A leaden heaviness pressed down on my eyelids, and the world began to swim. But through the fog of that command, the will to survive broke through with an animal roar. My reflexes, those ordinary animal reflexes, took over. I grabbed three fatigue pills from my inventory and threw them into my mouth. Simultaneously, I accelerated my blood flow, directing most of it to my head and forcing my vessels to expand in order to enhance the drug's absorption.
The effect from the nootropic complex in the pills hit me almost instantly. The sleepy veil that was already ready to swallow me cracked. Then, I used an Iron Blood trick. I sealed my auditory canals from the inside, creating a physical barrier against the command's sound waves. In that same second, I summoned the Chimera from my inventory.
All of this took no more than two seconds. I inhaled a dose of combat stimulants from the suit's system, and as I felt the world acquire a razor-sharp clarity, I finally paid attention to the culprit.
Among a pile of unconscious bodies, about fifty meters from me, stood a man. On his face, he wore a Japanese Oni demon mask. On his body, he wore an impeccable purple three-piece suit. In his hand, he held a loudspeaker. There was no doubt about it. It was Kilgrave, the Purple Man. What the hell did he want from me? Was he another mercenary from Hydra?
Alas, there was no time for long reflections. Next to the Purple bastard stood seven henchmen in dark protective suits. Their automatic weapons were aimed directly at me. I wasn't going to risk testing the armor's durability against a hail of bullets. For now, the priority was survival.
I caught Gwen's limp body. My plasma wings burst from behind my back with a quiet roar, and I tore vertically upward toward the roof of the nearest high-rise. Once I had carefully placed the girl away from the edge, I used the pause to analyze the situation.
So, who was behind the attack? Until I had proof to the contrary, I was assuming it was Hydra. They had enough influence to hire, or to compel cooperation from, a meta like Kilgrave. There was also an important fact to consider. They had wanted to take me alive again. The order had been "sleep," not "kill yourself."
Kilgrave was an extremely problematic opponent. His mind control, which was presumably based on pheromones, was too powerful. He needed to be removed from the board quickly. The best option would be a sniper rifle. I am a mediocre shooter, specifically with sniper rifles, since I never completed that course. But under the NZT, I should be able to manage.
I materialized the Remington from my inventory and pressed my eye against the optics. If I hadn't been wearing a helmet, I would have spat in annoyance. The ghoul and his thugs had already disappeared inside an inconspicuous gray van. They were fleeing. I wouldn't allow it.
Lately, I had been taking too many risks. I spread my wings and I dove. The effective range of my remaining vibro-gauntlet, the one I would need to turn the van and everyone inside it into mush, was about ten meters.
I saw how, at the last moment, the van's driver jerked the wheel sharply. He had probably sensed something. But it was too late. I slightly corrected my trajectory and I struck the van's roof with maximum power.
A wave of destruction passed through the metal. The van exploded from the inside, turning into a cloud of bloody dust and mangled debris. Everyone inside had ceased to exist.
Or not. At the very last instant, as it was smashing through the side window, a lithe figure that I had not seen among the attackers before jumped from the van. I recognized the familiar female silhouette and the light hair. It was Elena Belova. Damn it. Had I just pulverized a CIA squad?
Had they stooped to collaborating with Kilgrave? Or had he taken them under his control? There was no time for thinking. While the Widow was disoriented by the residual vibrations, I needed to leave. I didn't want to kill her. Doing so could irreparably damage my relationship with Natasha. Also, if the Sentry arc ever began in the future, Elena could potentially play a role in it.
As I turned to return to Gwen on the roof, the universe presented me with another surprise. With a quiet, wet pop, the back of Elena's head exploded in bloody chunks. Staring, stunned, into the emptiness, the Black Widow took her last breath and collapsed dead onto the asphalt. It was a sniper.
Without thinking, I zigzagged toward the skyscraper from where the shot had presumably been made. The roof was empty. There was no shell casing, and there were no traces. My spiritual sonar gave me nothing. It only showed the ordinary people on the apartment floors below.
Whoever the shooter was, they were not ordinary. Less than twenty seconds had passed since the shot. In that amount of time, it would be impossible, by ordinary means, to leave the roof without leaving a trace. They were a meta. They were a ghost. They had just either saved me, or sent a message to someone, or were pursuing some other goal.
Elena was dead. That was sad for some people, but I mostly didn't give a damn. The mystery of the shooter beckoned to me, but my priorities called me elsewhere. I returned to the roof, to Gwen.
The girl was still unconscious. I didn't try to bring her to consciousness immediately. Instead, I removed my mask, put it into my inventory, and I called Fury.
"Your agents are doing a poor job, Nick." I outlined the essence of the conversation.
