stop asking questions
The world comes back to me in pieces.
An incessant ringing in my ear. A dull glow behind my eyelids.The feel of soft fabric against my skin. A rhythmic beeping. A throb that starts in my side, and radiates across my body.
The ache blossoms and grows, until eventually, it’s too uncomfortable to stay still. Despite the infinite heaviness in my limbs, I attempt to drag a fumbling hand to my side, searching for the source of this irritating pain. Something halts my movement, a metallic clang following.
At my stirring, different noises clutter my hearing. Hushed sounds that form familiar words. Voices.
I feel my brow furrow— a reaction to both the agony that resides just below my ribs and the rising confusion that makes my foggy head spin. A raspy groan escapes my throat. On cue with my swirl of emotions, the rhythmic beeping accelerates. I turn my head from side to side in a weak attempt to escape the pounding that grows with each breath.
With every second that passes, the muffled voices become more clear. “Stay still,” someone says. A feminine voice. Comforting. Motherly.
I squirm uncomfortably, striving to draw my knees to my chest and curl into myself. But my feet won’t move more than a few inches. The sound of metal hitting metal rings out again.
“Easy, kid.” A different voice. Deeper. Familiar. “You’re alright.”
It’s okay. You’re okay. Memories like broken shards of glass start to rearrange themselves in my mind, ordering themselves into a whole thought. Kid, let me help you. You’re hurt. Those words are still so fresh on my ears, and so similar to the ones I hear now.
Reality starts to set in. The beeping quickens with the rise and fall of my chest. “Hey.” The first voice. “Violet.”
I gasp as my eyes fly open. I sit up sharply, but I’m jolted to a stop, feeling resistance on my arms. New pain flowers across my abdomen. Bright lights leave me squinting, but I quickly adjust.
I’m lying on a hospital bed in a small, tidy room. I notice the source of the resistance right away— silver handcuffs bind each of my wrists and ankles to the bed frame. A thin blanket is drawn over me, half thrown off by my abrupt movement. I’m still in my blood soaked jeans, but an unfamiliar white t-shirt has replaced my gray sweatshirt.
The walls, floor and ceiling are all the same shade of stark white. There’s a door to my right, and a window to my left. It’s dark outside, and I can see the moon— a couple phases shy of being full.
But between my bed and the window stands two strangers.
Well, not exactly strangers. The moment I look at them, there’s an itch of remembrance at the back of my mind, like I know I’ve seen them before. The woman has long, two-toned hair braided over her shoulder. I can tell she’s a natural redhead by the fiery color that sprouts from her roots and extends to her shoulders. The bottom half of her braid is a faded, yellow blonde. Her eyes are bright, but tarnished with grief.
The sight of the man beside her sends a pang through my chest. Dark hair. Darker eyes. A rush of thoughts and feelings comes back to me. Policemen chasing me through a maze of alleys. Dropping over a fence. A metal man speaking to me as I crumple onto the ground.
And it all clicks into place. Not a metal man, but a suit of advanced armor, worn by the man who stands in front of me now. His familiar face is one I’ve seen a hundred times— on the news during a segment on his tech company, at the White House as he accepts the Medal of Honor, on the street below as he wards off alien invaders alongside the rest of the Avengers.
The Iron Man himself. Tony Stark.
My eyes flit back to her. The skin-tight black suit equipped with holsters and sheaths makes her identity an easy solve. The Black Widow. Natasha Romanoff.
I’m handcuffed to a bed in a foreign room with two Avengers.
And all I can think of is the way her words made me shiver.
“How do you know my name?”
Her faint smile lines crinkle as she looks at me with a whisper of a smirk, lowering herself into the chair beside me. “That’s not all we know.” She tilts her head towards the foot of my bed. I follow her gaze, and my heart sinks to my knees. There on the floor, leaning against the wall, is a black backpack. My backpack.
My brain flashes through my every possession. My small collection of clothing. A few yards of rope and a half-spent roll of duct tape. A small first aid kit. Plus a handful of much more incriminating items, such as the bag of cash, the ski mask, and the gun I’m assuming they found on my person.
And, of course, my passport.
Not that it matters too much. The face on the document might be mine, but every other piece of information is forged nonsense. A false identity created by the green-eyed woman who shoved me into a taxi. A way to remain hidden.
And still, the sound of the name that I’ve used for the past nine years on Black Widow’s lips leaves my skin crawling.
How did I get here? How did I end up shackled in a room with the Avengers?
“Stark found you at the edge of our compound’s property. Our security system alerted us to an intruder,” she explains, somehow answering my unspoken question.
Of course. Just my luck.
“Where did you get the cash?” Stark asks. He’s traded in his suit of armor for a black sweatshirt and khakis.
I know he expects me to feel threatened. Two of the most famous crime-fighting, law-abiding, do-gooders have caught me red-handed. They have the money, the mask, and the weapon, and all they have to do is hear Kate VonDair’s testimony. They probably already have, and this is their way of trying to draw out a confession by way of intimidation.
But I’ve already been caught. The only thing that scares me now is letting them see me crack.
I tug at the handcuffs. “Let me go,” I demand, ignoring his question.
“Not until you answer,” he replies, unfazed by my ignorance.
“I don’t owe you anything,” I spit.
He shrugs, crossing his arms and leaning back against the window. “We saved your life.”
