Chapter 2
2016 - After AOU and just before Captain America: civil war - Age 24
Anya stood under the moonlight, her silhouette sharp against the quiet forest. Her gun was raised, her gloved finger trembling over the trigger as she towered over the woman she'd been sent to kill.
The mission was clear: eliminate Wanda Maximoff. She was a threat. A target. Dreykov's orders had been precise. Yet Anya hesitated, her breathing uneven as she stared down at the woman kneeling before her.
Wanda didn't move. Her hands rested at her sides, her eyes locked on Anya's with a strange mixture of calmness and sorrow. There was no fear, no attempt to fight back. Instead, Wanda simply stared, as if she knew Anya. As if she expected this.
The look unnerved Anya. Her grip on the gun tightened as her mind wrestled with the storm of emotions rising inside her. She didn't know this woman—she couldn't. And yet, something about her felt... familiar.
Her training kicked in, forcing her to focus. She's a target. Nothing more. Pull the trigger.
But her hand wouldn't obey. The longer she stared, the heavier the gun felt in her grasp.
Wanda's voice broke the silence, low and measured. "You don't have to do this."
Anya flinched at the sound. Her jaw clenched as anger flared in her chest. "Shut up."
Wanda didn't flinch. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, her eyes softening. "Anya..."
The sound of her name—her name—sent a weird feeling through Anya's body. She stumbled back a step, her aim faltering. "How... How do you know my name?"
Wanda didn't answer. Instead, her eyes glowed faintly red, and before Anya could react, a wave of scarlet energy surged forward, enveloping her.
The world blurred. Memories she didn't recognize or couldn't remember, flooded her mind.
A kiss in the dark. Laughter shared in stolen moments. Warmth, safety... love. And then, pain. So much pain. Dreykov. Sterilization. Needles.
Anya gasped as the memories overwhelmed her, her knees buckling. She dropped the gun, the clang on the floor snapping her back to reality.
"No!" she hissed, stumbling backward. Her breathing was ragged, her head pounding. "What did you do to me?"
Wanda stood, her movements slow and cautious. "I didn't do anything. I just... reminded you."
"Shut up!" Anya growled, her voice trembling with rage and fear. She lunged forward, her reflexes taking over as her body moved instinctively.
Wanda raised her hands, her magic flaring to life in response. The first strike was a quick jab aimed at Wanda's ribs which was deflected by a shield of scarlet energy. Anya's fist hit the barrier with a crackle, the impact reverberating through her arm.
Before Anya could recover, Wanda retaliated. A pulse of energy blasted out, slamming into Anya's chest and sending her skidding backward across the dirt.
But Anya never stops fighting. She rolled to her feet, her movements fluid and precise, and closed the distance between them. A roundhouse kick whipped toward Wanda's head, forcing her to duck. Scarlet tendrils of magic shot out in response, aiming to bind Anya's limbs, but she twisted mid-air, breaking free and landing in a crouch.
Wanda's eyes narrowed. Anya was fast—too fast. Every move was calculated, every strike could be deadly. Wanda could see the years of training in her fighting style.
Anya charged again, feinting left before striking right. She landed a hit this time—a sharp elbow to Wanda's shoulder that sent her stumbling. But Wanda recovered quickly. A wave of energy swept out, lifting Anya off her feet and slamming her into a tree.
Anya groaned, shaking off the daze, and pushed herself upright. Her chest heaved as she glared at Wanda, her hands trembling. She didn't understand what was happening. Why couldn't she bring herself to finish this?
"Anya, stop!" Wanda's voice was firm, but there was no malice in it—only desperation.
Anya snarled, launching herself forward again. But before she could land another strike, Wanda's magic enveloped her completely. The scarlet magic wrapped around her body, pinning her in place. She thrashed against the hold, her strength straining against the unyielding power, but it was no use.
Wanda stepped closer, her voice softer now. "You don't have to fight me."
"Shut up!" Anya screamed, her voice cracking. "You don't know—"
Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff emerged in the distance, both moving with purpose. Steve's shield was at the ready, and Natasha's Widow's Bite glinted in the moonlight.
Steve's eyes darted between Wanda and Anya, confusion etched deep in his features. "And... who might you be?"
Wanda hesitated, her scarlet magic still pinning Anya down, but her gaze softened. Slowly, reluctantly, the magic unraveled, fading away. Anya didn't move, her chest heaving as she lay on the ground, tense and ready to spring if necessary.
