A Game of You, 3/6.
Title: A Game Of You
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen (pairings mentioned and present, but not really a focus in the story)
Disclaimer: Not mine! Some comic backstory is incorporated into characterizations, but this is still primarily movieverse.
Spoilers/Warnings: Takes place after "Captain America: The Winter Soldier." The story was plotted and I started writing it before the second season of "Agents of SHIELD" began. I am jossed so hard by the MCU, but hey! Fic! :)
This is the fault of phoenixrising06/
romanovasledger and
futurerustfuture-dust during all of our characterization discussions, their watching Orphan Black and our headcanons for the Red Room. Also loosely inspired by this gifset, though I don't follow that plot at all. There is going to be violence, implied violence, and all sorts of fucked up stuff that is mentioned as part of the Red Room shenanigans.
Summary: A young woman is brutally murdered by the Vory in Saskatchewan. This is tragic enough, but she also wears Natasha Romanoff's face. And she's not the only one.
Prior chapter:
One - Twinning
Two - Collecting
Three - Sliding
Natasha stood up from her crouch beside the Vory member she had just killed. The rest of the apartment was dingy and littered with more bodies. She supposed she should feel guilty about this, adding more red to her ledger, but perhaps this didn't count. These weren't good men, after all. Even if they knew nothing about her sister's murder, they were still involved in human trafficking and drug sales, as well as intimidating local shop owners into paying "protection" money. How many lives was she potentially saving by killing them? It was impossible to make a clear accounting.
And anyway, that was a horrible line of thinking to get into. None of the men here had known anything. In fact, they hadn't even known who she was, and she hadn't bothered to mask her identity at all. It was disappointing, really. She had wanted them to tremble in fear at the sight of her, as irrational as that was, because she wanted to have them afraid before they died, she wanted them to be sorry for killing her sister, for being worthless pieces of shit-
Okay. She had to calm down. Clenching her hands into tight fists, Natasha forced her breathing to even out. Samantha wasn't coming back from the dead. Killing these men hadn't done anything at all. She was in Moscow, how could they not know what was going on?
Shoving one of the dead bodies away from his computer, Natasha bit her lip as she started going through it. The stupid men hadn't even passworded it, and everything was there for her to find if she wished to.
And oh, how she wished to.
Trawling through the computer and its networks, she found all their holdings. Most of them would be impossible to take out on her own, so she passed it along to Clint via their usual secure channels outside of SHIELD networks. Fyed might be able to wrangle a paycheck out of it, he was good at that sort of thing. Funneling a few accounts that were otherwise untraceable to Coulson should help him with rebuilding what was left of SHIELD.
No inside chatter on Samantha's murder, not even gloating at killing Natalia Romanova. They didn't even have the files she had dumped onto the internet, which made her feel almost insulted. Didn't they think she was a threat?
There.
Digging further into their network, she found a whole separate directory that had been hidden behind a series of firewalls. The idiots she had killed wouldn't have known how to find this, let alone be able to access it. This was where the truly sensitive information was, and there were all the files she had been expecting to find. That assuaged her ego a bit; as much as she didn't necessarily want to be feared, having a reputation with the underworld did make her job easier at times. All she had to do was mention her code name and some of the fools out there practically wet themselves to avoid getting her knives embedded in their bodies.
Clint had already taken care of Lyudmila, so Natasha ignored that and continued scrolling through the other communiqués that she could find. There had to be a reason why the Vory was going after her, and not just because she had burned her cover identities. It was a calculated move, but a necessary one. She had built up one or two new ones, simpler than her old ones had been, and not quite as thorough. They looked a lot like Samantha's background, actually.
Finally, she found a variant of her name in a communiqué from several years before. It was enough to have her frowning in confusion for a moment.
Though she looks very similar, Olga Shevchenko is not Natalia Romanova. Three separate inquiries led to this conclusion, went one message from a Vory commander to a lieutenant. Assign a match to ensure this remains the case. The Black Widow has escaped our net many times already.
The name wasn't even remotely familiar, so Natasha dug a little farther into the files. Seeing that there was a picture of Olga, she opened the file.
And stared at a picture of her with blonde hair.
Natasha then dove into the information they had on Olga, some of which had been collected by her abusive boyfriend, who was a low level member of the Vory who thought they were interested in whoring out Olga. He apparently wasn't opposed to such instruction if that was what they planned, only demanding a share of the profit. She made mention of not wanting to be for sale again, the bastard wrote. I don't know what she's referring to, and the other sales members don't remember her. I've stopped short of breaking her bones so she can still work at the factory, but she still refuses to answer questions.
She saw red and wished he was in front of her so that she could teach him not to prey on women.
Calming herself down, Natasha committed the information to memory and copied whatever looked interesting onto a flash drive.
One sister that looked like her was a possibility, however painful. But two? Something more devious had to be at work here, and she wouldn't put it past the Red Room at all.
***
Isabella dropped a six pack of Sam Adams on Clint's desk. She grinned as he looked up in surprise. "C'mon, Barton. You haven't been paying any attention to what's on your computer screen. Hell, I was able to hit up the bodega on the corner and come back with you none the wiser," she added, tapping the top of one of the bottles with a manicured fingernail.
"All right, you got me," he admitted with a sigh.
"Classified?"
Clint blew out a breath and weighed his options. "I wasn't told it was," he said finally.
Lighting up, Isabella dropped into the seat in front of Clint's desk and reached for one of the bottles. "Oooh. Sounds like a story. I've always loved story time."
His laughter was hollow, and he shook his head as he reached for a bottle. "Story time would be if I wanted to talk to you about my exes."
"You still can."
Now the laughter was more genuine, and Clint returned Izzy's shameless grin. "Naw, that'll just highlight how pathetic I can look."
"You think I don't know that already, Barton?" she asked in arch tones.
"You wound me, Izzy, you really do." He laughed along with her and cracked open the bottle he had taken. "All right, here's the situation. Natasha isn't really dead."
Izzy nearly dropped her bottle. "Come again?"
"Samantha must be a twin sister, since the genetic profile is a match to SHIELD records. She is very much dead, and I helped catch the Vory snitch. Locals didn't know what to ask or what pressure points to use."
