redintheledger | OOM: Vladivostock

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OOM: Vladivostock

The downside to trackers, and waiting for the people who unknowingly have them to actually move, is that it leaves time to think. And middle of a mission? Isn't exactly the time for her to shift through her emotions and motivations, even if she and Coulson are on a plane headed east.

Markov is – was – right. She murdered a group of people in Bulgaria, mostly using her Widow Bites, and SHIELD tends to make sure those who pull stunts like that don't do them again. And the argument can be made that she set up Sofia to come back and haunt her. A redhaired woman dressed in dark clothing, with glowing wrists, dispensing a form of justice to those who'd steal and sell young girls; a poetic image for one of those girls to latch onto.

The argument doesn’t last in her head any longer than it takes to form it. She can't bring herself to regret her actions, and she can't see the point. The girls had been freed, and if one of them had chosen to use that freedom to turn to being an obsessive hitwoman, then so be it. It was her call.

Natasha shakes her head sharply. Later. She'll poke at all of that later. The tracker is moving, and it's time to get back to work.

Or, at least, time to board a plane and ask Coulson if he brought any cards with him. It might not take over a week to get to the other side of Russia anymore, but it's still a damn long trip.

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The thing about Russia?

It's big.

Which is so ridiculously obvious that any new recruit using a line that bad would be laughed out of basic, but it does have a way of developing a whole new meaning when you're on the trail of someone as dangerous, determined and competent as Sofia is.

The plane rumbles on as the seconds and minutes and hours tick away inexorably: they play cards with his spare set of Howling Commandos collectables (the ones with the scuffed pack and peeling foil-editions) and trade meaningless gossip, one eye always on the tracker, as timezones haze into each other below them.

Finally: Vladivostok, which he dimly recalls from second-year briefings is Russia's largest Pacific port, and eventually the docks.

According to the satellite imagery and Koskinen's intel, the chip and its tracker have come to rest a set of offices - specifically, the Russian offices of Sojourn Enterprises. Natasha informs him (she always knows this kind of stuff, like the black market going-rate for small arms and the release date for Chanel's next collection) that Sojourn Enterprises are a transport multinational owned by an Australian billionaire called Richard Frampton. So, deep enough pockets to hire their newest friend - but, at least as far as Kos and Leipzig's all-night research spree can discover, not the motive.

So, the direct route it is. Luckily, it's not hard to find a Vladivostok landlady who's willing to take SHIELD's cash and let him use one of her spare rooms as a makeshift field-office, whilst Nat goes hunting for a taxi to get herself to the port.

Edited 2013-08-14 23:18 (UTC)

Well.

'Taxi'.

Thanking her (former) countrymen's habit of turning their cars in an informal taxi-service, she makes her way over to the docks, and it's all as untraceable as one can get.

It's fairly simple to get passed security (thank you, R&D), and then she contacts Coulson.

"Control? I'm in," Agent Romanoff says.

"Good," he says, and it's a relief to hear her voice.

"Unfortunately, we're still a good way off finding our friend in the records."

"Not surprised," she says, a little shortly. Eastern European woman around the age of thirty; only known location when she'd been a kidnapped teenager in Bulgaria fifteen years ago; using a one name alias chosen just to fuck around with her target. It's hard enough tracking the ex-KGB, let alone someone never on the records to start with.

"What's the news on the flashdrive?"

Edited 2013-08-19 11:46 (UTC)

"That's the interesting bit."

He brings up the email from Kos.

"The code was targeting software for Hammer's bootleg version of the Jericho Missile - you know, Stark's last big war-toy. Seems the physical parts fell into the hands of Fjodorov and his little friends, and ever since they've been moving them all over the world, for a variety of buyers... but the software is what makes the whole thing actually work."

Interesting, yes; not exactly good.

"Oh," says Agent Romanoff.

"Great."

There is a pause as she navigates a particularly tricky roof, but as soon as she lands, she starts to speak again.

"Any intel on why Frampton wants it?"

"Yeah, that was what I thought."

He stays silent whilst she does: on comms, it pays to be sparing with chatter.

"Not a thing, no. We're hoping that's what you're about to find out."

"Here's hoping he keeps decent records." Decent here meaning easily crack.

"Going to the target building now."

Given Coulson isn't around to wince at her given the distance, Romanoff takes the short-cut and jumps from her current roof. She lands in a controlled tumble, only to reach for her handgun at the faint whirring of machinery.

"Frampton has packbots. Two."