"Explain." There was no surprise in his voice, only a demand for facts.
"There was a capture attempt. It involved the CIA and the Purple Man."
"Many people have enough dirt on the Purple Man to keep him on a short leash. I'm not surprised they were able to corner him. But to stoop to brainwashing." Steel notes sounded in Fury's voice. "I notice that you're speaking of him in the past tense."
"He's dead. I killed him. Their Black Widow is also dead, but that wasn't my handiwork." I fell silent, letting him digest that. A heavy silence reigned in the receiver for several long seconds. It was full of unspoken questions.
"Whose handiwork was it, then?" he finally asked.
"I have no idea. It was a ghost sniper. You'd better tell me what to do next."
"Revive my agents and then follow them to the Base." He ordered.
"Understood. And also, Gwen Stacy is with me. Can I bring her to the Base?"
"You can." After a barely noticeable pause, Fury permitted it and then he disconnected.
Excellent. I knelt down beside Gwen and gently patted her cheek. Then, I more insistently shook her by the shoulders. Finally, she came to, sharply opening her blue eyes and staring at me incomprehensibly.
Ahem. For a good fifteen seconds, I drowned in that gaze before I could collect my thoughts. "We were attacked by a meta with a mind control ability. He's dead now." I outlined the situation.
"Mmm, okay..." She grimaced, trying to sit up. "But maybe you'll release my shoulders now?"
"Yes, sorry." I carefully removed my hands. "Right now, we're going to the S.H.I.E.L.D. Base. You're coming with us."
"I won't even protest about this..." Gwen grumbled, getting to her feet.
"And rightly so. You've been exposed to them for a long time now. Peter uncovered you just by being attentive."
"From your lips, this sounds like an insult." Gwen commented, stretching her stiff joints.
"The real insult was your defeat by Shocker." I smirked. "Now, hold on." I spread my arms to the sides, inviting her into an embrace.
"Don't remind me of that shame..." She muttered, but she stepped forward and hugged me tightly.
I spread my wings and descended with her to the ground, landing next to one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s vans. Below us, chaos reigned. People were coming to, looking around in bewilderment. I put my mask back on and, under Gwen's surprised gaze, I approached Elena's body. In an instant, the corpse disappeared. At the very least, I could let the body go to Natasha for a proper burial.
"I didn't kill her, by the way." I explained to a stunned Gwen, and then I jumped into the van to wake up the agents. "Emergency situation. I'm acting on Director Fury's order. We're returning to the Base!" My loud, commanding voice made them move and come to.
From there, everything escalated. They brought each other to consciousness and began to act, calling other operatives to the scene. Those latter operatives were already rushing there after my call to Fury. Gwen and I got into the Ford that I had driven here, and I, joining the column, followed the agents back to the Base, back to the citadel of paranoia and relative safety.
The shot. The recoil was habitually absorbed by her shoulder. In the optics, there was confirmation. The back of the target's head had shattered into scarlet chunks. Elena Belova, traitor number one, had been liquidated.
A light, almost microscopic regret pricked at her, like an echo of a nonexistent life in which they could have been sisters. It was instantly suppressed by her professionalism and by a cold calculation. This was not her sister. This was a target. The target had been eliminated.
With a practiced movement, she folded the sniper rifle and slung it over her shoulder. At that same instant, a bioelectric discharge ran through her nervous system. The world around her slowed down, and the sounds stretched out. Driven by her internal current, she tore toward the open roof exit, clicking the heavy door shut behind her. She jumped down three flights of stairs and reached an elevator with slightly opened doors. This was her pre-prepared withdrawal corridor.
Her hand, in its tactical glove, closed around the steel cable. There was an instant of free fall, and then she was sliding down in a controlled manner. The floors flashed past her like blurred spots. In less than fifteen seconds, she was below, on top of the elevator cabin, where the rifle case was waiting for her.
During this short route, her electricity-accelerated mind conducted a full situation analysis. The killing had gone surprisingly easily, which confirmed its necessity. This was part of a big game. It was a system of costs and counterweights. The Soviet Union couldn't declare war on the States by eliminating a hypothetical Stark. But it could demonstrate its strength in a different way. It could get to the traitors, wherever they were hiding. The timing was perfect. Right now, while Stark was preparing to present his Jericho, the world was being sent a signal.
This was a surgical demonstration of strength. The message was simple. We have long arms. We can reach anyone, anywhere. Don't forget it. While traitors like Elena and Natasha were creating the illusion of control for the CIA and S.H.I.E.L.D., America considered itself the navel of the earth and acted more brazenly. Now, thanks to one pinpoint killing, the Bear was sending a polite reminder.
