Black Widow: Forever Red

by Margaret Stohl

  “Is that the same cheesesteak from last night? Don’t answer that. You have a problem.” Dante looked slightly grossed out. “Either way, I’m not going to miss check-in, not even for a hot CIA agent.”

  “I didn’t say she was hot.” Alex scanned the street. He was sure she was out there.

  Dante gave him a knowing look. “Then why do you care?”

  Alex looked at him. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

  Dante rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you can stand out here by yourself, Cheesesteak.” He grabbed his bag and started moving. “And you think I’m the idiot.” Alex followed his friend inside.

  The boys’ jackets said MONTCLAIR NJ FENCING ALLIANCE, but this wasn’t New Jersey anymore. The convention center was crawling with similarly sweat-suited athletes from more than a hundred clubs like theirs. The rows of fencing strips looked like metal sidewalks, and there were so many that they filled the entire convention hall. The walls were littered with pennants and posters, flags and flyers, and the perimeter of the enormous room was lined with vendors. This was the North American Cup circuit, as it said on the flashing digital scoreboard. And a NAC tournament was no small deal.

  It was almost as nerve-racking as being tailed by the CIA, Alex thought.

  The boys made their way through the crowd to the place where a pile of guys and an even bigger pile of fencing bags slumped in a messy circle. Above them—plastered with duct tape—a slightly crooked MONTCLAIR ALLIANCE sign hung on the wall.

  Alex frowned when he saw his teammates. “What is Jurek doing here? He wasn’t on the train with us.”

  “I heard he missed the train by just two points.” That was always the joke. Jeff Jurek, the Montclair Alliance team captain, never could just tell you his own results; he also knew yours and liked to tell you how close he had come to doing even better. According to him, he missed everything he deserved in life by just two points.

  “Ah, man. If he makes us call him Cap again, he’s going down,” Alex scowled. Jurek idolized Captain America, which wasn’t all that unusual; most high school kids worshipped one super hero or another—or at least identified with them. In this case, however, the irony was lost on no one that the fencing captain and the super-hero captain were nothing alike. “Where’s a super villain when you need one?”

  “Just stay away from that turd. Seriously, Mr. Black Card.” Dante shook his head. “He’s not worth it.”

  “I know,” Alex said. “I just—”

  “I know,” Dante sighed.

  They said nothing more and joined the others, who were all in various stages of getting ready to fence. It took a while to prep for any tournament, if only because of all the ballistic-nylon gear. You couldn’t step on the strip at a NAC without wearing every last piece of protective equipment, according to USFA regulations. Not unless you wanted to end up like the Russian who had taken a blade through the brain at Worlds and died. Now there were white Kevlar underarm protectors and thicker white Kevlar jackets and even white Kevlar knickers that said USA, along with a stencil of the Stars and Stripes. Even before you fenced your first bout, you were sweating like a dog.

  “Check it,” Dante said, pointing across the room. He was always dressed first, which he said came from growing up with so many brothers and sisters. There were only so many clean socks; you had to move fast. “Manor and Cruz. Fame and glory. Just how we like it.”

  Alex looked up. On the digital scoreboard, Alex Manor was listed as first among the ranks of the Junior seeding. Dante Cruz was second. It was always that way, back and forth. Their main competition was with each other—which didn’t make it any less fierce.

  “Pound it,” Alex said, holding out his fist.

  “Except it really should say Cruz first, and then Manor,” Dante pointed out, as they pounded fists.

  “Sure it should,” Alex said.

  “After today, it will.”

  “In your dreams.”

  Alex picked up his mask, grabbing a handful of blades with his free hand. The back of his jacket said MANOR, but as tall and lanky as he was, he would have been unmistakable on the gym floor even without it.

  “Yeah? I’m not dreaming now. En garde, loser.” Dante held up a blade of his own. “Let’s do this.”

  “All right, Cruz. But no crying this time.” Alex turned to the nearest strip, the one that half of their team was already using for warm-up bouts.

  The moment he turned, though, he felt a blade whack him on the back. He sprang back, instinctively, muscles tensed and heart pounding. He could feel his teeth grinding against each other.