"Yeah, yeah, we figured as much. That's why you went up there. But what's this about your old partner having a twin? Because that is in none of the records published."
"Yeah, well, she didn't put them all out there. Just stuff SHIELD had on her and what she did in SHIELD's name."
"That's splitting hairs."
"Remember, spy thinking." Izzy groaned and rolled her eyes, but took a drink of her beer along with Clint. "But Tasha was there in my room when I got back. It was definitely her, while Samantha was still very, very dead. Natasha remembers a fire when she was little, when she was taken in by the Red Room."
Izzy winced. "There are no good tales about that place."
"Exactly. That's her childhood, Izzy. They told her that her mother died in the fire."
"But they could have lied," Izzy said, realization dawning. She sat back in her chair, eyes wide as she looked at Clint. "No wonder you've been in la-la land all day. That's a doozy of information to have to process out of nowhere."
"So of course Tasha is off on a revenge mission of her own making."
"Of course."
"Taking out the Vory," Clint reminded Izzy.
"You say that like you think she can't do it."
He chuckled and took a healthy swig of his beer. "Okay, yes, she could probably do it. Definitely do it, if she's angry enough."
"Hey, they lied to her about her family her entire life. Then killed the sister she didn't know about having. Hell yeah, she'd be angry enough. I would be angry enough, and you know how calm I am in the face of stupidity."
Clint snorted and shook his head. "I've been waiting for any chatter on the Vory. Or Hydra."
"We're more likely to get Hydra chatter, you know. Fyed has some vested interest in keeping those goons from poaching SHIELD agents. He's trying to get there first, but sometimes he can't find them or hire them on fast enough."
"He's a good guy."
"Yeah. The intel business is a mess right now, and it's so hard to tell who the good guys are anymore," Izzy said with a sigh. They both drank their beers contemplatively. "We can help her, you know. Even if she didn't expressly ask for it."
"How do you figure?"
"C'mon. She's going up against the Vory. If she stumbles at all, do you really think any of the intelligence agencies over there would let her go?"
Clint sighed. "She's a walking dead woman right now, though."
"That'll only get her so far. But if we do more than just listen for chatter, but put out a cover identity for one of our agents. Say she's looking into human trafficking or something. God knows the Vory do that all the time, as often as people try to shut them down. It gives her something to fall back on if her own covers fall through."
"Okay, we can do that. It'll be a matter of letting her know."
"That's on you, man." Izzy leaned forward and pointed at him with her beer. "You know her, you know the likely ways to get through to her."
"They're saying she should be dead," Clint murmured in a pained tone. "Fucking CNN thinks she was a terrorist and Congress never should have let her go. All of those stupid commentators, you'd think liberals would understand the shit she has to do to keep people safe."
"C'mon, nobody in the media understands what we do."
Scrubbing his jaw tiredly, Clint nodded. "Maybe if there were some Hydra goons I can shoot at, I'd feel a helluva lot better."
Izzy grinned. "Now, that, I can try to do. Fyed has some people around Europe who are making it their life's work to break those asshats. I think they'd very much appreciate your input and expertise. The US side of things is harder to peel apart right now."
"All right. You make that cover for Tash. I'll pass it along and take out some Hydra agents." He grinned at her widely. "You know, I feel better all right."
"You're a man of action, Barton. Sitting and moping just isn't your style. Gimme an hour, and I'll have her backup identity ready to go."
"You are a wonderful human being, Izzy."
"Remember that when Hydra agents are shooting their bullshit tech at you."
They both laughed, then moved to their respective desks to begin their work.
***
Moscow was busy and growing colder, people bundled up as much as they could against the biting wind. Winter was on its way, and the dreary weather had already begun. Prospekt Mira was one of the neighborhoods that tourists rarely went; there were few traps to visit, few parks, little to serve as distraction from unrelieved concrete and traffic. It was a place more for locals to live, and if they wanted culture, they could visit the same landmarks that tourists went to.
Olga Shevchenko had lived there for over eight years, and her boyfriend of seven years was Pyotr Ivanov. At first she had thought it was a positive sign, given that one of the agents that had rescued her had been Ivan, but she soon realized that it was mere coincidence. Ivan was simply a common name, so the patronymic would be common as well. She paid attention to what he did and didn't say, and figured out that he was part of the Vory. There would be no getting away from him, but at least she sidestepped the offer of marriage and children fairly well. Though she had no idea of the abuse she suffered years ago had led to permanent damage, she certainly wasn't going to risk having children with Pyotr. She could barely fend off his more abusive rages at times, and she certainly wouldn't be able to protect a child. He didn't seem to care about the question of children, as that meant he could continue to sleep with her whenever he wanted; her own consent wasn't always required as far as he was concerned.
Her instincts burned, telling hwer to get away, to slit his throat and run, to take down anyone that might stop her from leaving. But the ones that would stop her were Vory, and no one crossed them and lived. She didn't have the contact information for the agents that had rescued her, and the only information she had was for Marcia Packesein, who likely was another former victim herself. What good would that be?
So she stayed and lied about loving Pyotr, loathing her life and the web of lies she had woven around herself. She was alive, but at what cost?
Marcia had tried calling her a few days before, but Olga never picked up. The other woman hated leaving messages, and her warning was so vague it was all but useless. Olga refused to meet her throughout the years. What for? She was just another victim, just another woman Pyotr and the Vory would want to exploit.
Shift over, Olga began to trudge her way home. It was a pathetic existence, but the choices were hers. A non-choice, really, but still her choice to submit to Pyotr, rather than risk any Vory retribution or death. That thought helped her whenever she covered her black eyes with makeup or bruises with long sleeves. Or, if the colors were just right, she made her eye shadow match the bruises. It was a matter of choice, she told herself; traffickers would give her none.
Steps echoed behind her, strides matching hers exactly. Not Pyotr or the goons he liked to call friends, but eerie and more nerve wracking. There were no traffickers in the area but the Vory, and she'd made her lack of interest in whoring known. None of that, no drug running. Factory work was boring, but her job just the same, her choice to continue.
It was all about her choices now, even the pathetic ones. At least it was hers to make.
Tired, Olga changed direction to take one of her circuitous routes home. Good thing she'd practiced for this eventuality. Good thing she didn't really trust Pyotr to keep her safe.
