cell. Now for pants.

Things were not going well. That was deSofia’s estimation of the matter, at least. First Marquis has a spy in his midst, next she was free. Mateo was senseless and it seemed he had become that way after beating Marquis’ man into the ground.

Because…well the ‘because’ was why deSofia and Marquis were not yet hurling blame at each other. The bars had been opened, but neither of their goons seemed to have done it. Schwartz was missing his weapons and gear. Mateo’s head suggested he’d taken the baton to the head.

And the prisoner was out.

This, at least, was something to hold over the Colonel’s head. Marquis had brought a spy into their midst and now that spy had wounded one of deSofia’s men. The sun was on its way down. Both their soldiers had formed teams and were scouring the complex to find her before the natural light was gone. Once they were reduced to kerosene lamps finding her would be that much more difficult.

However this was far from a tragedy.

The cargo was now at risk, certainly, but it hadn’t been his decision to delay transport for this little hunt. No, the screwups were all squarely in Marquis’ court. No shade would fall on deSofia. But if his men captured the spy? Ensured the safety of the cargo? Well, then, Hydra would owe the cartel a favor, and it would be deSofia who arranged it.

This was an opportunity.

And most fortunate at all, he was finally seeing that the colonel was not, in fact, unflappable. No, the realization that he’d had a spy under his command, a spy the cartel had uncovered, had thoroughly flapped him.

He had been staring out the window for hours, yelling at any subordinate who came in. The Hydra troops were out in packs of six. The cartel was in pairs. They were all sweeping the grounds. Every now and then they heard gunfire, but the reports always came back negative. The cartel and Hydra were getting in each other’s way, and more than a few soldiers had been wounded by friendly fire.

This, too, was the colonel’s fault. He had thirty men where deSofia had a hundred. It was clear who should be directing the search but Marquis would not give up even this much control. Every time a soldier came back bloodied, bandaged, or broken because one side or the other had become spooked in the failing light it made him more furious with the colonel.

He was prepared to handle this himself as another group of six approached the door to report.

They came in and saluted the colonel.

“Anything?” Marquis demanded.

“We’ve lost Chiclas,” Their leader said.

“Who?” The Colonel asked.

“Glen Chiclas?” The leader said, “He’s been with us for a while. A shot was fired, and a couple cartel goons fired on us. We split up, took them down, and then reformed, but Chiclas was down, sir.”

“And no sign of the spy?”

They all shook their heads.

deSofia was standing up, “What do you mean you took my men down?”

Almost as fast as the words could leave his lips, the colonel’s pistol was in deSofia’s face. His own men, minus Mateo, were at his side but he held them off.

“This is a Hydra operation,” Marquis said without looking at deSofia, “If you want your men safe keep them out of our way.”

deSofia bit his tongue while Marquis interrogated his soldiers. There were five left, of six, and at least two of his own men dead. How many were going to be in the grave before he was finally free of the Colonel’s incompetence?

Hydra always looked alike, to him. Stuffed in black armor with black helmets and black visors. Black skulls promising death.

Skulls like the Red Skull, that ancient progenitor of their mad little oligarchy.

Red.

There was red under one of those helmets.

A shot was fired, and the cartel fired on us. If Hydra didn’t fire the first shot, and his soldiers didn’t, then who had?

A flash of dangerous eyes under the helmet met his. He followed the arm to the soldier’s waist, where her fingers unclipped a grenade, flicked the pin out, and tossed it into the air. All this in the time it took deSofia to realize his danger. The factory’s commander dove behind his couch and prayed.

The ‘boom’ of the grenade wasn’t so bad. Not in Romanoff’s helmeted ears. This moment had been a long time in coming. The cartel and Hydra were all too willing to fight with one another at the slightest provocation. Trying to fight and track in the dark had helped immensely. The Cartel’s men were already spooked by Hydra in the daylight. In the dark they looked like nightmares. And Hydra? Well, Hydra wasn’t known for caring whose lives they ended.