Natasha's sharp eyes scanned Anya, her movements calculated and wary. Her gaze lingered on the tactical suit Anya wore—sleek, functional, unmistakably Widow design. Then, her attention shifted to the way Anya had fought earlier—precise strikes, acrobatic maneuvers, efficient brutality.
"The suit," Natasha muttered, half to herself. Her voice grew colder, more certain. "The fighting style... she's a Widow."
Steve blinked, his confusion only growing. "A Widow? What does that mean?"
Natasha's jaw tightened. "She's from the Red Room," she explained, her tone grim. "The same program that trained me."
Anya's eyes flicked to Natasha, blazing with defiance.
Steve stepped closer, his shield lowered but still in hand, his expression cautious. "And her name?"
There was a beat of silence. Anya didn't answer, her jaw set tight. Her piercing gaze snapped to Wanda, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her hardened exterior.
Wanda's voice was quiet but steady as she stepped forward, answering before anyone else could. "Her name is Anya Rostova."
Natasha's sharp intake of breath was almost imperceptible, but Wanda's words hung heavy in the air. Steve looked from Wanda to Anya, realization dawning that this wasn't just another enemy.
Anya's jaw clenched as she watched the scene. "What are you going to do? Arrest me? Kill me? Just do it already."
Natasha took a cautious step forward. "We're not going to hurt you," she said carefully. "And if you wanted us dead, we'd already be dead."
Steve looked less convinced, his shield still raised. "Well she just tried to kill Wanda."
"And she didn't," Natasha countered.
Anya's breathing slowed, her muscles still tense. She didn't trust them. She thought she trusted Dreykov but she wasn't so sure anymore.
Wanda's voice broke the silence. "You don't have to be afraid anymore."
Anya's gaze snapped to Wanda, her eyes narrowing. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know enough," Wanda replied, her voice steady. "And I know you're not the monster they tried to make you."
Anya's breath hitched, her resolve wavering. Steve didn't move. His eyes remained focused on Anya, but his suspicion was evident. "How do we know she's not still working for them?"
Anya's mind snapped back to reality at his words. For them. Hydra. The Red Room. The fear she had tried to suppress bubbled back up. She was fighting herself now more than ever, her instinct telling her to run, to fight, to keep her distance.
"I just don't understand... what happened to me?" Anya blurted out, her Russian accent thick with confusion and panic. She couldn't process all of this—she couldn't.
Wanda flinched slightly at her words, but didn't move closer. "I'm not going to hurt you, Anya. I never wanted to hurt you."
No, this isn't right. She left me. She chose them. She left me behind. She was dead. She should be dead.
"I know you're scared," Wanda continued softly. "But we're not going to hurt you. We're here to help you."
"I don't need your help," Anya spat, her voice growing sharp with defensiveness. Why is she here? Wanda had been gone for so long, dead even. And now, here she was, acting like nothing had changed.
"Anya..." Natasha's voice softened, but there was no mistaking the concern in her tone. "Listen, if you really wanted to kill us, you would've already. You could've. You're capable of taking us all down without breaking a sweat."
Steve looked at Natasha, still unsure, his gaze flicking back to Anya. "You're really going to trust her?"
Natasha gave Steve a hard look, a silent communication passing between them. She stepped forward, her stance relaxed but firm. "We can't leave her out here in the open, Steve. If we don't take her inside, we're risking more than just a fight."
Anya knew they didn't trust her. They couldn't. And she couldn't trust them. She couldn't trust anyone anymore.
"You don't have a choice, Anya," Natasha added softly, her words almost a whisper. "Let's get you inside."
Before Anya could protest, Steve moved to her side, his large frame blocking her escape. "We're going in," he said, his tone more like an order than a suggestion.
Anya clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. She had always been a fighter—never one to go down quietly. But the truth was, she didn't know what to do now. She was confused with fear and .
Without another word, Steve and Natasha guided her inside, taking her through the darkened halls of a very large campus which she presumed was the avengers due to the large A on it...
As they moved through the halls, Anya's eyes darted to every detail, her body refusing to let her relax. Fluorescent lights flickered softly overhead, casting faint shadows along the smooth, polished floors. She took note of the security cameras mounted in the corners, their lenses tracking their movement.
