A leaden heaviness pressed down on my eyelids, and the world began to spin. But through the fog of that command, the will to survive broke through with an animal roar. My reflexes, those primal animal instincts, took over. I grabbed three fatigue pills from my inventory and popped them into my mouth. Simultaneously, I accelerated my blood flow, directing most of it to my head and forcing my vessels to expand to enhance the drug's absorption.
The nootropic complex in the pills hit me almost instantly. The sleepy veil ready to swallow me cracked. Then I used an Iron Blood trick. I sealed my ear 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 through the suit's system, and as the world snapped into razor-sharp clarity, I finally focused on the culprit.
About fifty meters away stood a man. He wore a Japanese oni mask and an impeccable purple three-piece suit. In his hand was a loudspeaker. There was no doubt about it: Kilgrave, the Purple Man. What the hell did he want from me? Was he another Hydra mercenary?
Alas, there was no time for lengthy reflection. Next to the Purple Man stood seven henchmen in dark protective suits, their automatic weapons aimed directly at me. I wasn't about to test my armor against a hail of bullets. For now, survival was all that mattered.
I caught Gwen's limp body. My plasma wings burst from behind my back with a quiet roar, and I shot straight up 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 compel a meta like Kilgrave. There was also an important fact to consider: they wanted to take me alive again. The order had been "sleep," not "kill yourself."
Kilgrave was an extremely problematic opponent. His mind control, presumably pheromone-based, was too powerful. He needed to be removed from the board quickly. The best option was a sniper rifle. I was a mediocre shot, specifically with sniper rifles, since I'd never completed that course. But on NZT, I should be able to manage.
I materialized the Remington from my inventory and pressed my eye to the scope. If I hadn't been wearing a helmet, I would have spat in annoyance. The ghoul and his thugs had already slipped into an inconspicuous gray van. They were fleeing. I wouldn't allow it.
Lately, I'd been taking too many risks. I spread my wings and dove. My remaining vibro-gauntlet had an effective range of about ten meters, enough to turn the van and everyone inside into mush.
At the last moment, I saw the driver jerk the wheel. He had probably sensed something. But it was too late. I adjusted my trajectory slightly and struck the van's roof with maximum power.
A wave of destruction passed through the metal. The van exploded from the inside, becoming a cloud of bloody dust and mangled debris. Everyone inside had ceased to exist.
Or not. At the very last instant, as it smashed through the side window, a lithe figure I hadn't seen among the attackers jumped from the van. I recognized the familiar silhouette and light hair. It was Yelena Belova. Damn it. I'd just pulverized a CIA squad.
Had they stooped to working with Kilgrave? Or had he taken control of them? There was no time to think. 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, Yelena 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. I stared into the emptiness, stunned, as the Black Widow took her last breath and collapsed dead onto the asphalt. It was a sniper.
Without thinking, I zigzagged toward the skyscraper where the shot had presumably come from. The roof was empty. No shell casing, no traces. My spiritual sonar gave me nothing. It only showed the ordinary people in the apartments below.
Whoever the shooter was, they weren't ordinary. Less than twenty seconds had passed since the shot. By ordinary means, it would be impossible to clear the roof in that time without leaving a trace. They were a meta. They were a ghost. They'd either just saved me, 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, but my priorities called me elsewhere. I returned to the roof, to Gwen.
The girl was still unconscious. I didn't try to wake her immediately. Instead, I removed my mask, put it into my inventory, and called Fury.
"Your agents are doing a poor job, Nick." I laid out what had happened.
"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." A steely note entered 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 stretched over the line for several long seconds, 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. Also, Gwen Stacy is with me. Can I bring her to the Base?"
"You can." After a barely noticeable pause, Fury permitted it, then disconnected.
Excellent. I knelt down beside Gwen and gently patted her cheek. Then I shook her shoulders more insistently. Finally, she came to, her blue eyes snapping open and staring at me in confusion.
Ahem. For a good fifteen seconds, I drowned in that gaze before I could collect my thoughts. "We were attacked by a meta with mind control abilities. He's dead now." I gave her the rundown.
"Mmm, okay..." She grimaced, trying to sit up. "But maybe you could let go of my shoulders now?"
"Yeah, 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 figured you out just by paying attention."
"Coming from you, that sounds like an insult," Gwen commented, stretching her stiff joints.
"The real insult was your defeat by Shocker." I smirked. "Hold on." I spread my arms, inviting her into an embrace.
"Don't remind me of that shame." She muttered the words, but stepped forward and hugged me tightly.
I spread my wings and descended to the ground with her, landing next to one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s vans. Below us, chaos reigned. People were coming, looking around in bewilderment. I put my mask back on and, under Gwen's surprised gaze, approached Elena's body. In an instant, the corpse disappeared. At the very least, I could give the body to Natasha for a proper burial.
"I didn't kill her, by the way," I explained to a stunned Gwen, then jumped into the van to wake the agents. "Emergency situation. I'm acting on Director Fury's orders. We're returning to the Base!" My loud, commanding voice snapped them awake.
From there, everything escalated. They roused each other and began to act, calling other operatives to the scene. Those operatives were already rushing over after my call to Fury. Gwen and I got into the Ford I'd driven here, and I joined the column, following the agents back to the Base, back to the citadel of paranoia and relative safety.
The shot. Her shoulder absorbed the recoil by habit. Through the optics came confirmation. The back of the target's head had shattered into scarlet chunks. Elena Belova, traitor number one, had been liquidated.
