Marvel Cineverse fic - war is not for winning
To start my journal off - have some slight Natasha/Bucky fic! Going from the cineverse canon detailing a possible version of The Winter Soldier.
war is not for winning (667 words)
She was always a creature of ice and masks
They call her through to a small room and the coldness throws her. The shock of the change in temperature causes her eyes to water for a second.
(Biology, reflexes - there are some faults that can’t be corrected.)
All that’s in the room is a one armed man lying on the floor - a relic from their Golden Age.
(Approximately 5’10”. Leans on his right side - for obvious reasons. She will always think in terms of potential victims.)
She stands silently as the door closes behind her. The man breathes out heavily, as if he expects her to say something.
(A remark about the cold. A remark about how he hasn’t changed. A remark about what that means.)
“You’re not dead.” Is all she says. He chuckles bitterly and pulls himself to his feet.
“You don’t sound surprised.” She doesn’t blink.
“Why would I be? We were trained to survive.”
“We were trained to kill.” She does smile at this - memories of the Red Room and the dances she perfected there flooding her mind.
“We taught ourselves the rest afterwards.” She thinks of interrogations gone right and the time she nearly flew off the Kremlin as the winter winds lashed her hair against her face.
(He wasn’t there to see that - it all came later. With him it was back rooms and silencers against aging men who loved money more than themselves.)
He’s quieter than she remembers, but she can tell that he hates the silence which only reminds her that he is still so American.
“I like the cold. It’s familiar.” He tells her. She nods. It makes sense, although the ache for the familiar isn’t something she’s experienced, all she’s ever known is the unknown.
(She’s not sure what’s real - the ballerina or the fire. Or maybe both. When people ask about her past she can honestly say she doesn’t know.)
“Whose side are you on?” She says it to break the silence, because there’s nothing left apart from that and what used to be.
He replies “What sides are there?” and she remembers that he never saw the wall fall. She smirks, thinking of oil and bullets and the men who tell her everything, and remembers that nothing ever changes.
“Yourself and the rest.”
(She was never warm. She was always a creature of ice and masks. This is nothing new for either of them.)
“Where do I sign up?” he comments drily.
“You don’t need to - you’re already in the game.” She always did have trouble identifying anything other than perfect seriousness.
“The rules the same?”
“The bad guys are the good guys now.” She tells him for his own benefit, wondering if he keeps track of the times he’s switched. To her, the good guys had always been the ones providing her with a roof, with food and information.
(She’d defend their interests fiercely. Until they use her. No one on her team can be allowed to beat her at her own game.)
“Isn’t that how it always is?”
A tight smile creeps to her lips. She knows he’s remembering when the good guys were the good guys before, and how meaningless the labels were then, too.
He takes her smile as a cue to step towards her and she steps back.
“I’m safe.” He assures her. She shakes her head.
“You don’t even know who I’m working for. You’re compromised.”
(They’re one man armies - designed to conquer, to kill, to extract. They are never safe. They are always compromised.)
He raises his eyebrows at her and she thinks of how long it’s been. Her pulse quickens as she thinks of Mombasa and Hong Kong and Budapest. Of archers and monsters and demi-gods and tries to determine which one terrified her more.
(They are always compromised. Some faults can’t be corrected.)
She decides that she has missed him more than she’s loyal to her superiors. She wanted a raise anyway.
(Always compromised.)
“You’re not the only iced man we’ve found recently.”
war is not for winning (667 words)
She was always a creature of ice and masks
They call her through to a small room and the coldness throws her. The shock of the change in temperature causes her eyes to water for a second.
(Biology, reflexes - there are some faults that can’t be corrected.)
All that’s in the room is a one armed man lying on the floor - a relic from their Golden Age.
(Approximately 5’10”. Leans on his right side - for obvious reasons. She will always think in terms of potential victims.)
She stands silently as the door closes behind her. The man breathes out heavily, as if he expects her to say something.
(A remark about the cold. A remark about how he hasn’t changed. A remark about what that means.)
“You’re not dead.” Is all she says. He chuckles bitterly and pulls himself to his feet.
“You don’t sound surprised.” She doesn’t blink.
“Why would I be? We were trained to survive.”
“We were trained to kill.” She does smile at this - memories of the Red Room and the dances she perfected there flooding her mind.
“We taught ourselves the rest afterwards.” She thinks of interrogations gone right and the time she nearly flew off the Kremlin as the winter winds lashed her hair against her face.
(He wasn’t there to see that - it all came later. With him it was back rooms and silencers against aging men who loved money more than themselves.)
He’s quieter than she remembers, but she can tell that he hates the silence which only reminds her that he is still so American.
“I like the cold. It’s familiar.” He tells her. She nods. It makes sense, although the ache for the familiar isn’t something she’s experienced, all she’s ever known is the unknown.
(She’s not sure what’s real - the ballerina or the fire. Or maybe both. When people ask about her past she can honestly say she doesn’t know.)
“Whose side are you on?” She says it to break the silence, because there’s nothing left apart from that and what used to be.
He replies “What sides are there?” and she remembers that he never saw the wall fall. She smirks, thinking of oil and bullets and the men who tell her everything, and remembers that nothing ever changes.
“Yourself and the rest.”
(She was never warm. She was always a creature of ice and masks. This is nothing new for either of them.)
“Where do I sign up?” he comments drily.
“You don’t need to - you’re already in the game.” She always did have trouble identifying anything other than perfect seriousness.
“The rules the same?”
“The bad guys are the good guys now.” She tells him for his own benefit, wondering if he keeps track of the times he’s switched. To her, the good guys had always been the ones providing her with a roof, with food and information.
(She’d defend their interests fiercely. Until they use her. No one on her team can be allowed to beat her at her own game.)
“Isn’t that how it always is?”
A tight smile creeps to her lips. She knows he’s remembering when the good guys were the good guys before, and how meaningless the labels were then, too.
He takes her smile as a cue to step towards her and she steps back.
“I’m safe.” He assures her. She shakes her head.
“You don’t even know who I’m working for. You’re compromised.”
(They’re one man armies - designed to conquer, to kill, to extract. They are never safe. They are always compromised.)
He raises his eyebrows at her and she thinks of how long it’s been. Her pulse quickens as she thinks of Mombasa and Hong Kong and Budapest. Of archers and monsters and demi-gods and tries to determine which one terrified her more.
(They are always compromised. Some faults can’t be corrected.)
She decides that she has missed him more than she’s loyal to her superiors. She wanted a raise anyway.
(Always compromised.)
“You’re not the only iced man we’ve found recently.”