Eventually, Olga could almost convince herself she was being silly. Almost. She still had that sixth sense along her spine, and she knew someone was out there. She knew these things; once known, there was no shaking the darkness out of her mind, no wiping her past clean to make her innocent and trusting. There was no erasing the terrible pain that was her earliest memory, coming to while being brutally assaulted, then witnessing her rapist's murder by a Consortium member "for damaging the goods." Not because she was worth helping, but because her sale price would've been higher had she still been a virgin.
But they were dead, all dead. Yelena and Ivan had promised her as much before getting her where she wanted to go. For some reason Olga had wanted to go to Moscow, but there wasn't anything for her engineering and technical skills but factory work.
She was ready to take on whoever was following her, a box cutter in her pocket; it was one of the few things that the Vory would accept, because if she cut up the wrong soldier, scars would only add to his esteem. Killing one would render her life forfeit. Besides, she had cut up enough soldiers to make it clear that only Pyotr could hit her with impunity. And even then, sometimes she was tempted to cut him.
The echoing footsteps stopped when she did. Her hand closed around the switchblade in her pocket as she turned around, determined to face whoever is was following her.
She was the same height as Olga, with a halo of red hair. Backlit, her facial features were shrouded in deep black shadows. She could see Olga's face clearly enough, and her breath caught in her throat.
"We have much to discuss, I think," the woman told her in perfect Russian, her voice sounding just like Olga's.
Fear coiled deep in her gut. What kind of game was the Vory playing now? "Who are you?"
The woman stepped forward, into a puddle of light. She smiled grimly at Olga's shock, their facial features and body shape exactly alike. "I am Natalia Romanova. We need to figure out what's going on."
"Why?"
"Because another woman with our face was killed, and I believe it's my fault."
"Why is it your fault?" Olga asked, frowning. She let go of the switchblade's handle as she approached the redhead cautiously.
"Because she was a nurse and I'm the Black Widow."
The name meant nothing to Olga, but she had seen any number of killers over the years to see how they moved. The redhead definitely moved like a killer, and a good one at that. "Come with me, then. Pyotr should be home late, so there will still be vodka left to drink. I have the feeling we will need it."
There wasn't much farther to go, and Olga wondered at the silence. Neither seemed willing to break it, and the street was not a safe place for this conversation anyway.
The vodka was cheap and rough going down in the only clean shot glasses left in the dingy apartment. Olga even brought out some snacks, though Natasha didn't seem hungry; as much as she had introduced herself with the Russian name, she quickly corrected Olga and instructed her to call her Natasha Romanoff. "It's so American," Olga had replied, wrinkling her nose.
"It's where I've been living for a few years," Natasha replied slowly. "Let me tell you what I've discovered so far."
A twin sister, blonde, flimsy background prior to ten years ago. The Vory killed her, thinking she was Natasha, who was an international spy for an organization that just fell apart. It was the perfect time for them to do it without fear of reprisal. The only problem was, it wasn't actually Natasha Romanoff they had killed.
"So I started slitting the throats of the Vory," she said, voice hard. "So imagine my surprise when I find they have a file on you, and you seem to be yet another twin sister."
Olga blinked at her. "My memories only go back ten years."
Natasha went very still. "Ten years."
"I was trafficked." Olga said this very matter of factly, no inflection to her voice. "The agents that saved me said they tended to erase memories. To make the sales easier."
Her pale skin was even paler now. "And then?"
"Some training as an engineer, but no jobs in the field. So I came here, got a factory job, met Pyotr, the bastard." Olga downed another shot. "I have to say I love him, he is Vory. I'd rather not, he's a bastard to me. But I am free, so I don't complain too much."
"He hits you."
"On occasion, if he is very drunk, he does more than that."
Natasha carefully put down her shot glass, and Olga had the feeling she would have rather thrown it across the room. "I'll kill him."
"Marcia says that, too. But if you kill him, the Vory will kill me."
Her eyes glittered. "Let them come. I plan to kill all the ones I can find."
Olga took another shot, amused. "This is Moscow. There are a lot of them to find here."
Natasha nodded briskly. "Who's Marcia?"
"There's a network of a few of us that escaped the traffickers and storage facilities. She's the one that keeps in contact with me. I lie and tell Pyotr she's a cousin."
"So you have a place to go..."
"I won't bring the Vory down on her head."
"I'm here now. I could help you get away."
"Who are you, that you think you're better than the Vory?"
"I'm the Black Widow."
Olga's expression didn't shift at all. "And why do we look the same, then?"
Natasha sighed. "I don't know. One other woman, I could say that maybe I have a twin. They're not that uncommon. But another one? Identical triplets are rare."
"You don't know your family, either," Olga observed. "If you did, you would know for sure."
"There was a fire when I was young."
"So it's possible," Olga said, leaning forward. Her eyes were fever bright, needing this to be true more than Natasha did, obviously.
"Unlikely," Natasha replied softly.
"But-"
Olga's words were cut off by the rattle of keys in the lock. "Pyotr," she said, lips twisting into a sour look. "He ruins everything."
The door banged open, and Pyotr entered, kicking the door shut behind him as he bellowed "Olga, you bitch! Come here!"
He was tall and blond, solidly built, with a sharp, jutting chin, ice blue eyes and thin lips that thinned with displeasure at the sight of Olga and Natasha sitting at the table. "Fucking useless cunt," he snarled at Olga, ignoring Natasha for the moment. "I had to get my own booze. Where was the vodka, you whore?" He shook the bag with beer in it at her.
She turned away from him. "You don't even like vodka."
"Fuck you, it was mine."
Pyotr dropped the beer onto the table. "Who's this?" he asked, peering at Natasha with bleary, bloodshot eyes. "This bitch looks like you."
Natasha's eyes narrowed at Pyotr, and she shifted her position in the chair when his hand came to rest heavily on Olga's shoulder, fingers digging in. "Get your hand off of her."
"Fuck you. You're nothing but a useless whore friend of hers, aren't you? Do you know who I am? Do you know who I work for? I am Vory, you stupid bitch. If I want you dead, you will be. If I want you raped, you will be. Shut your goddamn mouth." Each sentence was punctuated by a slap or punch at an unresisting Olga.
