Lights Out
Maybe London wouldn’t be such a bad place to live.
It was expensive, and very crowded, but Zara didn’t mind that. Cairo had felt like something close to a home to her, even though she didn’t technically know whether it was home – and Zara was coming to find that she liked the ever-moving thrum of cities. They were loud and dynamic, with never a dull moment to be had. In a city, she never felt alone long enough to be left with her thoughts. Or her memories.
And this apartment was lovely. Her target lived in an old, classy-looking complex on the other side of the Thames from Steven’s place: apartment 4B, fourth floor, on the western side of the building. The furnishings were nice – modern, but not that kind of minimalistic modern bullshit that so many people insisted on ‘decorating’ with, no – Alina Morozova (or Alina Bennett, if you believed her post box) had style, and very expensive taste. She could even see the London Eye from here. Zara glanced out the window of the empty apartment, to see Alina’s SUV pulling onto the side of the road – alone, as expected. Sekhmet, of course, greatly approved of her rescuing other widows – the goddess saw them as fighters instead of killers, and it was well within her moral code as the Protector of Ma’at that they should be able to choose their battles. Zara touched the vial in her pocket, bracing herself as she hid behind the wall of the living room, which enabled her to make a straight pass at whoever came through the entrance without being spotted. Alina would be up any moment. And she had a feeling she would not take kindly to being ambushed.
Zara held her breath as the door opened, Alina walking straight through. Zara grabbed her by the shoulder, swiftly turning the woman to face her, preparing to deploy the gas. Alina’s hand went to her back and she pulled a gun, but Zara was faster – catching her hand in a wrist lock, applying enough pressure that Alina grunted, forcing her to drop the gun. Alina came at her as Zara kicked the gun down the hall, just narrowly dodging Alina’s strikes as she advanced, pushing Zara closer to the door. Alina swung her leg in a kick and Zara dodged to the side, catching her leg and sweeping her to the ground. Alina managed to keep momentum to roll on top, pulling a knife as Zara struggled against her strength, the blade mere inches from her face.
“Nu zhe, Alina,” she grunted, the Russian syllables rolling swiftly off her tongue. “I’m trying to help you.”
Alina pressed down harder, the blade nearly touching Zara’s skin. “Predatel’.” Traitor. The word stung coming from the older widow, but Zara was forced to ignore it, pushing against Alina’s arms with all her might. Her face came closer, Alina hissing the words out through gritted teeth. “You have gotten soft.”
Instinct kicked in and Zara dug her fingernails into Alina’s hand, her legs locking around the widow as she forced the knife from her grip, using the strength of her legs to flip her onto her back. Alina hit the tiles hard and Zara was on her, using her thighs to pin her down. Alina struggled hard and Zara advanced, shifting her weight forward onto Alina’s chest, pinning her arms to her sides, further restricting her movement in one swift motion. Zara grabbed the antidote from her pocket, aiming the vial at her face. “Don’t hold your breath, okay?”
Before Alina could react she opened the vial, the gas hitting the older widow directly in the face. Zara held her to the ground as Alina writhed beneath her, the gas sending red streaks across her skin, crimson shimmering through her irises. Suddenly Alina stilled, blinking hard. Slowly Zara shifted her weight back so that she was off her chest, allowing the woman beneath her to regain her senses. Zara cautiously stood up, hands out, preparing to either fight her again or help her off the ground. “Vse v poryadke, Alina. It’s okay,” she reassured gently, offering a hand. “That was the antidote to the mind control. And Dreykov is gone. He can’t control you anymore.”
The older widow took her hand, swiftly rising to her feet. Alina swayed a little as she flexed her fingers, staring at them as if she wasn’t sure they were really hers. Zara knew the feeling. Alina looked at her then, her face stricken and full of disbelief. “Zara? L’venok?”
Little lion. The old nickname struck her like a freight train, causing Zara’s eyes to widen in shock. “You remember me?”
“Of course I remember you,” Alina murmured with a shake of her head, still clearly disoriented. Her voice shifted between the Russian accent she was raised with, and the English affectation she’d probably been using for years. “I remember every young vdova I trained.” She started to move to the living room, stumbling slightly, and Zara caught her.