  Jeff Jurek laughed, wagging his weapon.

  “Don’t do that,” Alex said automatically. He hated nothing more than getting hit with a blade, even as a joke. There was something about him that responded to every attack as if it were lethal. His body wasn’t wired to tell the difference, though his brain should have been.

  Try that again, turd. I dare you.

  “Start running, Miss Manners. Then you can warm up.” Jurek pointed at the strip with his blade. The guy was like every tristate cliché rolled into one, from his nonironic white tube socks to his thick gold chains. Jurek’s difficult personality had also helped his despotic rise to captain; nobody wanted to be his cocaptain. Even now, the rest of the guys pretended not to see him.

  Alex pushed the blade away, bristling at the nickname. “I’m good,” he said. “I’ll run later. Dante and I were just going to bout a little first.”

  “I’m good…?” Jurek raised his voice inquiringly. He said the words like he was making a joke, but Alex knew he wasn’t joking.

  “I’m good, Cap.” Alex rolled his eyes.

  Jurek flicked his blade on Alex’s leg. “Go on, warm up.”

  Alex flinched. “I told you not to do that.” Strike two.

  “He will. We are. Just give it a rest, Jurek.” Dante tried to pull Alex away, as if he knew what was about to happen next. Which he did.

  Jurek smiled. “Everyone runs. Even Miss Manners.”

  “Super original nickname. You come up with that yourself? Maybe you should use it all the time.” Alex felt himself losing patience with the guy, though he was trying not to. He could already hear his mother scolding him in the back of his mind.

  A short fuse blows up in your own face, Alex.

  “And maybe you should get here on time.” Now Jurek whacked Alex on the arm—and Alex grabbed the blade in his fist. That was it. He was done.

  Strike three.

  “Maybe you should make me.” Alex couldn’t keep the words from coming out. Worse, he couldn’t stop himself from yanking the blade as hard as he could—sending both Jurek and his weapon stumbling.

  Dante was already shaking his head, but it was too late.

  Jurek swung back at Alex.

  Now.

  Alex let his mind go into overdrive—adrenaline did that to him. It happened during every bout, even if he was fencing Dante. Alex didn’t really know how to describe it when he fell into the zone like this. It was almost like playing a video game, only Alex was somehow both the guy moving the controller and the character on the screen. All at the same time.

  He’ll start with his fists, but he’s going to use his body. He’s going to go for my head. The guy’s like one giant head butt. That’s all he knows how to do. Alex caught Jurek’s fist in his hand, lightning fast.

  Just as I thought. Alex smiled.

  He already knew how it was all going to go down, based on the way Jurek was standing (low center of gravity), his height (six inch disadvantage), his weight (thirty pounds slower.) Also: how he thought (rage, instinct, general lack of strategy) and who he idolized (brute force over strategic advantage), as well as his insecurities (size, inferiority) and his behavioral tics (favoring the right side.)

  Every battle was a new problem set, and every opponent required a new formula. Alex knew his work had to be disciplined and meticulous—even if these were the sort of calculations that left someone
bruised and bloody.

  And they were.

  The moment Alex began to move, he became methodical, efficient. Like a trained soldier, ducking away, kicking out his legs and sideswiping Jurek with his feet.

  It’s almost too easy, Alex thought.

  Almost.

  As Alex and Jurek fell to the floor fighting, a horn sounded and the two boys were pulled off each other. Alex tried to catch his breath, but the wind was knocked out of him. One too many head butts.

  Also as predicted.

  Jurek’s lip was as swollen as his eye was purple. It was only then that Alex realized how much trouble he was in.

  Crap.

  Trouble.

  Again.

  Alex tried to twist out of the hands of the two burly officials holding him back. A balding coach and a Senior fencer from the club had Jurek by both arms.

  Here it comes.

  Alex didn’t understand why he did half the things he did. Sometimes he felt like he spent most of his life on autopilot. As if he was looking for some kind of never-ending fight. Whatever it was, Alex only knew he couldn’t stop it or even regret it—not until it came down to this moment. Which it always did. One more black card Alex Manor didn’t need. One more reason to be grounded and sidelined.

  My mom is going to kill me.