Military-designed, but not widely used thanks to their unreliability, the bots look like small tanks with machine guns.

It takes longer than she'd like, and a few too many bullets of her own, and one explosion, before she checks back.

"In the building. Security will be checking out that noise." And then, while catches her breath and leans against a wall, she adds, "Can we add Framptom to our watch-list?"

This, as far as Romanoff is concerned, is getting ridiculous.

That is an assessment which Coulson whole-heartedly shares.

"Way ahead of you, but he's not in the vicinity." Kos and her gang are, even now, in the process of digging up everything they can find about the man. "Security, on the other hand, are incoming."

"Noted."

Unlike when taking down Hammer Industries, Romanoff isn't racing against time to save the public from killer robots - she can take the time to sneak (within certain parameters), and so she does so.

The two guards she runs into go down, one with a dislocated knee and a bloody hand from where his wedding ring got caught, and the other with severe concussion.

"Control? In the office. Let's see what Frampton is hiding."

(She does pause, though, to adjust the chair. It's not a waste of time if it spares her elbows from protesting.)

"The program's been uploaded to the mainframe," Romanoff says slowly, squinting a little at the screen. "And they've got the Jericho parts from Fjodorov. Maybe F and Co got spooked?"

Then she swears, short and sharp.

"The buyer's been coded, but they've loaded the ship, and it's setting off tomorrow morning. And they've definitely sold it."

He doesn't swear. (Externally.)

"Does it say where?"

Edited 2013-08-25 21:44 (UTC)

"Manila, but the dates they've given suggest they are going somewhere along the way."

There are a few countries between Russia and the Philippines, and even if North Korea's government wasn't a concern, organized crime has a way of getting what it wants.

Particularly the kind of groups that S.H.I.E.L.D. watch for.

"Permission to cripple the ship, and requesting back-up."

"And there's plenty of interesting options, on that route."

He drums his fingers on the desk.

"Both granted. You want me in there?"

She breathes in, breathes out, and listens to the bang on the office door.

"It's your call, Coulson," she says finally. "Yes, I do."

A team from S.H.I.E.L.D. won't get here from the Helicarrier instantaneously, and given she's already alerted the guards to her presence, the faster things get done, the better.

And she trusts him at her back.

His fingers dart across the keyboard.

"I'm on my way," he says, because he'd never leave her behind.

"I have a response squad on the way, too. But I can get there first."

"Roger. The ship's the Pacific Star," and she lists the area it should be stationed at.

"Meet you there."

Destination given, she makes her escape out the window. Sometimes, she thinks her belt is the most useful thing R&D have ever come up with.

(He had a couple of suggestions about the design of that belt. He's quite proud.)

There are days when the 'naive but determined American tourist' act causes more problems than it fixes, and then there are days when throwing half a bank account's worth of naive but determined American tourist dollars at a problem fixes it as if it were never there.

Happily, today is one of the latter occasions, and the portable office is packed up and stored under a Canadian name in a Canadian storehouse in under half the standard training target time, and Coulson is at the docks in a third of the time the GPS suggested was possible.

Once there, he gets as close to the ship as possible, and waits out of sight of the guards. As he knows from endless experience, there's very little point in trying to find a Natasha Romanoff who doesn't want to be found.

Romanoff whistles quietly before she seemingly materializes near him, her dark blue catsuit blending in with the shadows.

She nods a greeting at him, sparing half a second to grin as well. Then it's back to business.

"As I see it, we have two options - C4 the rudder, or take out the control system and the back-up. So far the guards are concentrating on the building, not the ships."

The corners of his lips lift, almost imperceptibly, at the sight of her.

"Take out the controls," he says. "I want all the information we can get."

I was looking forward to exploding shit, says her look, but only for a moment.

"Given how the rest of this mission has gone, I propose we stick together."

Splitting up to work faster doesn't work if one of them gets taken out.

"The way this roadtrip has gone, I like that suggestion."

Yeah, he knows that look. And who doesn't like a good explosion?

"We can always take out the rudder later, just to make certain this thing's going nowhere."

"You say the nicest things."

Romanoff glances back over at the ship.

"Take out the guards patrolling, I've my flashbangs and taserdiscs, but I'd prefer to save them for the ship. So-"

She turns on her Widow's Bites, the blue lighting up.

"Let's get to work."

"Well, I always figured you kept me around for a reason."

Like her, he reaches for his taser, not his gun: right now they require silence, and ideally the bare minimum of paperwork later.