Rising fluidly, Natasha held Pyotr in contempt. "I'll kill you." She dipped her gaze to Olga's stricken face. "Unless for some reason you don't want me to."
"The Vory..."
Pyotr had started to swing at Natasha then, but she caught his fist and twisted her own. That knocked Pyotr off his feet and to the floor. A swift kick to his solar plexus with the solid wood heel of her boot knocked the wind out of him.
Natasha hadn't looked away from Olga. "They're not a consideration. What do you want?"
"If they're nothing to fear?" Olga confirmed. Natasha nodded, and she looked down a Pyotr's frightened face. "Fucking kill him, then. Seven years of my life wasted with this asshole, just because I did not want the Vory after me."
She moved quickly, striking Pyotr's throat and dodging his attempt to grab her. Natasha grabbed his swinging arm and tucked into a roll; it wrenched his arm out of the socket and caused him to bellow in pain and rage. "I'll fucking kill you, you fucking bitch! You're going to pay!"
But she was on the floor with him, and caught his head between her thighs. She squeezed and shifted into a slightly different position, which turned Pyotr onto his side. He tried to push her off but couldn't, and his hands slammed down into the floor a few times. "Sit on his back," Natasha commanded, a grim smile on her face. "I shouldn't have all the fun."
Olga sitting on his back provided just enough pressure and torque to push Pyotr's vertebrae out of joint. The crack of his spine breaking was loud. Natasha tightened her hold on his neck a little tighter, pushing his neck at an even further odd angle, just to be sure.
"He's dead," Olga breathed, looking down at Pyotr's glassy eyes in shock. "Just sitting did that?"
"He wasn't a good fighter at all." Natasha disentangled herself and stood, then offered Olga a hand up. "Most of them really aren't, not when guns and threats do the work for them."
"So why don't you think the Vory are coming after us for this?" she asked, looking down at Pyotr's lifeless body on the floor.
"Because everyone knew he beat you."
"They don't interfere out of fear," she replied, a sour note to her voice.
"Well, tonight, he just killed you. And took off with your body."
Olga blinked. "Wait, what?"
Natasha smiled, and it wasn't very pleasant. Olga could suddenly see why she wasn't scared of the Vory at all. "We're using his reputation against him. Pack yourself a single bag, light, only the essentials. I can buy us anything else you might need. Nothing obvious can be missing, unless it's something normally on your body."
"Good thing I don't have too much jewelry," Olga muttered, heading to her bedroom.
"Where does Marcia live?" Natasha asked, making the living area look like a bigger mess. Olga tried not to wince at the sound of breaking glass and the helpless cry that Natasha let out, adding to the fiction that Olga was being murdered.
"Berlin," Olga replied. "She's a martial arts instructor. I know that much. Oh, and she's part of a network to protect the other girls that were trafficked like I was."
"Good. Someone like that will definitely keep you safe."
"You're not going to stay with me?" Olga asked, coming out of her bedroom in shock. She knew how to pack quickly, especially since she didn't have too many nice things to begin with. Her bag had two other jeans, five shirts scrunched tight, underthings, six pairs of socks, her hidden stash of money and jewelry. It didn't hurt to leave behind the cheap pieces she wore to work, but she wasn't going to leave behind the good pieces for neighbors to steal later.
"I was hoping to avenge a twin sister."
"And now you found a third," Olga murmured.
Natasha picked up Pyotr, shouldering his weight as if he was a friend who was merely passed out drunk. "Something is wrong with this picture. I'll get you to a contact I know for a full set of papers. Then we'll go to Berlin to see your friend, get you safe. Once you're safe, then I'll start looking into what the hell is happening."
Olga pressed her lips together grimly. "You think I can survive on my own if the Vory find out?"
"They're not going to look for a dead woman."
Picking up a broken shard of glass, Natasha let it slice her fingers. She shook her hand, scattering droplets of blood on the floor and wall. Then a few steps to the side, she fell into a graceless lurch, grasping the wall with her bloody hand, smearing blood as she pushed off of it. She looked over at Olga, who was gaping at her. "Best to make it all look the part."
"Who are you?" Olga breathed, stunned. Natasha did this all dispassionately, as if establishing a cover story like this made no difference to her.
Maybe it didn't.
"I told you. Now, it's time to go."
Olga followed all of Natasha's directions in Moscow, and felt absolutely nothing when Pyotr's body slid beneath the river water. It wasn't necessary for her to smile for the new documents made up, and the precious hours lost there gave her enough time to think and wonder about this woman that held her same physical body and face but entirely different skill set. Natasha got her out of Moscow, out of Russia, and they drove into Berlin as promised.
It was easy for Natasha to find Marcia's dojo. Olga hadn't ever been in Berlin, but Natasha had been there a number of times. "You don't want to know what I was doing in Berlin," Natasha had told her when she asked how Natasha knew the city so well. Olga kept quiet for a while after that, sure that there were no good stories to be told about Natasha's prior visits.
They walked into the dojo, which was arranged with an open waiting area, a dividing wall and the locker room off to the right with changing area and bathrooms. The two lookalike women sat in the waiting area during the class Marcia was teaching, not wanting to interrupt.
"What are we even going to tell her?" Olga murmured.
"You can tell her the truth. She deserves to know what you're up against, though I really don't think they'll be coming to look for you."
"How can you be so certain?"
"Contrary to Pyotr's belief, he wasn't very important."
Olga gave her a thin smile. "That much, I already knew."
They lapsed into silence, then waited for all of the students to leave. There wasn't another class lined up according to the calendar on the wall.
Natasha stood, taking the lead to walk into the practice area. She stopped short, and Olga nearly crashed into her. "What the hell, Natasha?" Olga said, frowning. Then she turned toward Marcia herself, and immediately understood.
Standing in front of them was Marcia Packesein. She was exactly their height, had their exact facial features and green eyes. Her hair was black, pulled back into a pony tail at the back of her head. She fell into the same defensive posture that Natasha did, her expression betraying nothing of the surprise that Olga was feeling.
"I think we all need to talk," Natasha said.
"Yes, perhaps we do," Marcia replied.
She had their same voice and inflections, too.