The grenade’s shrapnel flew out with the speed of a gunshot. Romanoff, at the very second of explosion, had grabbed the soldier in front of her, a young man named Roderick, and bent him back over her, his body taking all the shrapnel meant for her.

All but three pieces, which shot into her arm like white-hot knives.

“Gah!” She couldn’t help shouting. Shrapnel was the worst. It didn’t just punch through you, it tore. At a distance Hydra’s armor might have protected their vital areas. But so close? A foot from the blast zone?

By the time her ears stopped ringing she was the only Hydra soldier still standing.

She took three deep breaths, then darted for the table in the center. The cannister on top was made of stronger stuff than Hydra had been. No shrapnel had penetrated it.

You’d better be worth it, She thought, before stepping over the bodies of her former comrades and leaving the air-conditioned office for the dark maze of the factory.

Getting out turned out to be easier than getting in. She hid under a massive crucible, blocking the lights on the canister’s display, while the soldiers came to investigate the noise. Then, as they passed, she moved through the factory, making her way up, up and up, until she found a fourth floor room which looked reasonably unused. Then, once there, she swung out of the window and hoisted herself up on the roof, holding the canister between her legs.

No other exits or entrances, She thought, I have some breathing room.

The canister’s display continued to read the same unclear script it had been. No change.

She pulled out Chiclas’ first aid kit. In it was a set of simple but effective tools for quick battlefield dressing. Among them a pair of tweezers.

Deep breaths, she told herself. Some soldiers preferred to bite down on something. They liked to fight the pain with anger. That wasn’t Natasha’s way. Better to embrace it, make it part of you. Acknowledge it and let it pass through.

Only a low grunt escaped her lips as she pulled the first piece of bloodied metal from her arm.

Breathe.

Out came the next, dropped with a klink on the concrete rooftop.

One more.

The last one didn’t come out easy, tearing through the skin as she pulled. There would be new scars for her collection. New markers to remember her time on this mission. Friends breifly made and quickly betrayed. Trusts betrayed. Further betrayed. That was, after all, what Agent Romanoff was best at. So much so that it had become routine.

“If you don’t mind my saying it, that was truly hardcore.”

Natasha spun around, pulling her gun out and training it on…nothing.

She turned again. Nothing. No one. She was alone on the roof in the failing sun.

“Me. Me you’re looking for.”

“Who’s there?” She asked under her breath.

“If you’d believe it was the ghost of christmas past, then I’ll play along. I could go for an hour with that one.”

She looked down, where the display on the cannister appeared unchanged.

“That’s right, it’s me you’re looking for.”

Romanoff got back down and stared at the canister. Just her luck to pick up cargo that talked.

“Okay?” She said, “What are you?”

“What? What’s kind of an insulting term, you know. I’ll have you know that I am a fully-realized who. If you want to know more, then please press the red button up top.”

Press it? She thought, well given that this thing could give me away, better to have it on my side.

She pressed the button.

The black sides faded away, revealing a fluid-filled container with a human brain floating in the middle.

“It’s good to meet you.”

Romanoff stared for a moment.

“I know, I know,” It said, “It’s not every day you meet a floating brain in a jar. We’re a rare breed and prefer the comfort of our lairs, rarely venturing out save for food or mating habits.”

“Okay…” Romanoff said.

There’s a floating brain in a jar. A human brain, and it’s alive. And it’s talking to me.

None of which was actually getting herself back to safety. She pulled out a bit of instant bond adhesive and used it to seal over the bloody wounds in her arm. It would protect against infection at the very least.

“So I’m assuming you’re not actually with Hydra, then?” The brain asked.

“That’s right,” She said.

“Well, you’re handling this revelation better than most people,” The brain said, “Most people would take surviving imprisonment, execution, a grenade from about three feet away, and the meeting of a disembodied brain and call it a day.”

“Honestly?” She said, “You’re not the weirdest thing I’ve seen.”

“Really? You must lead a charmed life.”

“That’s a word for it,” She popped the cap back on the tube and stuffed it away.

“So what’s your goal for me, then?”