  Alex looked at the officials, beginning the familiar speech. “You don’t understand. I wasn’t doing anything. He started the whole thing.” He’d been saying the same thing as long as he could remember.

  He only wished he knew why.

  S.H.I.E.L.D. EYES ONLY

  CLEARANCE LEVEL X

  LINE-OF-DUTY DEATH [LODD] INVESTIGATION

  REF: S.H.I.E.L.D. CASE 121A415

  AGENT IN COMMAND [AIC]: PHILLIP COULSON

  RE: AGENT NATASHA ROMANOFF A.K.A. BLACK WIDOW, A.K.A. NATASHA ROMANOVA

  TRANSCRIPT: DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE, LODD INQUIRY HEARINGS

  DOD: So the boy had identified anger issues from the start.

  ROMANOFF: I didn’t say that. He wasn’t an angel, but he wasn’t a criminal, either. Not like--

  DOD: Not like the rest of you?

  ROMANOFF: Depends on who you ask, sir.

  DOD: There is some thinking that you intended to bring the minor assets together. For the purposes of the mission.

  ROMANOFF: No, sir.

  DOD: And you didn’t engineer the encounter?

  ROMANOFF: It was a fencing tournament. I’m not the USFA.

  DOD: You’ve been called many things, Agent Romanoff. That wouldn’t surprise me at all.

  ROMANOFF: It wasn’t me.

  DOD: Was that the first time you’d witnessed Alex Manor’s combat abilities?

  ROMANOFF: Yes. They were--surprising. I even contacted S.H.I.E.L.D. to see if he was one of ours.

  DOD: And?

  ROMANOFF: You know he was not.

  DOD: Once again, I only know what I’m told, Agent.

  ROMANOFF: And I’m telling you. Just a boy.

  PHILADELPHIA CONVENTION CENTER—

  DOWNTOWN PHILLY

  THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE

  “It’s not a big deal. There’s only like, what, three thousand people here? Four?” Oksana shrugged.

  “I’d rather be in Grand Central during rush hour,” Ava said, swallowing. “Maybe even Times Square.”

  The two girls stood side by side at the doors to the convention center, motionless in the crowd of identically white-suited athletes. Like everyone else, they were dressed head to toe in their own badly fitting, borrowed version of the regulation whites. That had been Oksana’s idea, to show up already wearing their fencing clothes, so that they could blend in with the crowd more easily.

  Less Y basement, more athlete.

  But now it didn’t matter, because neither Ava nor Oksana could bring herself to step inside the gym.

  “This was a bad idea,” Ava said. Last night she had dreamed nothing at all, which didn’t happen very often. She didn’t know what it meant, but it had made her nervous.

  “Or a great idea,” Oksana said. “We’ll never know if we don’t go in. Come on.”

  They didn’t move.

  Oksana took a deep breath. “Okay. You know how there’s always someone you’d like to run through with a blade?”

  “Just one?” Ava smiled, in spite of the sour feeling in her stomach.

  “Pretend everyone you face today is that person.” Oksana grabbed Ava’s hand and squeezed, and that was it. No more stalling. “It’s time to start fighting for what we want.”

  “Or at least time to walk into the building.” Ava nodded.

  But Oksana was right. It was time.

  They let the crowd carry them through the doors—and into their first tournament. Ava had never seen anything like it. She was overwhelmed by the crush of uniforms and flags and faces and words. She saw club jackets referencing places she’d only heard about on the endless hum of C-SPAN back in 7B, when she thought she’d never be free to go anywhere at all. Some were still foreign. Windy City. Alamo. Chevy Chase. Bowling Green. But the famous American schools she knew, and those surfaced one colored warm-up at a time. Columbia. Harvard. Princeton. Stanford. Ava recognized the names from preppy sweatshirt-wearing Americans taking the Q train on their way to the trendy parts of Brooklyn to buy a scoop of ice cream for five dollars or homemade pickles in little jars.

  Ava knew she would never set foot inside any school like that. She’d probably never go to school again at all. She tried not to care. School wasn’t for everyone. She herself was the daughter of a quantum physicist and look how well that had turned out.

