Natasha Romanoff (
redintheledger) wrote2013-08-05 10:50 am
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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.
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
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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.
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"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."
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"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.
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"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?
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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.
no subject
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.
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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?]"
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"[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.
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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.
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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.
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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.)
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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-]"
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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?"
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"No, thank you."
He sounds mild, and not particularly out of breath.
"Are we done here?"
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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.
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"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."
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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."
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And guess who just happened to bring along a load of extra C4?
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"Do you want to do the honours?" she asks, once they've retreated to a safe(r) distance.
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And yes, as it happens, he does want to make something explode...
"Oh, and Natasha?"
BOOM.
"It was never just her and you."
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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.
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"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.