Natasha Romanoff (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
redintheledger) wrote2013-07-30 03:12 pm
redintheledger) wrote2013-07-30 03:12 pm
Entry tags:
OOM: 2011, Sochi
Sochi in the middle of summer is not exactly a place Natasha would care to visit. Once she staggers off the bus, she counts herself lucky to find a hotel room at all, let alone a reasonable one.
There is a temptation, once she's stowed her things and hidden the weapons, to call Sofia and make her way straight to the rendezvous. But after thirty-two hours on a bus just to get to Sochi in the first place...
Fuck Sofia.
If she's going kill Natasha via sniper rifle for taking a shower, then there's clearly no reasoning with the woman anyway.
– –
One long shower, two bus rides and a train-trip later, and Natasha is in Sochi's Olympic complex. She has acquired a map, a broad-rimmed hat, and two men who aren't as good at following her as they'd like to think. Behind her sunglasses, Natasha rolls her eyes, folds her map, and moves into the crowd.
Using the Russian ice-hockey team as a shield (such a hardship, having to flirt with all of those fit young men and wish them luck), she slips into the building Sofia told her. Combined ice-rink and swimming pool, or so Natasha had read earlier when she'd looked into Sochi's Olympic plans (the surrealism of Russia's summer playground being turned into a winter sports arena had made her feel both bemused and nostalgic enough to get curious).
Shivering slightly in the chill air inside, she heads towards the stadium, and the area high up behind the seats. Vantage points are, she thinks, good right now.
The guys following her must have sharpened up (or her tired is making her stupid), because she almost doesn't see the first one before he steps out in front of her.
“Where's your accomplice?” he asks.
“Pardon?” she replies, too coolly to play civilian.
“Your partner, the bitch who shot Fjodorov.”
Natasha smiles, and spins around to slam her elbow into Goon Number Two's throat.
It's a dirty enough fight that she's almost feeling like her old self by the time the two men are unconscious on the floor.
Almost.
Squating down, she keeps an ear out for security as she checks their I.D. Rogusskil and Chuzoi, two of (ex-)General Starodoub's men, if memory serves her correctly. General Starodoub, Fjodorov's main business partner, so they had reason to follow her. But she hadn't been their target, so where is Sofia...
There is a temptation, once she's stowed her things and hidden the weapons, to call Sofia and make her way straight to the rendezvous. But after thirty-two hours on a bus just to get to Sochi in the first place...
Fuck Sofia.
If she's going kill Natasha via sniper rifle for taking a shower, then there's clearly no reasoning with the woman anyway.
– –
One long shower, two bus rides and a train-trip later, and Natasha is in Sochi's Olympic complex. She has acquired a map, a broad-rimmed hat, and two men who aren't as good at following her as they'd like to think. Behind her sunglasses, Natasha rolls her eyes, folds her map, and moves into the crowd.
Using the Russian ice-hockey team as a shield (such a hardship, having to flirt with all of those fit young men and wish them luck), she slips into the building Sofia told her. Combined ice-rink and swimming pool, or so Natasha had read earlier when she'd looked into Sochi's Olympic plans (the surrealism of Russia's summer playground being turned into a winter sports arena had made her feel both bemused and nostalgic enough to get curious).
Shivering slightly in the chill air inside, she heads towards the stadium, and the area high up behind the seats. Vantage points are, she thinks, good right now.
The guys following her must have sharpened up (or her tired is making her stupid), because she almost doesn't see the first one before he steps out in front of her.
“Where's your accomplice?” he asks.
“Pardon?” she replies, too coolly to play civilian.
“Your partner, the bitch who shot Fjodorov.”
Natasha smiles, and spins around to slam her elbow into Goon Number Two's throat.
It's a dirty enough fight that she's almost feeling like her old self by the time the two men are unconscious on the floor.
Almost.
Squating down, she keeps an ear out for security as she checks their I.D. Rogusskil and Chuzoi, two of (ex-)General Starodoub's men, if memory serves her correctly. General Starodoub, Fjodorov's main business partner, so they had reason to follow her. But she hadn't been their target, so where is Sofia...
no subject
The voice is bright, cheerful, loud enough to bounce around the empty stadium.
no subject
(Back-up, she thinks, would be nice.)
(But she only has herself to blame for that one.)
"What's it to you?" she calls back, noting with a clinical degree of sanctification that her voice is both even, and nonchalant.
no subject
She'll be disappointed if the Widow doesn't face her, and, well...
"This is the trouble with meeting your idols! They never quite live up to the image of you had in your head."
She's been disappointed enough.
no subject
She glances up at the security cameras, but the lack of anyone appearing suggests that Sofia's already dealt with that. Hopefully, she just jammed the signal rather than killing more people.
"You know," Natasha says once she reaches the opening of the ice-rink, "I did just take care of your tail for you."
Sofia is wearing the kind of shoes with spikes on the sole and jeans heavy enough to provide protection; Natasha, in her shorts and tennis shoes, tries not to shiver noticeably in the cool air.
She'll worry about the shoes if it comes down to a physical fight.
no subject
She makes a rude sound.
"The Black Widow I knew would never do that."
no subject
"Actually, I've never been fond of wanton carnage. You met me on a bad day."
Human-trafficers are, she is firmly convinced, one of the lowest form of criminal.
"But regardless of you're not liking my methods, we had a deal."
no subject
She sweeps her arm out, dramatic as any tour-guide. The message is clear:
Come here.
no subject
Natasha steps carefully onto the ice, hands going out for balance. It's not exactly aiding her demeanor, but she's made a career out of appearing helpless. She's got this.
(right?)
"I came alone, as instructed."
no subject
She points her gun at the Widow's chest, keeping eyes are on her face.
"Don't lie to me," she repeats, voice soft.. "You broke our deal, or were those two SHIELD agents I killed here just a coincidence?"
no subject
She arches her left eyebrow.
"They certainly didn't come here on my request," she says, calmly.
It's even the complete truth.
no subject
She takes a deep breath.
Smiles. Takes the safety off her handgun.
"Unlike you, I honour my requests. The bootleg Starktech Fjodorov and the General are trying to move arrives at Sochi as we speak, in the yacht of their financier, Klementiev. It docks today.
My intel suggests the exchange with their prospective buyer is happening tonight during a party Klementiv is throwing. Unless one of us intercepts the drop-off, of course..."
The smile turns into a sneer.
"I was hoping this would be a clean competition, but you had to go and cheat. So I'm giving myself a head-" She stops, frowns.
And fires the gun at the figure up at the back of all the seats.
no subject
"Sofia, don't-"
she falls through the disintegrating ice, directly into the water below.