"First layer of guards are on a twenty-minute cycle, counter-clockwise. And the blue-prints suggest there are sizeable lockers just off the port entrance."

Edited 2013-08-27 01:11 (UTC)

Romanoff nods once in acknowledgment, and then moves out. It's nothing as pretty as her storming Hammer Industries, but unlike then, she's not riding a wave of frustration and wanting to be fabulous just to make herself feel better.

This time, she just wants things done.

She doesn't pause until she's on the ship itself, taking out the guard with her left bracelet and lowering him silently to the deck. Then she whistles again to signal the all-clear.

One of the crew has unwisely elected to take an unplanned cigarette break, and even more unwisely decided to use the port exit for this purpose; he sees the strange woman and falls asleep all in one movement as Coulson appears on cue.

"Good work," he says, carefully lowering the man to the deck. "If we take the second left, we should just miss the next set of them."

And that is why teamwork is a fantastic thing.

"Subtle, Frampton," she observes - this many guards for a cargo-ship?

In a town that's a Navy base?

Subtle.

The ship's lights are dim, but she's grateful they're on at all. Navigating this mess in the dark would get...messy.

It's also why not tearing off on your own and giving your immediate superior approximately five coronaries is a fantastic thing, semi-immortal Russian superspy or no semi-immortal Russian superspy. But anyway.

"Well, he is Australian."

It's a remark that really should earn the American a personalised lightning-bolt from the god of nationalistic pot-calling-the-kettle-black, but this once the deity is merciful.

(It's almost as if they have the gods on side these days, or something...)

The second set of guards are avoided easily enough, and the third is represented by just one man, albeit one (caucasian, early thirties, almost certainly a steroid user) approximately the size of three - or just the size of one Norse god of thunder, which is another way of putting it. The guy is standing impassive in front of a very interesting-looking door, and even in the poor light Coulson can see a face that's born to hench and do very little else.

He glances at Nat. You or me?

Or, which would be more entertaining?

Edited 2013-08-28 14:09 (UTC)

Romanoff gives Coulson a Look. It's a Look that says I want this shit over with so I can book an appointment with my therapist and get some fucking sleep.

She'll handle it.

"Privyet karlusha!" she says cheerfully, strolling out from the shadows, her hands linked behind her back to hide the tell-tale blue glow of her Bites.

Not that the guard appreciates being told he's a hardworker, given the disbelief that crosses his face.

"Devushka," he begins, slowly and already with the harmonics of little girl, get the hell off this ship.

"Nyet, nyet!" she protests, still strolling closer. "Ya khochu vam pomoch'-"

He moves quick for a man his size, she'll give him that, but he's top-heavy and not expecting her to be wearing tasers on her wrists. She shoves him so he falls sideways, leaving the door mostly clear.

After all, she told him she wanted to help. And not killing him is, as far as she's concern, all the help he's going to get.

The door itself is unlocked, and Romanoff pauses. She pulls out her handgun, and glances over at Coulson. She's not moving in until he's on the other side of the doorframe.

Edited 2013-08-29 11:31 (UTC)

He pulled his own handgun even as she walked away from him; not that he thought for a second that she'd need the back-up, but he's not the kind of guy who believes in wasting time.

When Nat glances back he's already walking forwards, with that fast silent stalk characteristic of government and law enforcement, stepping without pause over the guard's slumped form and into the room beyond.

It's small and brushed-steel glinting with technology; he and the gun look left, right and up and see no-one.

"Clear," he says, steady and almost inaudible.

"[Ohhhhhhh, Widow! You've brought a friend!]"

The voice is cheerful from behind the door; feminine, as blandly Russian as Romanoff sounds blandly American, and far too entertained.

"[Did you ever retrieve that agent's body? Or just let him drown?]"

Edited 2013-08-29 23:22 (UTC)

Amateur brat, she thinks.

"[I really don't understand where you got this idea of me, kid,]" is what she actually says, kicking the door open without moving from her place at the doorframe.

"[So, how do you want to play this? We just stand here quipping?]" as she talks, she slides her gun back into its holster and removes her smoke discs. She holds them up at Coulson and arches her eyebrows, quickly gesturing with her free hand an idea.

They've played this game often enough, and now's no time to be playing the game of who's got the best idea.

So the smoke discs explode on cue and he fires in a steady arc into it, in the direction he expects Sofia to move in.

You never know, one of these days he might get lucky and hit her; even if not, it'll force her to move.