***
***
To Chapter Four - Meetings
Author: Eustacia Vye
Author's e-mail: eustacia_vye28@hotmail.com
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen (pairings mentioned and present, but not really a focus in the story)
Disclaimer: Not mine! Some comic backstory is incorporated into characterizations, but this is still primarily movieverse.
Spoilers/Warnings: Takes place after "Captain America: The Winter Soldier." The story was plotted and I started writing it before the second season of "Agents of SHIELD" began. I am jossed so hard by the MCU, but hey! Fic! :)
This is the fault of phoenixrising06/
romanovasledger and
futurerustfuture-dust during all of our characterization discussions, their watching Orphan Black and our headcanons for the Red Room. Also loosely inspired by this gifset, though I don't follow that plot at all. There is going to be violence, implied violence, and all sorts of fucked up stuff that is mentioned as part of the Red Room shenanigans.
Summary: A young woman is brutally murdered by the Vory in Saskatchewan. This is tragic enough, but she also wears Natasha Romanoff's face. And she's not the only one.
Prior chapter:
One - Twinning
Two - Collecting
Three - Sliding
Natasha stood up from her crouch beside the Vory member she had just killed. The rest of the apartment was dingy and littered with more bodies. She supposed she should feel guilty about this, adding more red to her ledger, but perhaps this didn't count. These weren't good men, after all. Even if they knew nothing about her sister's murder, they were still involved in human trafficking and drug sales, as well as intimidating local shop owners into paying "protection" money. How many lives was she potentially saving by killing them? It was impossible to make a clear accounting.
And anyway, that was a horrible line of thinking to get into. None of the men here had known anything. In fact, they hadn't even known who she was, and she hadn't bothered to mask her identity at all. It was disappointing, really. She had wanted them to tremble in fear at the sight of her, as irrational as that was, because she wanted to have them afraid before they died, she wanted them to be sorry for killing her sister, for being worthless pieces of shit-
Okay. She had to calm down. Clenching her hands into tight fists, Natasha forced her breathing to even out. Samantha wasn't coming back from the dead. Killing these men hadn't done anything at all. She was in Moscow, how could they not know what was going on?
Shoving one of the dead bodies away from his computer, Natasha bit her lip as she started going through it. The stupid men hadn't even passworded it, and everything was there for her to find if she wished to.
And oh, how she wished to.
Trawling through the computer and its networks, she found all their holdings. Most of them would be impossible to take out on her own, so she passed it along to Clint via their usual secure channels outside of SHIELD networks. Fyed might be able to wrangle a paycheck out of it, he was good at that sort of thing. Funneling a few accounts that were otherwise untraceable to Coulson should help him with rebuilding what was left of SHIELD.
No inside chatter on Samantha's murder, not even gloating at killing Natalia Romanova. They didn't even have the files she had dumped onto the internet, which made her feel almost insulted. Didn't they think she was a threat?
There.
Digging further into their network, she found a whole separate directory that had been hidden behind a series of firewalls. The idiots she had killed wouldn't have known how to find this, let alone be able to access it. This was where the truly sensitive information was, and there were all the files she had been expecting to find. That assuaged her ego a bit; as much as she didn't necessarily want to be feared, having a reputation with the underworld did make her job easier at times. All she had to do was mention her code name and some of the fools out there practically wet themselves to avoid getting her knives embedded in their bodies.
Clint had already taken care of Lyudmila, so Natasha ignored that and continued scrolling through the other communiqués that she could find. There had to be a reason why the Vory was going after her, and not just because she had burned her cover identities. It was a calculated move, but a necessary one. She had built up one or two new ones, simpler than her old ones had been, and not quite as thorough. They looked a lot like Samantha's background, actually.
Finally, she found a variant of her name in a communiqué from several years before. It was enough to have her frowning in confusion for a moment.
Though she looks very similar, Olga Shevchenko is not Natalia Romanova. Three separate inquiries led to this conclusion, went one message from a Vory commander to a lieutenant. Assign a match to ensure this remains the case. The Black Widow has escaped our net many times already.
The name wasn't even remotely familiar, so Natasha dug a little farther into the files. Seeing that there was a picture of Olga, she opened the file.
And stared at a picture of her with blonde hair.
Natasha then dove into the information they had on Olga, some of which had been collected by her abusive boyfriend, who was a low level member of the Vory who thought they were interested in whoring out Olga. He apparently wasn't opposed to such instruction if that was what they planned, only demanding a share of the profit. She made mention of not wanting to be for sale again, the bastard wrote. I don't know what she's referring to, and the other sales members don't remember her. I've stopped short of breaking her bones so she can still work at the factory, but she still refuses to answer questions.
She saw red and wished he was in front of her so that she could teach him not to prey on women.
Calming herself down, Natasha committed the information to memory and copied whatever looked interesting onto a flash drive.
One sister that looked like her was a possibility, however painful. But two? Something more devious had to be at work here, and she wouldn't put it past the Red Room at all.
***
Isabella dropped a six pack of Sam Adams on Clint's desk. She grinned as he looked up in surprise. "C'mon, Barton. You haven't been paying any attention to what's on your computer screen. Hell, I was able to hit up the bodega on the corner and come back with you none the wiser," she added, tapping the top of one of the bottles with a manicured fingernail.
"All right, you got me," he admitted with a sigh.
"Classified?"
Clint blew out a breath and weighed his options. "I wasn't told it was," he said finally.
Lighting up, Isabella dropped into the seat in front of Clint's desk and reached for one of the bottles. "Oooh. Sounds like a story. I've always loved story time."
His laughter was hollow, and he shook his head as he reached for a bottle. "Story time would be if I wanted to talk to you about my exes."
"You still can."
Now the laughter was more genuine, and Clint returned Izzy's shameless grin. "Naw, that'll just highlight how pathetic I can look."
"You think I don't know that already, Barton?" she asked in arch tones.
"You wound me, Izzy, you really do." He laughed along with her and cracked open the bottle he had taken. "All right, here's the situation. Natasha isn't really dead."
Izzy nearly dropped her bottle. "Come again?"
"Samantha must be a twin sister, since the genetic profile is a match to SHIELD records. She is very much dead, and I helped catch the Vory snitch. Locals didn't know what to ask or what pressure points to use."
