Hill was not entirely mistaken, but that was beside the point. Natasha could disregard attraction as easily as she could ignore hunger or fatigue, or pain. And if he felt something for her, the man they called Hawkeye certainly wasn’t showing it.
“We have to follow S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol, Clint,” Jessica Drew said.
“Which involves standing around for half an hour. What’s the idea, we trying to build up suspense?”
Jessica shook her head. “Commander Hill said we wait for a super-powered agent to escort us in.” Unlike Hawkeye, Jessica had donned a short military jacket with the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle emblem discreetly embossed on the fabric.
“Yeah, well, super-powers are overrated, if you ask me.”
Jessica smiled at him. “Spoken like a man who’s never had them.”
There was no hint of bitterness in the other woman’s voice. Interesting. Natasha had read the woman’s file and had thought she was far less resigned to the loss of her former powers. It reminded Natasha of another American film, about a young woman who acquires a roommate who copies her haircut, borrows her clothes and seduces her boyfriend—and then tries to kill her. That movie had also been part of a course called “Maintaining Identity While Adopting An Assumed Persona.”
Natasha still hadn’t decided who to be during the questioning. While sparring with Hawkeye, she had considered and discarded a few possibilities: the amoral adventurer, the lethal foundling, the hedge knight in search of a benefactor. She thought he could be seduced, but not by anything obvious. Never mind. It would come to her in time. It always did.
Hawkeye rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles. “Any idea who they’re sending?”
“Luke Cage,” said Jessica, looking at her phone. “I just got a text saying he’ll be here in a few minutes.”
This was another piece of information that might prove useful. Natasha tried to recall what she knew about Cage. He was called Power Man in the press, but Natasha couldn’t recall exactly what those powers were. She knew he had been born and raised in Harlem, and that he had been sent to prison for a crime he hadn’t committed. He had gotten his powers while incarcerated, the result of an attempt to recreate the Super-Soldier serum that had produced Captain America during World War II.
The sound of a small boat engine grew louder, and Natasha guessed she was about to meet Luke Cage in person. As they waited, she felt a moment’s fleeting regret that she couldn’t just hop on the boat herself and explore Manhattan. She had only been to New York once before, but that had been for a quick in-and-out assassination, so she hadn’t seen anything except the airport and a hotel room. The curse of the business traveler.
As the boat docked, Natasha took a more careful look at her surroundings. They were standing in an outdoor parking lot, next to a large rocky outcropping, a vestige of the island’s glacial past. Beside it, there was a large, shadowy building with a gloomy, industrial appearance. It might have been an old warehouse, or one of those discarded buildings where bureaucrats from the previous century had checked new immigrants for parasites and diseases.
No, she realized. It was neither. This must be the top level of the Raft. She had read accounts of the prison’s construction back in Russia, but there had been no pictures of the facility. Natasha made a careful note of the windows and doors, and the distance to the East River, in case she should need to make a quick exit.
As she turned back to the others, she saw Luke Cage stepping out of the boat. He moved with surprising grace, considering his size. As he approached their group, Jessica stepped forward. It was clear from the way she greeted him that she had met Cage before, and that the two were on friendly terms. Natasha could detect no sign of the tensions she had read about in her course on “Racial Stereotyping and the Psychological Legacy of Slave-Ownership in North America.” Perhaps super-powered people all hung out together to talk shop, like stockbrokers or safebreakers or models.
Luke Cage turned to look at Natasha, and inclined his head. “Zdrastvotyeh,” he said. Unlike the other two agents, Cage wasn’t in uniform. Instead, he wore a gray wool hat, a black leather jacket and dark chinos. He didn’t need a uniform to appear intimidating, however. He was easily six-foot-four and padded with so much muscle that he resembled an American football player. In addition, the close-cropped black goatee gave him a slightly sinister look.
“Do you speak Russian?” she asked him, in that language.
“Nimnoshka,” he replied. “The grammar drives me crazy.”
“It drives schoolchildren crazy in Russia, too,” she said, smiling. He was not what she had expected.
“Ask her to tell you about all the children in the hospital in Urus-Martan,” said Jessica, in English, presumably so Clint would understand what she was saying.
Natasha couldn’t prevent a momentary stiffening of her muscles as she recalled the little girl’s hopeful expression. Are you here to save us, Miss? Natasha glanced at Clint and saw that he had noted her involuntary reaction to Jessica’s gibe. If you make a mistake, do it twice and make it seem deliberate. Natasha averted her gaze, letting him see that Jessica had scored a point.
Luke shook his head and said something in Jessica’s ear that made her laugh. “Come on,” he said, addressing the group in a deep, resonant baritone. “Why don’t we head on down into the Raft?”
Nicely phrased, thought Natasha, as if I had a choice. She took a last look at the Manhattan skyline that reminded her of old Hollywood movie propaganda, then followed Luke Cage into the building. Behind her, she could feel Hawkeye’s quiet presence. As she stepped into one of the world’s most impenetrable fortresses, surrounded by criminals who could teleport through walls or melt steel with their breath or kill with a thought, Natasha felt curiously reassured that a man with a bow and arrow was there to watch her back.