Romanoff waits until Sofia fires back before peering around, and shooting in that direction herself.

Before she moves forward, a door bangs from down the hall.

"Coulson!" she shouts to get his attention, and then she jerks her hand back behind them. She'd prefer him here, two against one, but...

But they've just made a hell of a lot of noise, and she'd rather not have Frampton's hired guns turn up at their backs.

His first instinct is to stay with her, but he trusts her - and anyway, someone needs to have her back.

And if that someone is him, then he's always going to be okay with that.

The first man gets a bullet before he even gets close enough to see what's happening - to the head, because Coulson has never enjoyed playing nice. And now as the smoke begins to thin out there are more of them: none of them too bright, admittedly, because they are making the classic hired-gun error of attacking a few at a time rather than all at once.

Well, good. At least this will give Nat some time.

(That barb about his agents stung. He hopes she makes this hurt.)

Edited 2013-08-30 23:09 (UTC)

"[You cheated, you bitch,]" and her voice is a snarl.

When the Widow moves further into the room, she lunges at her, going straight for the hand holding the gun.

"[It was just you and me and-]"

Sofia slams her arm against the wall, avoiding the Widow's Bite like she knows exactly what it is.

Not that Romanoff drops the gun.

Instead, her other hand pulls out her knife, and she stabs Sofia in the side. Pausing just long enough for Sofia falter, Romanoff twists and breaks free, kicking the other woman in the stomach.

Sofia falls to her knees, grabbing the wound in her side and looking up.

"[You lose]," the Black Widow says, and shoots her three times in the chest. Cluster-pattern, just to be sure.

Then she wipes her knife clean, slides it back in its holster, puts her gun on the command console, and gets to work. Disabling the console takes longer than taking down Sofia, but then, that's always the way.

By the time she walks out of the room, she finds Coulson with one of the guards in a headlock. The only guard still around and on his feet, as it happens.

"Need a hand?"

Coulson's free hand yanks the guy's head back by his hair; there is a nasty crack.

"No, thank you."

He sounds mild, and not particularly out of breath.

"Are we done here?"

"We're done," she says, and she smiles.

It's not particularly happy, but neither is it unhappy.

(Her emotional reaction will come later, but she's not particularly worried.)

"We've still got the back-up to dismantle. You know when the cavalry will get here?"

She could ask Kos herself, but, well.

Getting back to proper procedure never hurt.

Edited 2013-08-31 00:57 (UTC)

He lets the man drop to the floor to step towards Nat, glancing at his watch, then at the mess around her.

"Last call, Kos said another twenty minutes."

He looks down at Sofia's body once, and does not look at her again.

"So we should have just enough time to C4 the rudder, if you still wanted."

Edited 2013-08-31 01:39 (UTC)

Spying the way she does, slipping in and out of different personalities, is a lot like acting. And like an actor, there is a streak of theatricality to her.

She looks from Sofia to the blood-splatters, to the bruising on his knuckles, to the prone guards outside, taking in the whole ship, docks, and indeed the whole fucked up mission, the resulting paperwork, and just how long she's going to have to keep her head down, all in a glance.

This isn't very professional of her, but-

"Coulson?

I've love to blow something up."

Edited 2013-08-31 22:19 (UTC)

"Yeah," he says, thinly. "I know the feeling."

And guess who just happened to bring along a load of extra C4?

By the time they reach the rear of the ship, she is - perhaps foolishly - starting to feel lighter. Smoother, anyway, with her focus back. It's a simple enough process to attach the C4 thanks to the second cable on her belt (particularly with Coulson covering) and she's soon back on the deck.

"Do you want to do the honours?" she asks, once they've retreated to a safe(r) distance.

Edited 2013-09-07 13:16 (UTC)

"You say the nicest things," he tells her, in a gentle echo of their last exchange.

And yes, as it happens, he does want to make something explode...

"Oh, and Natasha?"

BOOM.

"It was never just her and you."

Old habits she could say.

But this? This is not a moment for flippancy.

She could say, I know, but it'd be a lie for most of the last week. She didn't know; or rather, didn't think of it.

So she draws in a breath, and nods.

"I'll remember," she says, quietly.

"Good," he says, the aftermath of the explosion glinting on his shades.

"And now, as your superior officer, I am taking a command decision to get out of here and find protective colouration in a bar."

He already knows his to-do list for the next month: there'll be time for mourning later, and for paperwork. Right now, though?

He wants a beer.

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OOM: Vladivostock

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