“Probably bring you to base. See what the techs can make of you.”

“And here I was hoping for a trip to Tijuana.”

“Are you going to be trouble?” She asked.

“Yes,” It said, “But only because I’m going to slow you down due to weighing my volume of water. I’ve no interest in keeping further company with these fine socialites. Their sense of hospitality is more than a bit lacking. Also they were making threats of torture which I am disinclined to sample.”

This caught Natasha’s attention, “How do you torture a brain?”

“I know, right?” It said, “That’s what I said. But the had some clever ideas behind it and I have to assume I would have talked eventually.”

“Talked?” Natasha asked.

The brain went quiet for a few.

“You might as well tell me,” She said.

“Perhaps I would feel a bit more secure in revealing that knowledge if I knew your name? I’m assuming it’s not Karen Oppen, correct?”

“Natalie Rushman,” She said, not hesitating for a moment in giving the name of Stark’s old assistant.

The brain was quiet for a moment.

“Natalie Rushman,” It said, “Also known as Natasha Romanoff, and Natalia Romanova, and a few others. Currently holding the title of Black Widow. Defected to S.H.I.E.L.D. and operated as one of their top agents for years until the institution’s fall at the hands of a resurgent Hydra. Currently a member of the Avengers team.”

Natasha stared as the brain rattled off her professional history.

Don’t mention Clint, She thought. If this thing knew about Clint and the kids, then she wasn’t sure she shouldn’t drop it off the roof.

Instead it said, a bit sheepishly, “I’m something of a fan.”

“Of me?” She asked, incredulous.

“Of all of you. Brains in jars don’t have a lot to do besides learn, and there’s little more interesting to learn about than your group. Though your story is probably the most dramatic…next to Dr. Banner’s of course. But then, Dr. Banner spends most of his time off the grid.”

“Is this what Hydra wanted you for?”

“For this? No. Hydra already knew most of that from their infiltration. No, they wanted some other information out of me.”

“Which is?” She prodded.

“How to destroy the world.”

A gunshot went off from somewhere in the factory, and Natasha huddled closer to the ground. Almost nightfall. Then they could be on the move. But…destroy the world?

“Are you serious?”

“Quite.”

“How would you do that?”

“Why on earth would you want to know?” The brain asked.

She shrugged, “Just curious.”

“Well, to sate your curiosity it’s not one method, it’s many. I’ve spent the past five years in the state you find me now, and have done nothing but obsessively learn. That, and sending prank emails to certain key politicians. But mostly learning. I’ve hacked into nearly every secure server in the world, learned everyone’s secrets, and put them together in my hard drive. That’s what this cannister houses, by the way: my life support, processors, and external memory. I’m essentially the fastest and most creative computer alive. So in my spare time I came up with a few dozen ways to destroy the world.”

She blinked, “In your spare time?”

“I had no other plans for labor day.”

“Why does Hydra want them?”

“If I could shrug, I would. I imagine they want them because Hydra seeks power to the exclusion of all else, including their own sanity. Why do you want it?”

She smirked, “Because Hydra does.”

“Fair enough,” It said, “When will we be moving along?”

“When the sun is down,” She said, “We can move through the shadows and get clear. It’ll be a long run, though.”

The brain was silent for a moment, “How long?”

“A few days.”

“Any chance we could speed it up?”

She gave the brain a look, then wondered how well it could even see it, “Why?”

“The life support can recharge through solar power, but my…habitat for lack of a better word…needs to be replenished with glucose to keep me thinking. WIthout it I’ll suffer brain damage and eventually die. And if I suffer brain damage, I suffer me damage. And in that case I’d prefer to simply die. I had seven days supply but I’ve used three. How long will it take?”

Natasha considered the distance they had to travel. By foot, she could survive off the land. If they were lucky, they could make it. If not…did she dare try to steal one of their autos?

“Can you…go into low power mode? Sleep mode?”

“I’m a human brain. I can sleep, but only if I’m tired. I still need the same energy to stay alive.”