  But as Ava watched a pair of girls in perfect braids walk by, she knew it wasn’t just the schools. It was the bedrooms and the bathtubs and the swimming pools and the laundry rooms. The leashed dogs and the cut grass. She had no business being in a room with any of these people. They breathed a different kind of air than she did.

  “Registration. And weapons check.” Oksana’s voice seemed to come from far away. “That’s what Nana said to do next. But let’s leave the gloves off until the last minute. They smell like cat pee.”

  Ava wasn’t listening. She was too busy staring.

  Aliens. They might as well be from another planet.

  Then one of the braided girls looked back at her and laughed. She leaned in, whispering to her friend, who turned around to inspect Ava as well. They were both wearing shirts with enormous whale logos on them.

  Why whales? Do rich people have a thing about whaling?

  The longer the alien girls looked at her, the more Ava knew what they saw. The shabby, oversized jacket that only said her name on a piece of duct tape on the back. The sagging pants that she’d had to safety pin at the waist, with the one drooping suspender. The corkscrew curls she’d cut herself, using borrowed scissors. The holey sneakers that could barely pass for sneakers, let alone fencing shoes.

  Ava touched a messy curl as she felt her face go red.

  Der’mo.

  And then—

  Screw you.

  She didn’t have a choice about feeling like an outsider, but she didn’t have to feel like a loser. She didn’t have to let it get to her. She was tougher than that now.

  Strong and sharp, Ava. Remember.

  She followed the alien girls with her eyes as they moved around the perimeter of the gym, over to where a group of boys were warming up on a strip.

  One in particular caught her eye.

  He was taller than the others, and his brown hair curled into unruly waves that fell into his face as he laughed.

  “Do not get near the gloves. I repeat. Not the gloves,” Oksana laughed, but Ava almost couldn’t hear what she was saying. Her own ears were ringing, and the blood was rushing to her head.

  There’s something so familiar—

  Ava froze.

  Oksana hit her on the arm. “Privet? Hello? Ty slyshish’? You listening? Earth to Ava?”

  Ava couldn’t answer. She was too b
usy staring at the boy on the far strip, across the crowded hall.

  Now she could see his face—and she knew it. She recognized him.

  It was impossible, but then everything about this boy had always been.

  Because it was him. Him.

  Alexei Manorovsky.

  Tattoo Boy.

  The boy from the dreams.

  Ava was sure of it. It had to be him. He was right there, right there in front of her. Standing across the gym from her, talking to his friend.

  “Oksana.” Ava could barely get out the word. “There.”

  She couldn’t look away.

  He’s here. Now. And I’m awake.

  This is real. This is happening.

  “What?” Oksana looked confused. “Are you okay?”

  “That’s him. Alexei,” Ava breathed. The room was lurching and contracting around her. She thought for a moment that she was going to pass out.

  Oksana relaxed. “Is this about Tattoo Boy?” She shook her head in mock dismay. She shook Ava by the arm. “Is he invisible? Can only you see him? Is he reaching out to you with his mind? Can you smell his blood, like in the vampire movies?”

  “Oksana. I’m not joking. See for yourself.” Ava fumbled in her backpack, pulling out her worn notebook from the fencing clothes and water bottles. Like most people she met in the shelters, she kept almost everything she owned with her—which wasn’t much.

  Now she turned the pages until she found a sketch of Alex, a decent likeness. One of the many.

  “This.” Ava held the smudged-charcoal portrait up in front of her friend. “Look. It’s the same person.”

  “What?” Oksana looked at the page. “Hey. You’re a really good artist. Why would you never show me your stuff?” She looked up. “Can I have this? Or maybe…could you do one for me of Thor?”

  Ava rolled her eyes. “I’m not talking about the picture. Look at that one. Him. The one with the messy hair.” She pointed, and Oksana looked across the gym to the farthest strip. Then Oksana frowned and glanced at the sketch again.

  Ava watched as she compared the pictures. “I’m not crazy, right? Sana?”

  Oksana didn’t answer.

  But it was him, and Ava knew there could be no doubting it. She believed, for the first time in her life, that she was looking at the real Alexei Manorovsky, or Alex Manor, or whatever you wanted to call him.