THE Raft had been built to address the problem of incarcerating prisoners who looked at armed guards the way Labrador retrievers look at tennis balls. Like New York’s subway tunnels, the Raft had been constructed underground, but far deeper, beneath the East River.
As they made their way down a long hallway, past the fluorescent glare of the lights and the rock walls, Natasha noticed a large, presumably bulletproof glass window on their left. Behind the glass, she could see a number of guards observing different screens. The screens displayed various locations around the prison, including the hallway. Natasha caught a glimpse of herself, followed closely by Clint, his bow held loosely in his left hand. Glancing up, Natasha could see cameras trained on them, red lights flickering as the lenses tracked their progress.
“There appear to be no windows to the outside,” she observed out loud. “That must be difficult for the prisoners.” She was wondering whether any of their little group had any problem with claustrophobia.
“It’s a necessary precaution,” said Jessica. “Because of the abilities of the inmates, the walls here are lined with either Adamantium or Vibranium. There’s no way to reinforce glass to that degree.”
“Understandable. Still, I would rather spend my life in a Siberian work camp than live without a window,” said Natasha, giving a little shiver at the thought of spending one sunless day after another.
“Cut it out,” said Clint, following behind her.
“Cut what out?”
“The vulnerable act.”
“You so sure it’s an act?” Luke Cage fell back to walk beside Clint. “I kind of agree with her. I was in stir for over three years, but at least we got to go out in the yard for some fresh air. This place? They’re buried alive. I got to admit, that creeps me out.”
“So maybe she’s a method actress. It’s still an act.”
This was so astute that Natasha realized she had been underestimating the archer. Perhaps he had picked up more than just athletic skills during his circus training. Then, glancing up, she noticed a series of openings in the metal wall ahead. “Aren’t those windows?” She had to gather as much information as possible about this place,
as it could prove extremely valuable should she decide to return to Russia. Assuming I don’t move in here permanently, of course.
“Those are video screens,” said Jessica, her heels clicking on the floor. “And they’re two-way. Unlike some countries I can name, the United States attempts to treat its prisoners with as much humanity as possible.”
Clint and Cage exchanged glances. “You’ve never been in lockup, have you, Jessica?”
Jessica looked over her shoulder. “Look, I’m not saying that prison is fun. It’s not supposed to be fun. Do you have any idea what these inmates have done? What they’re capable of doing?”
“He doesn’t look capable of much,” said Luke, nodding at the first video screen. It showed a large man with a small, pointy head crouched in the corner of his cell. Pale brown fur covered most of his body, and he was dressed in a rumpled white T-shirt and pants that reminded Natasha of something a mental patient might wear. He looked like a cross between a circus freak and a rat. He looked up, wrinkling his nose, his small, bright eyes following them as they walked by.
“Who is that?”
“Vermin. He has limited intelligence, but he’s very fast and extremely strong,” said Jessica.
The next video screen showed an even more disturbing face. This prisoner had the swollen blue cheeks and bright-red, doglike muzzle of an adult male baboon, but his golden eyes had a distinctly human shape. Dressed in a denim work shirt and jeans, the prisoner appeared to be sitting at his desk and reading a book. On closer inspection, Natasha saw that the title was Extraordinary Delusions and the Madness of Crowds.
“What is this,” said Luke, “the crimes-against-nature section?”
“I think they’re classified according to threat level,” said Jessica. “That’s Mandrill. His given name is Jerome Beechman, and his parents were both physicists working in Gabon.” After an almost imperceptible pause, she added, “There was an accident in the lab.”
Natasha recalled that Jessica had received her powers in a similar fashion, but that was hardly unusual. Most super-powered individuals were either born with mutant abilities, or had acquired them in some sort of lab experiment. Iron Man was one of the rare exceptions.
“His parents deserted him at age ten,” said Jessica. “They just drove him off into the middle of an unpopulated bit of forest and left him there, along with a girl a little older than himself.”
“That’s cold,” said Luke. “Where’s the girl now?”
Jessica’s smile was a bit rueful. “With that start in life? She wound up in here, as well.”
“So the women are housed separately?” It would do Natasha no good to memorize the floor plan here, if this was not where she would be incarcerated.
“Yes,” Jessica began, but stopped as Luke let out a low curse.
“Purple Man,” he said, as they passed a screen showing an aristocratically handsome man in his early thirties with a distinctly violet skin tone. The way Luke said his name sounded worse than the expletive that had preceded it. “As far as threat level goes, this guy should be buried in the deepest cell in this place.”
“Zebediah Killgrave,” said Natasha. “I know of him. He is from Rijeka, in Croatia. Is it safe to allow him to watch us like this? I thought he could control thoughts by making eye contact.”
Jessica laid a hand on Luke’s arm. “He’s drugged to the gills, Luke. He doesn’t even know where he is. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about how you might feel, seeing him.”
Despite this assurance, Natasha did not meet the man’s deep, heliotrope-colored eyes. Instead, she looked at Luke, who was clearly suppressing some powerful emotion as they walked past Killgrave’s cell. “Did he hurt you?”