Anya didn't miss the subtle reinforcements in the walls or the occasional glimpse into rooms where advanced equipment hummed and glowed. Labs, she guessed, filled with tech she didn't recognize but knew was dangerous. Even the occasional window to the outside showed glimpses of tall fences and strategically placed sentry towers.
Her boots echoed against the floor as they walked, a sound that seemed to grow louder with each step. She hated the feeling of being exposed like this, unable to predict what lay ahead. Her hands twitched at her sides, aching for the comfort of a weapon. But she didn't have one—Natasha had made sure of that. She clenched her fists, resisting the urge to let her frustration show.
Steve and Wanda spoke in hushed tones behind her, their conversation barely audible. Something about scheduling, or maybe logistics—she didn't care. Small talk grated on her nerves, a meaningless exchange of words that served no purpose. She tuned them out, focusing instead on the layout of the building, memorizing every turn and doorway. If she had to fight her way out of here, she wanted to know the fastest route.
Occasionally, her gaze flicked toward Natasha, who walked slightly ahead of her. The redhead's posture was relaxed but deliberate, every step calculated. Anya could tell Natasha was watching her too, even if she didn't turn around. It was a subtle dance of observation and mistrust, one Anya was all too familiar with.
Eventually, they reached the basement level—cold, and quiet. The low hum of the lights was the only sound that filled the empty space as they pushed through a heavy door and into an unused training room. The walls were bare, save for a few old pieces of equipment. There was a broken punching bag hanging limply from the ceiling, and a few mats thrown across the floor.
Natasha gave Anya a long, careful look as she stepped away, followed by Steve. "Stay here for now," Natasha said, her voice firm but not unkind. "We'll talk. But you need to calm down."
The door clicked shut behind them. She was alone like always but this time it felt different.
Her mind spun in circles, her body jittery with adrenaline and confusion. She paced back and forth across the room, her boots clacking against the hard concrete floor. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. The walls felt like they were closing in on her. She needed to do something—anything—to regain control.
Her hands trembled, and her chest tightened. She tried to force the air into her lungs, but it felt like she couldn't get enough. Her vision blurred at the edges, a feeling of panic threatening to overtake her.
Anya dropped to her knees, pressing her palms into the floor as she tried to steady herself. Get it together. Get it together. She repeated the mantra in her mind, but it wasn't enough.
A few minutes passed, and slowly, Anya managed to calm her breath. The panic subsided, but the overwhelming confusion remained. She didn't know what was real anymore, what was truth, and what was a lie.
She stood up slowly, looking around the room. The punching bag swayed gently, its form so familiar. But in this moment, Anya was uncertain if it was the weight of the world or the weight of herself that was pressing down on her.
Anya leaned her back against the cold concrete wall, arms crossed, her jaw set tight as her thoughts spiraled. She didn't like this feeling. To her it is a weakness she didn't know how to handle.
Her boots scuffed against the floor as she began pacing again, trying to shake the tension coiled in her body. The sound of footsteps outside the door made her stop abruptly. She straightened, bracing herself, her posture instinctively defensive.
The door opened with a quiet click, and Natasha walked in, closing it behind her. She didn't speak immediately, her sharp eyes assessing Anya, taking in every detail—the clenched fists, the rigid stance, the way her gaze darted.
Anya narrowed her eyes, watching the woman warily. "What do you want?"
Natasha didn't answer right away. Instead, she leaned back against the door, crossing her arms in a way that mirrored Anya's defensive posture. "The Red Room," Natasha said bluntly, her voice calm but carrying an edge. "How long were you there?"
Anya stiffened at the question, her lips pressing into a thin line as she lifted her chin. She didn't respond, her eyes locking on Natasha's like a challenge.
Natasha raised an eyebrow, her tone flat as she pushed further. "You're obviously not with Dreykov anymore, or we wouldn't be having this conversation. So, how long?"
The silence stretched between them, heavy and tense. Anya's jaw worked as she clenched her teeth, her mind racing. She didn't owe this woman anything. And yet, something in Natasha's unwavering stare made her pause. Still, she said nothing.
Natasha let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Look I get it. But we don't have time for this." Her expression softened—just barely—as she studied Anya's tense frame. "They controlled you, didn't they?"
Anya's breath hitched at the question, the words slicing through her defenses like a blade. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and after a moment, she gave a small, reluctant nod.