"Yeah, yeah, we figured as much. That's why you went up there. But what's this about your old partner having a twin? Because that is in none of the records published."
"Yeah, well, she didn't put them all out there. Just stuff SHIELD had on her and what she did in SHIELD's name."
"That's splitting hairs."
"Remember, spy thinking." Izzy groaned and rolled her eyes, but took a drink of her beer along with Clint. "But Tasha was there in my room when I got back. It was definitely her, while Samantha was still very, very dead. Natasha remembers a fire when she was little, when she was taken in by the Red Room."
Izzy winced. "There are no good tales about that place."
"Exactly. That's her childhood, Izzy. They told her that her mother died in the fire."
"But they could have lied," Izzy said, realization dawning. She sat back in her chair, eyes wide as she looked at Clint. "No wonder you've been in la-la land all day. That's a doozy of information to have to process out of nowhere."
"So of course Tasha is off on a revenge mission of her own making."
"Of course."
"Taking out the Vory," Clint reminded Izzy.
"You say that like you think she can't do it."
He chuckled and took a healthy swig of his beer. "Okay, yes, she could probably do it. Definitely do it, if she's angry enough."
"Hey, they lied to her about her family her entire life. Then killed the sister she didn't know about having. Hell yeah, she'd be angry enough. I would be angry enough, and you know how calm I am in the face of stupidity."
Clint snorted and shook his head. "I've been waiting for any chatter on the Vory. Or Hydra."
"We're more likely to get Hydra chatter, you know. Fyed has some vested interest in keeping those goons from poaching SHIELD agents. He's trying to get there first, but sometimes he can't find them or hire them on fast enough."
"He's a good guy."
"Yeah. The intel business is a mess right now, and it's so hard to tell who the good guys are anymore," Izzy said with a sigh. They both drank their beers contemplatively. "We can help her, you know. Even if she didn't expressly ask for it."
"How do you figure?"
"C'mon. She's going up against the Vory. If she stumbles at all, do you really think any of the intelligence agencies over there would let her go?"
Clint sighed. "She's a walking dead woman right now, though."
"That'll only get her so far. But if we do more than just listen for chatter, but put out a cover identity for one of our agents. Say she's looking into human trafficking or something. God knows the Vory do that all the time, as often as people try to shut them down. It gives her something to fall back on if her own covers fall through."
"Okay, we can do that. It'll be a matter of letting her know."
"That's on you, man." Izzy leaned forward and pointed at him with her beer. "You know her, you know the likely ways to get through to her."
"They're saying she should be dead," Clint murmured in a pained tone. "Fucking CNN thinks she was a terrorist and Congress never should have let her go. All of those stupid commentators, you'd think liberals would understand the shit she has to do to keep people safe."
"C'mon, nobody in the media understands what we do."
Scrubbing his jaw tiredly, Clint nodded. "Maybe if there were some Hydra goons I can shoot at, I'd feel a helluva lot better."
Izzy grinned. "Now, that, I can try to do. Fyed has some people around Europe who are making it their life's work to break those asshats. I think they'd very much appreciate your input and expertise. The US side of things is harder to peel apart right now."
"All right. You make that cover for Tash. I'll pass it along and take out some Hydra agents." He grinned at her widely. "You know, I feel better all right."
"You're a man of action, Barton. Sitting and moping just isn't your style. Gimme an hour, and I'll have her backup identity ready to go."
"You are a wonderful human being, Izzy."
"Remember that when Hydra agents are shooting their bullshit tech at you."
They both laughed, then moved to their respective desks to begin their work.
***
Moscow was busy and growing colder, people bundled up as much as they could against the biting wind. Winter was on its way, and the dreary weather had already begun. Prospekt Mira was one of the neighborhoods that tourists rarely went; there were few traps to visit, few parks, little to serve as distraction from unrelieved concrete and traffic. It was a place more for locals to live, and if they wanted culture, they could visit the same landmarks that tourists went to.
Olga Shevchenko had lived there for over eight years, and her boyfriend of seven years was Pyotr Ivanov. At first she had thought it was a positive sign, given that one of the agents that had rescued her had been Ivan, but she soon realized that it was mere coincidence. Ivan was simply a common name, so the patronymic would be common as well. She paid attention to what he did and didn't say, and figured out that he was part of the Vory. There would be no getting away from him, but at least she sidestepped the offer of marriage and children fairly well. Though she had no idea of the abuse she suffered years ago had led to permanent damage, she certainly wasn't going to risk having children with Pyotr. She could barely fend off his more abusive rages at times, and she certainly wouldn't be able to protect a child. He didn't seem to care about the question of children, as that meant he could continue to sleep with her whenever he wanted; her own consent wasn't always required as far as he was concerned.
Her instincts burned, telling hwer to get away, to slit his throat and run, to take down anyone that might stop her from leaving. But the ones that would stop her were Vory, and no one crossed them and lived. She didn't have the contact information for the agents that had rescued her, and the only information she had was for Marcia Packesein, who likely was another former victim herself. What good would that be?
So she stayed and lied about loving Pyotr, loathing her life and the web of lies she had woven around herself. She was alive, but at what cost?
Marcia had tried calling her a few days before, but Olga never picked up. The other woman hated leaving messages, and her warning was so vague it was all but useless. Olga refused to meet her throughout the years. What for? She was just another victim, just another woman Pyotr and the Vory would want to exploit.
Shift over, Olga began to trudge her way home. It was a pathetic existence, but the choices were hers. A non-choice, really, but still her choice to submit to Pyotr, rather than risk any Vory retribution or death. That thought helped her whenever she covered her black eyes with makeup or bruises with long sleeves. Or, if the colors were just right, she made her eye shadow match the bruises. It was a matter of choice, she told herself; traffickers would give her none.
Steps echoed behind her, strides matching hers exactly. Not Pyotr or the goons he liked to call friends, but eerie and more nerve wracking. There were no traffickers in the area but the Vory, and she'd made her lack of interest in whoring known. None of that, no drug running. Factory work was boring, but her job just the same, her choice to continue.
It was all about her choices now, even the pathetic ones. At least it was hers to make.
Tired, Olga changed direction to take one of her circuitous routes home. Good thing she'd practiced for this eventuality. Good thing she didn't really trust Pyotr to keep her safe.