“That’s hardly any of your business,” said Jessica.
“Not me,” said Luke, clearly not willing to elaborate.
“His wife,” said Clint, when Luke had moved a few steps ahead. “Killgrave captured his wife and convinced her…that she wanted to be with him. Then he messed with her head.”
“I see,” said Natasha. “That is, I think, the worst kind of abuse. I would prefer physical pain to psychological torture.”
Clint didn’t say anything.
“I thought you liked to talk,” she said as they reached an elevator.
“Guess I kind of lost the mood,” he said, gesturing for her to go in before him. “After you.”
Natasha walked into the elevator and tried not to think about whether she would be making the return trip. She understood now that, in all probability, she would not. Read bodies and faces, her old instructor, Svetlana Bobkova, had always told her. She could still see the woman’s calm, round face, so deceptively maternal as she taught the young girl how to lie and how to detect lies.
Natasha had learned it was easiest to lie with words. Our bodies betray us, revealing our true intentions. Natasha had learned to lie with her body, too, but most people could not. She had also learned to read silences. When someone stopped talking to you, it was usually a very bad sign. For most people, killing was not an easy thing. We stop engaging with people because we need to depersonalize them. We depersonalize them so we can kill them.
Natasha stole a glance at Clint’s face as the elevator went down and down. The pressure in her ears told her that even though there were only eight buttons, they were plunging quite a distance, and rapidly. I miscalculated, she thought. I was not clear in my own mind about my objective. She had left her old bosses, but she had not fully embraced the idea of joining the Americans. Infiltrating the Helicarrier had seemed like a way of testing S.H.I.E.L.D.’s defenses, as well as a fine method for demonstrating the extent of her own abilities. Too late, Natasha saw that she had not played the chess game out in her head, the way she had been taught. Her own ambivalence had kept her from fully analyzing her opponents’ reactions.
The only question remaining was: Could she learn from this mistake, or would it be her last?
“We’re here,” said Jessica. “Are you all right? What you said about claustrophobia before—are you having a problem being this far underground?”
“A little,” Natasha admitted. She could see no advantage in hiding it, and revealing her vulnerability might well work in her favor.
“Don’t believe her,” said Clint. “She’s too tough for phobias. She’s just angling for an advantage.”
Irritated, Natasha stiffened her spine. “Let’s get this over with,” she said, as the doors slid open. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out into a long hallway hewn out of rock. It’s like some sort of gnome kingdom. A chill of fear swept through her at the thought that she might really never see the sun or feel the air on her face again.
She took a step backward and felt something sharp bite into her left shoulder. An arrowhead.
“Careful, Red,” said Clint.
The tiny pain helped clear her head a little. “I am always careful,” she lied.
“Nobody’s always careful,” he said, “least of all, you.” For a moment, Natasha heard a hint of the playful, teasing tone from their sparring match in the Helicarrier. And then it hit her. He responds to me when I speak or act without careful calculation. In order to manipulate Clint Barton, Natasha would have to be herself. But do I even know who that is, anymore?
She thought of the punishing final week of Black Widow training at the Red Room facility, and how she had foolishly told her roommate, Yelena, that they were like sisters. Yelena, blonde hair damp from the shower, had looked at her with something like pity in her cool gray eyes. “We are not sisters, Natasha. We are not even friends. How could we be? Tell me, what is your favorite movie? Your favorite author? What would you wear to go out to a party if you were not on assignment? You don’t know, because you are always on assignment, or preparing for one. But if I asked you your favorite weapon, you could tell me that, yes? You know how you like to kill.”
Yelena had spoken out of jealousy and resentment, but it was all true. Natasha had no idea who she was when she wasn’t
manipulating others, because she had, for so long, been manipulated herself.
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Hawkeye. “Not hatching any escape plans, I hope.”
“No more than usual.” I wonder, she thought, if I had met Clint Barton in some normal way, what would have happened? It did no good to conjecture. She could not even imagine what “some normal way” might involve.
The hallway stretched in front of them, lit by the unnatural glow of fluorescent lights. There were no video screens down here, and the windowless doors of the inmates’ cells were fitted with coded keypads. A metallic grate underfoot suggested the possibility of electric shock as a fail-safe for any potential prisoner escape, yet underneath it all Natasha detected the ancient, cool, moist smell of stone and earth shared by caves and catacombs and graves.
“Clint? Would you do me a favor?” Natasha was working on pure impulse now, something she hadn’t done since age seven, when Svetlana and her other teachers had shown up at the orphanage.
“Probably not, but you can ask.”
“If I’m not going to walk out of here, kill me.”
She felt his stillness and understood instantly. This is what Commander Hill told him, when she called him back to speak alone.
“I take it you know which room we’re supposed to use, Jessica,” said Luke Cage. “I’d rather not open up the wrong cell and find myself face to face with…” There was a click, and then the lights went out. “Um…this kind of thing supposed to happen?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” said Jessica, sounding very controlled. “Our regular phones won’t work down here. Can anyone feel along the wall for the intercom?”
New Avengers: Breakout Prose Novel Page 3