Natasha sighed, pushing off the door and stepping closer. Her movements were measured, careful not to provoke. "Yeah," she said quietly, her voice tinged with something that sounded like regret. "I know how that feels."
Anya's head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. "What happened to you?" she asked, her voice low, almost accusing.
Natasha's jaw tightened, her mask slipping for a fraction of a second. "When I left..." she began, her voice trailing off. She glanced away, the words clearly weighing on her. "It was the scariest thing I've ever done. They don't let you just walk away." Her gaze locked back onto Anya's, unflinching. "You're going to question everything—yourself, your choices, your memories. And it doesn't stop. Not for a long time."
Anya swallowed hard. She wanted to argue, to push back, but the truth in Natasha's voice left no room for doubt.
Natasha sighed again, running a hand through her hair. "Look, I'm not here to hold your hand. That's not who I am. But I know what you're going through. And if you want to survive this, you need to start trusting someone. Otherwise, Dreykov will find you and drag you back, and this time..." Her voice dropped, grim and certain. "You won't get another chance."
Anya's shoulders sagged slightly, her resolve cracking under the weight of everything she'd been holding back. She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't even know what's real anymore."
Natasha's expression softened just enough to show a flicker of empathy. "That's normal. The Red Room screws with your mind, makes you doubt everything. But one thing I can tell you is real—if you didn't want to kill us, then you don't belong to Dreykov anymore."
Anya looked away, her hands clenching at her sides. She hated how vulnerable she felt, how exposed. "So what now?" she muttered, her voice edged with bitterness. "You lock me up? Turn me in?"
Natasha shook her head. "No. You're not a prisoner here. You're not a threat—at least, not to us. So, how about we find you a room? Somewhere to crash, clear your head."
Anya frowned, skepticism flashing in her eyes. "And if I leave?"
Natasha's lips quirked into a wry smile. "You're welcome to run. But Dreykov will find you. He always does. Speaking of which..." Her gaze sharpened, and she nodded toward Anya's leg. "We need to get that tracker out of you. Now."
Before Anya could react, Natasha pulled a knife from her belt. The gleaming blade caught the dim light, and she knelt down, gesturing for Anya to sit. "This will sting," Natasha said matter-of-factly, her tone as casual as if she were discussing the weather.
Anya hesitated, her body tensing as she glanced between Natasha and the knife. But she didn't flinch, didn't move. She sat down, her expression stoic as Natasha reached for her thigh.
Natasha's movements were precise, almost clinical as she made a small incision just above Anya's knee. Blood welled up, but Anya didn't so much as blink. Natasha worked quickly, using the tip of the blade to extract a small, metallic device embedded beneath the skin. She held it up, examining it briefly before crushing it under the heel of her boot.
"There," Natasha said, wiping the blade clean on a cloth. "No more tracking."
Anya's gaze lingered on the blood staining her leg, but her expression remained unreadable. "Doesn't hurt," she muttered, more to herself than to Natasha.
Natasha smirked faintly. "Figured it wouldn't."
Before either of them could say more, the door opened again, and Steve stepped inside. His gaze flicked between the two women, lingering briefly on the blood before settling on Anya. "I'll take you to a room," he offered, his voice calm but cautious.
Anya didn't respond right away, her gaze darting to Natasha as if seeking confirmation. Natasha gave a small nod. "Go with him. Get some rest. You're going to need it."
Anya stood slowly, her movements still guarded. She glanced around the room once more, as if trying to ground herself, before following Steve to the door.
Anya followed Steve through the dimly lit halls, her footsteps echoing faintly against floor. Steve walked ahead, his broad frame moving with purpose, though he remained silent. Anya kept her distance, her eyes darting to every doorway, every corner, memorizing the layout as they moved. The Avengers' campus was different from the cold, utilitarian spaces she was used to—there was life here, warmth, and a sense of purpose. But it only made her feel more like an outsider, like she didn't belong. By the time they reached the room, her chest felt tight again, and she struggled to push the unease aside as Steve gestured toward the door.
Anya stood in the quiet room for a long moment after Anya closed the door on Steve and he left. She glanced toward the small bathroom and hesitated before moving toward it. Her fingers brushed over the cold metal knob, and she twisted it, stepping inside.