“Don’t expect a thank-you card.”
At this, his eyes glimmer with a hint of humor. I can’t even begin to imagine why. “We know the police were after you when you jumped the fence. We know you robbed the jewelry store.”
I set my jaw. “Then turn me in.” His face contorts with a tinge of surprise. “Your threats don’t scare me. If you were going to hand me over to the police, you would’ve done it already.”
“There’s still plenty of time for that.”
I yank at the restraints again, a sharp, metallic screech piercing the room. “Let me go.”
He studies me for a moment, the tension in the room growing to an uncomfortable degree. “Okay,” he finally says. “Under one condition.”
I swallow. Of all the threats and words that have been spoken, those four scare me the most. I didn’t expect him to concede. If one of the world’s mightiest heroes is willing to let a known criminal run free, the cost must be high. “What?”
“Tell me where you got your ring.”
***
“What?” I repeat, the word holding much less confidence than before.
“Your ring.” He gestures to the purple gem on my finger. “Who gave it to you?”
I hear the heart monitor pick up pace. “Why does it matter? It’s a piece of junk.”
“Tell me, and you go free.” His dark eyes are discerning.
I shrug weakly. “It’s just a random ring I found in the street.”
Romanoff tilts her head knowingly. “Try again.”
“Okay, fine. I stole it from a jewelry store.”
“You went through all the trouble of robbing a jewelry store for a piece of junk?” She doesn’t look convinced.
But I can’t tell the truth. I’ve had only one instruction to hold onto for as long as I can remember. Don’t let anyone know who you really are. She gave me this ring on that same day. If it’s connected to my old life somehow, I can’t let anyone know. I raise my chin. “Yeah.”
“Look, kid. That ring is rare. I’ve only ever seen two others like it,” Stark explains. “If you know where you got this, you need to tell us. It’s for your own good.”
I’ve studied this ring a thousand times. I’ve memorized the faint symbols etched into the metal that are almost worn completely off. I know every scratch on the surface of the stone, every fleck of color in its center. I’ve never thought anything of it. It only ever mattered to me because it's one of the only pieces of my life before. But obviously, it means something to them.
I use my thumb to twist the ring around my finger, gazing at the gem that I’ve spent countless hours trying to understand. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”
When I look back at them, there’s disappointment in their eyes. But I see something in hers that isn’t in his. Understanding. She may not know why I’m lying, but I can tell she understands self-preservation quite well.
After a moment, Stark paces over to the foot of my bed. He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket, and starts unlocking the handcuffs that bind my ankles. I watch as he undoes each restraint, feeling the instant relief when the shackles fall away from my skin. He slips the keys back into his pocket, and pulls open the door to the room. He waits there, holding it open.
I sit up, still feeling the wound in my stomach as intensely as the moment I woke up. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Letting you go.”
Suspicion slithers down my spine. “But I didn’t tell you.”
He shrugs. “I have no interest in turning in a nineteen year old kid to the police for petty theft with an unloaded gun.”
“So you’re just…” I turn to Romanoff, trying to gauge her expression. But she remains unreadable. “You’re just letting me go?”
“Stay safe out there,” she says. “There are better ways to earn money than armed robbery.”
I hesitate, but not seeing any obvious ulterior motives, I chose to believe they’re telling the truth. I slide out of bed, wincing when the weight of my body on my legs sends pangs of red-hot pain through my gut.
“Do you feel well enough?” she asks.
I blink, confused by their kindness. “I’m fine.” I grab my bag from the floor, walking slowly to the door.
“Wait,” Stark says, and I brace myself for the revelation that this release was too good to be true. “The gun and the cash stay with us,” he says.
My eyes flit between his, but I carefully draw the empty gun and the satchel of money out of my bag. I place them on the rumpled bed, and sling my bag onto my shoulders.
He nods. “Okay. You’re free to go.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology?”
He smirks. “No tricks. Just promise me you’ll make better choices.”
“I can’t.”
“Well, then maybe we’ll see you again some day.”
“I hope not.”
His smirk widens. “Take care, kid.”
I start out the door, but my footsteps falter. “Wait.” I don’t miss the hopeful look in his eyes, as if he thinks I’ve decided to tell him about the ring. “My sweatshirt,” I say. “Can I have it?”
“Um, sure.” He wrinkles his nose, and I get the feeling my favorite hoodie is in less-than-ideal condition. He walks to the wall opposite the bed, and presses against the center. A panel pops out a few inches, and he pulls open a hidden closet. My sweater is folded on a shelf, and when he hands it to me, I can already tell that no amount of washing will ever make it what it used to be.
I hold it up and let it unravel to take in the damage. The left half is completely stained red. There’s a wide gash in the fabric where the bullet tore through. The rest of the sweatshirt is marked with flecks of blood and dirt.
I fold it back up and slide it into my bag. “Thanks.”
He nods. “Take a left and then two rights. The exit is at the end of the hall.”
“Okay. Bye.” I leave quickly, not wanting to risk them changing their minds. Each step sends a new wave of pain through my stomach, but I follow his instructions until I see a pair of glass doors leading outside.
The air is fresh and clear, and for once, I’m grateful for the chilly winter night. The cold reminds me that against all odds, I’m alive.
And by some bizarre twist of fate, I’m free.