Yes, it was only one killing. But she would definitely get to Natasha. It was only a matter of time.
And there was also him. He was the strange man in a suit, and he surpassed all of the technologies that she had seen before. His armor materialized from nowhere. He had plasma wings. He had an incredible vibration power. Who was he? Was he the States' new technological hope? Or was he a S.H.I.E.L.D. field agent who had been entrusted with an experimental prototype? No, he was obviously a mutant, or a metahuman. He represented an interest for the CIA, which was why they hadn't spared any expense in attracting Kilgrave and Elena.
Should she eliminate him? It was tempting. But performing tasks that were outside of the mission parameters was forbidden. It could disrupt the leadership's plans. The best thing that she could do was to compile a comprehensive report. She would describe everything that she had seen, and then she would wait for orders. If the people above her decided that this unknown was a threat, then she would receive a new target.
Climbing through the hatch and into the elevator cabin, Ava placed the rifle in the case. With a touch of her fingers to the panel, and with a quiet crackle of static electricity, the elevator came alive and began to move to the first floor.
When the doors opened, an inconspicuous girl exited the cabin. She was wearing a medical mask that was hiding her features, a hoodie that was pulled down over her eyes, and a pair of baggy jeans. Behind her back, there was a guitar case. The surveillance cameras within a three-block radius had been temporarily disabled. Ava Orlova, the Red Widow, had disappeared.
The first traitor had been eliminated. The second one remained.
In Fury's office, a heavy, oppressive atmosphere reigned. The monitor showed a map of the district. It was dotted with tactical marks and red dots, which were the locations of the previously sleeping agents. Nearby, sparse footage from dashcams scrolled by. After my call and the dry, confirming reports, the picture that was emerging was ugly.
So, the CIA had made its move. Not through regular agents like Belova, who had already proven to be ineffective, but crudely, by unleashing Kilgrave. This was oddly in Valentina de Fontaine's spirit. Now, as Fury reflected, she was most likely satisfied. Her agents and her uncontrollable weapon, Kilgrave, were dead. All of the evidence that led to her had turned to ash. She had achieved chaos without paying a high price.
"What happened, Nick?" Natasha entered without knocking. He had called her to discuss another, more delicate question, but now, everything had changed. Fury decided to act in his usual, straightforward and brutal style.
"Elena's dead." He threw it out briefly, observing her. Natasha's professional mask cracked. For a split second, it crumbled to dust. There was shock. There was disbelief. There was a flash of pain. There was realization. Then, there was disbelief again, as she clung to hope. This was a cocktail of sincere, deeply buried emotions that he rarely got to see. Despite the years and despite the different sides of the barricades that they had been on, Natasha loved her sister from the Red Project.
"W-who..." Her voice, which was always so even, trembled.
"Officially, it's unknown. But considering Ava Orlova's recent arrival in the States and her failure with Stark, that conclusion suggests itself."
"I... Let me liquidate her!" This was a rare moment. Romanoff wasn't reporting. She was asking, sincerely, with vengeance in her eyes.
"No." Fury shook his head firmly. "The risks are too great. I wouldn't be surprised if, for Orlova, you're the next target."
"You... Is that why you didn't let me off the Base to watch the guy? Just so that I wouldn't fall into her hands?" Bitterness sounded in her voice.
"Partially." Fury didn't deny it. "In parallel, we needed to identify the other interested parties, besides our internal traitors."
"If Barton and I handle the tracking..." She again tried to return to the topic of the Red Widow, unwilling to retreat.
"No." Fury's voice cut off the attempt. "This is an order, Agent Romanoff. Until you receive a corresponding instruction from me, in person, you are not to set foot off of this Base. The topic is closed."
Natasha pressed her lips together tightly. A storm was splashing in her eyes, but she nodded. An order was an order.
"What about the body?" she tried to regain control.
"Thompson will deliver it to the Base shortly."
"He couldn't protect her..." Natasha whispered, almost soundlessly, staring into the emptiness. It was an irrational pain, seeking someone to blame.
"Maintain your professionalism, Agent." Fury raised his voice. "Belova was part of an enemy operation to capture him. The fact that she didn't die by his hands is, consider it, a display of restraint on his part. It was physically impossible, in that situation, to predict the sniper attack and to intervene. If I hear one more thought like that about Thompson, I'll remove you from active agent status so that you can air out your head. Am I clear?"
"I... I understand, Nick. I'm sorry." Lowering her head, Natasha said quietly. The mask was restored, hastily.
"You're dismissed."
Silently nodding, Natasha left, leaving Fury alone in the silence with his monitor and his heavy thoughts.
//==============//
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