The bathroom was plain but clean—stark white tiles, a small mirror over the sink, and a shower with a curtain drawn to one side. Anya stared at the shower for a moment. She hadn't had the luxury of a warm shower in years—if ever. Her time in the Red Room, and later Hydra, had been filled with cold water, quick washes, and no comfort.
She turned the handle, and a stream of warm water burst forth, steam quickly filling the small space. The sound of it was oddly soothing, almost drowning out the chaotic thoughts in her mind. Slowly, she stripped out of her suit, her body aching with every movement, the wound on her thigh throbbing but manageable.
Stepping under the stream, she flinched as the water cascaded over her. It was scalding at first, but the heat soon began to seep into her muscles, easing the tension she hadn't realized she was carrying. She let her head fall forward, her hands bracing against the tiled wall as the water poured over her, washing away the grime and the blood.
Her emotions hit her a few minutes into the shower. The emotion she'd kept locked away for years, buried deep beneath layers of survival and control and pain. Her chest tightened, her breaths coming in short, uneven gasps as her emotions and grief pressed down on her. The faces of the past—the cold, detached eyes of her handlers, the sharp bark of orders, the haunting screams of those she had been forced to kill—flashed before her. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images wouldn't leave.
A sob tore from her throat, breaking the silence. Anya sank to her knees under the spray of the water, her tears blending with the steady stream cascading over her. Her trembling hands pressed against the cold tiles of the shower wall as if grounding herself to something solid would stop her from unraveling. For years, she hadn't cried. She couldn't cry. The Red Room had ensured that. Between the serum coursing through her veins and the mind control suppressing every flicker of emotion, tears had been a luxury she had been stripped of.
But now, she couldn't stop. Every sob felt like ripping open a wound she didn't even know she had. The grief of a stolen childhood she could barely remember, her mother's blood pooling on the floor, the betrayal of the people who had promised her purpose, only to reduce her to a weapon. The memories of Wanda followed—her voice, her touch, the warmth that had once been her anchor. And then the emptiness when Wanda was gone, when she believed she had nothing left to hold on to.
She pressed her forehead against the cold tiles, the chill biting against her skin. She was confused, utterly and completely lost. What was she now? She wasn't the Widow they had molded her into, but she wasn't the girl she had been before they took her either. She had no answers, only fear.
Minutes passed, and eventually, the sobs quieted. Her breathing steadied, though her chest still ached. Slowly, she forced herself to her feet and turned off the water. She stepped out of the shower, wrapping a thin towel around herself as she wiped at her face, erasing the evidence of her breakdown. Her reflection in the mirror was raw, red-eyed, but she held her gaze for a moment before turning away.
Back in the room, she pulled on a set of plain clothes Steve had left folded on the dresser—loose sweatpants and a simple shirt. The fabric felt strange against her skin, too soft, too comfortable. She sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through her damp hair, her mind quieter now but still heavy.
A knock at the door startled her. Before she could respond, it creaked open, and Steve stepped inside. He hesitated just inside the doorway, his expression neutral but kind.
"Natasha wants to ask you some things in the morning," he said after a moment, his tone gentle but firm. "For now, get some rest."
Anya didn't respond. She simply turned her head away, staring at the far wall as if he weren't there. Steve waited for a beat, then nodded, seeming to understand her silence. He stepped back and closed the door softly behind him.
The room was quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt heavy and unnatural. Anya pulled the blanket over herself, lying down stiffly on the unfamiliar bed. The softness of the mattress beneath her only heightened her unease. She stared at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling unevenly as she tried to settle herself.
Her hand instinctively moved to her side, searching for the handcuffs that had always been there, around her wrist. But there was nothing. Her fingers flexed, restless and uneasy. She sat up abruptly, and scanned the room. Her eyes fell on the small set of drawers by the bed, and she walked over, yanking one open. Inside was a plain shirt, soft and worn. Without hesitation, she grabbed it and tied one end tightly around her wrist, the other end knotted to the bed frame.
The makeshift restraint was crude, but it was enough. As soon as the familiar pressure wrapped around her wrist, a sense of control returned, however fragile. She lay back down, her arm held in place, and let her body sink into the bed. It wasn't perfect—her chest still felt tight, and her thoughts still churned—but with the knot holding her wrist, she could trick herself into believing she was secure. Slowly, exhaustion crept in and pulled her under, and Anya managed to drift into an uneasy sleep.