Eventually, Olga could almost convince herself she was being silly. Almost. She still had that sixth sense along her spine, and she knew someone was out there. She knew these things; once known, there was no shaking the darkness out of her mind, no wiping her past clean to make her innocent and trusting. There was no erasing the terrible pain that was her earliest memory, coming to while being brutally assaulted, then witnessing her rapist's murder by a Consortium member "for damaging the goods." Not because she was worth helping, but because her sale price would've been higher had she still been a virgin.
But they were dead, all dead. Yelena and Ivan had promised her as much before getting her where she wanted to go. For some reason Olga had wanted to go to Moscow, but there wasn't anything for her engineering and technical skills but factory work.
She was ready to take on whoever was following her, a box cutter in her pocket; it was one of the few things that the Vory would accept, because if she cut up the wrong soldier, scars would only add to his esteem. Killing one would render her life forfeit. Besides, she had cut up enough soldiers to make it clear that only Pyotr could hit her with impunity. And even then, sometimes she was tempted to cut him.
The echoing footsteps stopped when she did. Her hand closed around the switchblade in her pocket as she turned around, determined to face whoever is was following her.
She was the same height as Olga, with a halo of red hair. Backlit, her facial features were shrouded in deep black shadows. She could see Olga's face clearly enough, and her breath caught in her throat.
"We have much to discuss, I think," the woman told her in perfect Russian, her voice sounding just like Olga's.
Fear coiled deep in her gut. What kind of game was the Vory playing now? "Who are you?"
The woman stepped forward, into a puddle of light. She smiled grimly at Olga's shock, their facial features and body shape exactly alike. "I am Natalia Romanova. We need to figure out what's going on."
"Why?"
"Because another woman with our face was killed, and I believe it's my fault."
"Why is it your fault?" Olga asked, frowning. She let go of the switchblade's handle as she approached the redhead cautiously.
"Because she was a nurse and I'm the Black Widow."
The name meant nothing to Olga, but she had seen any number of killers over the years to see how they moved. The redhead definitely moved like a killer, and a good one at that. "Come with me, then. Pyotr should be home late, so there will still be vodka left to drink. I have the feeling we will need it."
There wasn't much farther to go, and Olga wondered at the silence. Neither seemed willing to break it, and the street was not a safe place for this conversation anyway.
The vodka was cheap and rough going down in the only clean shot glasses left in the dingy apartment. Olga even brought out some snacks, though Natasha didn't seem hungry; as much as she had introduced herself with the Russian name, she quickly corrected Olga and instructed her to call her Natasha Romanoff. "It's so American," Olga had replied, wrinkling her nose.
"It's where I've been living for a few years," Natasha replied slowly. "Let me tell you what I've discovered so far."
A twin sister, blonde, flimsy background prior to ten years ago. The Vory killed her, thinking she was Natasha, who was an international spy for an organization that just fell apart. It was the perfect time for them to do it without fear of reprisal. The only problem was, it wasn't actually Natasha Romanoff they had killed.
"So I started slitting the throats of the Vory," she said, voice hard. "So imagine my surprise when I find they have a file on you, and you seem to be yet another twin sister."
Olga blinked at her. "My memories only go back ten years."
Natasha went very still. "Ten years."
"I was trafficked." Olga said this very matter of factly, no inflection to her voice. "The agents that saved me said they tended to erase memories. To make the sales easier."
Her pale skin was even paler now. "And then?"
"Some training as an engineer, but no jobs in the field. So I came here, got a factory job, met Pyotr, the bastard." Olga downed another shot. "I have to say I love him, he is Vory. I'd rather not, he's a bastard to me. But I am free, so I don't complain too much."
"He hits you."
"On occasion, if he is very drunk, he does more than that."
Natasha carefully put down her shot glass, and Olga had the feeling she would have rather thrown it across the room. "I'll kill him."
"Marcia says that, too. But if you kill him, the Vory will kill me."
Her eyes glittered. "Let them come. I plan to kill all the ones I can find."
Olga took another shot, amused. "This is Moscow. There are a lot of them to find here."
Natasha nodded briskly. "Who's Marcia?"
"There's a network of a few of us that escaped the traffickers and storage facilities. She's the one that keeps in contact with me. I lie and tell Pyotr she's a cousin."
"So you have a place to go..."
"I won't bring the Vory down on her head."
"I'm here now. I could help you get away."
"Who are you, that you think you're better than the Vory?"
"I'm the Black Widow."
Olga's expression didn't shift at all. "And why do we look the same, then?"
Natasha sighed. "I don't know. One other woman, I could say that maybe I have a twin. They're not that uncommon. But another one? Identical triplets are rare."
"You don't know your family, either," Olga observed. "If you did, you would know for sure."
"There was a fire when I was young."
"So it's possible," Olga said, leaning forward. Her eyes were fever bright, needing this to be true more than Natasha did, obviously.
"Unlikely," Natasha replied softly.
"But-"
Olga's words were cut off by the rattle of keys in the lock. "Pyotr," she said, lips twisting into a sour look. "He ruins everything."
The door banged open, and Pyotr entered, kicking the door shut behind him as he bellowed "Olga, you bitch! Come here!"
He was tall and blond, solidly built, with a sharp, jutting chin, ice blue eyes and thin lips that thinned with displeasure at the sight of Olga and Natasha sitting at the table. "Fucking useless cunt," he snarled at Olga, ignoring Natasha for the moment. "I had to get my own booze. Where was the vodka, you whore?" He shook the bag with beer in it at her.
She turned away from him. "You don't even like vodka."
"Fuck you, it was mine."
Pyotr dropped the beer onto the table. "Who's this?" he asked, peering at Natasha with bleary, bloodshot eyes. "This bitch looks like you."
Natasha's eyes narrowed at Pyotr, and she shifted her position in the chair when his hand came to rest heavily on Olga's shoulder, fingers digging in. "Get your hand off of her."
"Fuck you. You're nothing but a useless whore friend of hers, aren't you? Do you know who I am? Do you know who I work for? I am Vory, you stupid bitch. If I want you dead, you will be. If I want you raped, you will be. Shut your goddamn mouth." Each sentence was punctuated by a slap or punch at an unresisting Olga.