A fleeting, almost microscopic regret pricked at her, an echo of a life that never was, one where they might have been sisters. Professionalism and cold calculation crushed it instantly. This was not her sister. This was a target. The target was eliminated.
With practiced efficiency, she folded the sniper rifle and slung it over her shoulder. Bioelectricity surged through her nervous system in the same instant, and the world slowed, sounds stretching out. Propelled by that current, she sprinted toward the open roof exit, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. She bounded down three flights of stairs to an elevator with its doors slightly ajar. This was her pre-planned extraction route.
Her tactical glove closed around the steel cable. An instant of free fall, then she slid down in a controlled descent. Floors flashed past in a blur. Less than fifteen seconds later, she landed atop the elevator car, where the rifle case waited.
During the brief descent, her electrified senses ran a full situational analysis. The kill had gone surprisingly smoothly, confirming its necessity. This was part of a larger game, a system of costs and counterweights. The Soviet Union couldn't declare war on the United States by eliminating a hypothetical Stark. But it could demonstrate its strength another way. It could reach traitors wherever they hid. The timing was perfect. Right now, while Stark prepared to unveil his Jericho, the world was being sent a signal.
This was a surgical demonstration of force. The message was simple: We have long arms. We can reach anyone, anywhere. Don't forget it. While traitors like Elena and Natasha maintained an illusion of control for the CIA and S.H.I.E.L.D., America considered itself the center of the universe and acted with increasing brazenness. Now, thanks to one pinpoint killing, the Bear was sending a polite reminder.
Yes, it was only one killing. But she would get to Natasha. It was only a matter of time.
Then there was him: the strange man in the suit, beyond any technology she had ever seen. His armor materialized out of nowhere. He had plasma wings. He possessed incredible vibrational power. Who was he? America's latest technological hope? Or a S.H.I.E.L.D. field agent entrusted with an experimental prototype? No, he was obviously a mutant, or a metahuman. He was of interest to the CIA, which explained why they had spared no expense recruiting Kilgrave and Elena.
Should she eliminate him? The temptation was there. But operating outside mission parameters was forbidden. It could disrupt command's plans. The best thing she could do was compile a comprehensive report. She would describe everything she had seen, then wait for orders. If her superiors decided this unknown was a threat, she would receive a new target.
Climbing through the hatch into the elevator cabin, Ava placed the rifle in its case. At her touch of the panel, accompanied by a quiet crackle of static electricity, the elevator hummed to life and began its descent to the first floor.
When the doors opened, a nondescript girl stepped out. She wore a surgical mask concealing her features, a hoodie pulled low over her eyes, and baggy jeans. A guitar case hung on her back. Surveillance cameras within a three-block radius had been temporarily disabled. Ava Orlova, the Red Widow, had vanished.
The first traitor had been eliminated. The second one remained.
In Fury's office, a heavy, oppressive atmosphere reigned. The monitor displayed a district map dotted with tactical markers and red indicators showing sleeper agent locations. Nearby, sparse dashcam footage scrolled past. After my call and the dry confirmation reports, the emerging picture was ugly.
So the CIA had made its move. It was not through regular agents like Belova, who had already proven ineffective, but rather crudely by unleashing Kilgrave. It was oddly in character for Valentina de Fontaine. Now, Fury reflected, she was most likely satisfied. Her agents and her uncontrollable weapon, Kilgrave, were dead. All 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 matter, but now everything had changed. Fury decided to act in his usual straightforward, brutal style.
"Elena's dead." He delivered the news bluntly, watching her. Natasha's professional mask cracked. For a split second, it crumbled to dust. Shock. Disbelief. A flash of pain. Realization. Then disbelief again, as she clung to hope. It was a cocktail of sincere, deeply buried emotions that he rarely witnessed. Despite the years, and despite the different sides of the barricades they had stood on, Natasha loved her sister from the Red Project.
"W-who..." Her voice, always so steady, trembled.
"Officially, it's unknown. But considering Ava Orlova's recent arrival in the States and her failure with Stark, the 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 you're Orlova's next target."
"You... is that why you didn't let me off the Base to watch the guy? Just so I wouldn't fall into her hands?" Bitterness crept into her voice.
"Partially." Fury didn't deny it. "At the same time, we needed to identify the other interested parties, in addition to our internal traitors."
"If Barton and I handle the tracking..." She tried to return to the topic of the Red Widow again, refusing to back down.
"No." Fury cut her off. "This is an order, Agent Romanoff. Until you receive specific orders from me, in person, you are not to set foot off this Base. The topic is closed."
Natasha pressed her lips together tightly. A storm raged in her eyes, but she nodded. An order was an order.
"What about the body?" she asked, trying to regain control.
"Thompson will deliver it to the Base shortly."
"He couldn't protect her..." Natasha whispered, barely audibly, staring into space. It was irrational pain, looking for someone to blame.
"Maintain your professionalism, Agent." Fury raised his voice. "Belova was part of an enemy operation to capture him. Consider it a display of restraint on his part, that she didn't die by his hands. In that situation, it was physically impossible to predict the sniper attack and intervene. If I hear one more word like that about Thompson, I'll remove you from active agent status so you can clear your head. Am I clear?"
"I... I understand, Nick. I'm sorry." Lowering her head, Natasha said quietly. The mask was hastily restored.
Natasha nodded silently and left, leaving Fury alone with his monitor and his heavy thoughts.
//=================//