The sun was fast descending. A decision needed to be made. The safe bet for her and the risky one for it? Or the risky one for her but with the best chance for it?

What was more valuable?

This thing knows dozens of ways to destroy the world. How do I even know it’s trustworthy?

But then, didn’t Stark likely no at least a few ways to destroy the world? He’d undone at least one of them in his time.

“You know my history?” She asked the brain.

“As much as any disembodied mind with infinite free time and internet access.”

“How valuable are you likely to be in stopping Hydra?”

The brain thought for a moment, “If you trust me, very. If you don’t, then not very.”

“Should I risk my life to get you out of here?”

“No.”

The response came with such a lack of apparent consideration that it actually startled her.

“You’re an Avenger,” The brain said, “Further that, a survivor of the Red Room. A living demonstration of the free and individual will of the human race. You bring a level of humanity that the Avengers need more than they will ever need a glorified encyclopedia.”

“Humanity?” She asked, “Me?”

“Of course,” It went on, “Do you think humanity is measured in terms of benevolence versus malevolence? I have come up with many ways of evaluating the human condition and this one always falls flat. No, a better evaluation of humanity is what one has experienced and how much it has learned.”

Romanoff was quiet, curious as to where the brain was going with it.

“A product of the Red Room,” It said, “They took you from your parents, forced you to kill your sisters, and then cut away any chance of children. It’s an efficient, if pathological, system for isolation. They removed your family, your friends, and left you with your orders. But of course that isn’t the end of it. It never is. Because however much they might try to turn a human into a machine, to fulfill a purpose, they cannot define that human’s sense of self. And so you turned. You left those people and joined another group. Just as secretive, just as autocratic, but with a kinder bend to them. Then you turned and destroyed them when you saw what they were becoming.”

Romanoff hadn’t thought about it in those terms before. It was a smart…brain.

“The team you work with now includes a former alcoholic with the capacity to build weapons the likes of which the world has never seen, a man who can level a city block with his bare hands if he gets road rage, and an alien with the capacity to rain lightning down on the world whose ultimate loyalty is to a monarchic race of aliens. Suppose this institution fails as well? It will need someone to keep it in check.”

“What about Captain America?” She asked.

“Oh, Steve Rogers? I love that guy! Sure, he’s good too.”

She waited a moment, “But?”

“But what? Who doesn’t like the Captain?”

“But what if he turns on us?”

“I don’t think he could. But he’s a man dressed like a red, white, and blue bullseye. I think you could take him.”

The sun was dipping again, “Suppose we could get a car or truck,” She said, “How likely do you think we could get out of Chihuahua without the Cartel catching us?”

“I know the maps of Chihuahua like the back of my non-existent hand,” He said, “I know all the maps like that. Even if they run us down we might lose them in the slums. I give us a ninety percent chance.”

“You sure that’s correct?”

“My calculations are always correct. I’m a brain in a jar.”

The sun dipped, and Natasha hefted the jar in her hands, clicking the button to shut the shutters over, “Fair enough.”

A dark violet blanket filled the sky as the sun vacated. From there she could see the cartel’s parking lot and the guards watching it. Beyond that was Chihuahua, and an uneven road to safety.

Time to move.

When deSofia finally came to, the sun was coming in the windows. He’d been unconscious the whole night. By some miracle the couch had saved his life, but he’d still been knocked out.

Standing up, shaking, he looked at his office. It was full of bodies, Hydra and cartel alike.

Damn this all to hell, deSofia thought. The whole idiot enterprise had collapsed on itself with him in the center. He couldn’t go to his higher-ups with this and expect to leave with his head. No, nothing to do now but grab what cash he could and make a run for it. deSofia’s employment was at an end.

Blast all the bad luck, He thought, May I go somewhere free of all such things. No more thugs, no more drugs, no more idiot terrorists.

As he went he tripped over the body of Colonel Marquis. The Colonel was quite dead, while deSofia was alive.

So perhaps it wasn’t all bad luck.

#pageturner77 #project romanoff mini bang #fic #submission

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