Rising fluidly, Natasha held Pyotr in contempt. "I'll kill you." She dipped her gaze to Olga's stricken face. "Unless for some reason you don't want me to."
"The Vory..."
Pyotr had started to swing at Natasha then, but she caught his fist and twisted her own. That knocked Pyotr off his feet and to the floor. A swift kick to his solar plexus with the solid wood heel of her boot knocked the wind out of him.
Natasha hadn't looked away from Olga. "They're not a consideration. What do you want?"
"If they're nothing to fear?" Olga confirmed. Natasha nodded, and she looked down a Pyotr's frightened face. "Fucking kill him, then. Seven years of my life wasted with this asshole, just because I did not want the Vory after me."
She moved quickly, striking Pyotr's throat and dodging his attempt to grab her. Natasha grabbed his swinging arm and tucked into a roll; it wrenched his arm out of the socket and caused him to bellow in pain and rage. "I'll fucking kill you, you fucking bitch! You're going to pay!"
But she was on the floor with him, and caught his head between her thighs. She squeezed and shifted into a slightly different position, which turned Pyotr onto his side. He tried to push her off but couldn't, and his hands slammed down into the floor a few times. "Sit on his back," Natasha commanded, a grim smile on her face. "I shouldn't have all the fun."
Olga sitting on his back provided just enough pressure and torque to push Pyotr's vertebrae out of joint. The crack of his spine breaking was loud. Natasha tightened her hold on his neck a little tighter, pushing his neck at an even further odd angle, just to be sure.
"He's dead," Olga breathed, looking down at Pyotr's glassy eyes in shock. "Just sitting did that?"
"He wasn't a good fighter at all." Natasha disentangled herself and stood, then offered Olga a hand up. "Most of them really aren't, not when guns and threats do the work for them."
"So why don't you think the Vory are coming after us for this?" she asked, looking down at Pyotr's lifeless body on the floor.
"Because everyone knew he beat you."
"They don't interfere out of fear," she replied, a sour note to her voice.
"Well, tonight, he just killed you. And took off with your body."
Olga blinked. "Wait, what?"
Natasha smiled, and it wasn't very pleasant. Olga could suddenly see why she wasn't scared of the Vory at all. "We're using his reputation against him. Pack yourself a single bag, light, only the essentials. I can buy us anything else you might need. Nothing obvious can be missing, unless it's something normally on your body."
"Good thing I don't have too much jewelry," Olga muttered, heading to her bedroom.
"Where does Marcia live?" Natasha asked, making the living area look like a bigger mess. Olga tried not to wince at the sound of breaking glass and the helpless cry that Natasha let out, adding to the fiction that Olga was being murdered.
"Berlin," Olga replied. "She's a martial arts instructor. I know that much. Oh, and she's part of a network to protect the other girls that were trafficked like I was."
"Good. Someone like that will definitely keep you safe."
"You're not going to stay with me?" Olga asked, coming out of her bedroom in shock. She knew how to pack quickly, especially since she didn't have too many nice things to begin with. Her bag had two other jeans, five shirts scrunched tight, underthings, six pairs of socks, her hidden stash of money and jewelry. It didn't hurt to leave behind the cheap pieces she wore to work, but she wasn't going to leave behind the good pieces for neighbors to steal later.
"I was hoping to avenge a twin sister."
"And now you found a third," Olga murmured.
Natasha picked up Pyotr, shouldering his weight as if he was a friend who was merely passed out drunk. "Something is wrong with this picture. I'll get you to a contact I know for a full set of papers. Then we'll go to Berlin to see your friend, get you safe. Once you're safe, then I'll start looking into what the hell is happening."
Olga pressed her lips together grimly. "You think I can survive on my own if the Vory find out?"
"They're not going to look for a dead woman."
Picking up a broken shard of glass, Natasha let it slice her fingers. She shook her hand, scattering droplets of blood on the floor and wall. Then a few steps to the side, she fell into a graceless lurch, grasping the wall with her bloody hand, smearing blood as she pushed off of it. She looked over at Olga, who was gaping at her. "Best to make it all look the part."
"Who are you?" Olga breathed, stunned. Natasha did this all dispassionately, as if establishing a cover story like this made no difference to her.
Maybe it didn't.
"I told you. Now, it's time to go."
Olga followed all of Natasha's directions in Moscow, and felt absolutely nothing when Pyotr's body slid beneath the river water. It wasn't necessary for her to smile for the new documents made up, and the precious hours lost there gave her enough time to think and wonder about this woman that held her same physical body and face but entirely different skill set. Natasha got her out of Moscow, out of Russia, and they drove into Berlin as promised.
It was easy for Natasha to find Marcia's dojo. Olga hadn't ever been in Berlin, but Natasha had been there a number of times. "You don't want to know what I was doing in Berlin," Natasha had told her when she asked how Natasha knew the city so well. Olga kept quiet for a while after that, sure that there were no good stories to be told about Natasha's prior visits.
They walked into the dojo, which was arranged with an open waiting area, a dividing wall and the locker room off to the right with changing area and bathrooms. The two lookalike women sat in the waiting area during the class Marcia was teaching, not wanting to interrupt.
"What are we even going to tell her?" Olga murmured.
"You can tell her the truth. She deserves to know what you're up against, though I really don't think they'll be coming to look for you."
"How can you be so certain?"
"Contrary to Pyotr's belief, he wasn't very important."
Olga gave her a thin smile. "That much, I already knew."
They lapsed into silence, then waited for all of the students to leave. There wasn't another class lined up according to the calendar on the wall.
Natasha stood, taking the lead to walk into the practice area. She stopped short, and Olga nearly crashed into her. "What the hell, Natasha?" Olga said, frowning. Then she turned toward Marcia herself, and immediately understood.
Standing in front of them was Marcia Packesein. She was exactly their height, had their exact facial features and green eyes. Her hair was black, pulled back into a pony tail at the back of her head. She fell into the same defensive posture that Natasha did, her expression betraying nothing of the surprise that Olga was feeling.
"I think we all need to talk," Natasha said.
"Yes, perhaps we do," Marcia replied.
She had their same voice and inflections, too.
***
***
To Chapter Four - Meetings