“Don’t worry, the confusion wears off,” Zara assured her, holding the widow’s arm tentatively. “It took me a little while to get adjusted, too.”
She walked Alina to the living room, the older widow dumping herself down on the chaise, gesturing to the chair opposite. “So, the Red Room is gone, too? Or has someone new just sprouted from where they cut off Dreykov’s head?”
It was a fair question. The Red Room had been around before Dreykov, before the Winter Soldier program, even before Captain America himself. It had seen many iterations of leaders, many dozens of generations of widows. Given how deeply the roots of the Red Room burrowed into the very fabric of the world, even Zara often found it hard to believe it was really gone. But it was over now. And it was up to them to clean up the messes left behind.
“It’s gone,” Zara confirmed, sitting at attention at the edge of her seat. “It was gone before the blip.”
“Before the blip?” Alina’s eyes fixed on her then, studying her. “I was not affected by it. Were you?”
Zara nodded, suppressing a shudder. “I was.”
Alina considered her. “How did they find you then to break you out, if you disappeared for five years?”
“Yelena Belova broke me out about two weeks before it happened,” Zara explained, memories of the blonde widow flashing through her mind. “She helped me get through it, before she moved on to help others. I was going to join her after I tried to find my family, but then – ” Zara trailed off, and Alina merely nodded, understanding passing between them.
“And then you disappeared, only to wake up to find five years had gone by?”
Zara bowed her head, the memory of that day flooding forward like a tide. “Exactly.”
“I’ve been a sleeper in London for years, and have never once been compromised,” Alina furrowed her brows, leaning forward. “How did you find me?”
“Yelena has a database of widows all over the world. I went to New York after a…a job, to find her and help her bring more widows out of the subjugation. I saw your name in London. I couldn’t leave you under his thumb, even if he’s not breathing anymore.”
“And then you used my own move on me.” Alina grinned, a flash of white. “You were always good at fighting from the ground, l’venok. I saw potential in you from the day you stepped into my classroom. Your speed, your agility, they were always your greatest gifts. And your inner fire – ” she watched Zara intently, straightening with pride. “I knew not even the Red Room would ever put that out.” Zara met her gaze for a long moment, years of memories passing between them in a single glance. Finally, Alina leaned back, gesturing to the empty vial Zara still turned over in her hands. “So, how does this work?”
“It’s a gaseous antidote to the chemical subjugation all widows were put under after the defection of Natasha Romanoff,” Zara explained. “An older widow made it in secret, from your generation.”
“Ah, yes, Natasha,” Alina reminisced. “I remember that one, too. The Avenger.”
Zara nodded in confirmation, the fallen widow’s name still sounding foreign on her tongue. Yelena had lost her sister, but all anyone seemed to remember her for was the time she’d spent as one of Earth’s mightiest heroes. A persistent, harrowing reminder that thousands of widows would never be remembered, because so many of them never got out. If Yelena hadn’t come to find her, Zara would have been left to the same fate – a faceless killer, disposable, a tool to be thrown away once it outlives its use. She shattered her own thoughts with a shake of her head, then continued. “Now, Melina manufactures it and we – ”
“Melina? Melina Vostokov?” Alina’s jaw practically hit the ground. “I haven’t heard that name in years.”
The conversation stretched on, Zara doing her best to relay the information Yelena had told her about the fall of the Red Room, and all that had transpired in the years since. She made no mention of her role as avatar to the Egyptian goddess of war, or the severe lack of connection to her roots that had ultimately landed her in Sekhmet’s path, as she’d struggled to find purchase in an ever-revolving world. A world that held no place for women like them. Alina had known her as a child – being from Melina’s generation, she’d been through the Red Room more times than Zara could probably even imagine. For all the nightmares and haunting memories Zara had, Alina would have had them all, and more. They were both born in a cage. But now, they had a way to break out.
The sun began to set, the apartment growing darker as the daylight began to fade. Zara glanced at her phone. It was already nearing seven o’clock, an hour after Steven was supposed to have texted her, and Zara cursed herself for letting the time slip away. As if on cue, a text message from Steven popped up:
Donna’s decided to put me on inventory, so I’ll be a while longer. Don’t wait up, I’ll be back at the flat later. Laters, gators!
Zara’s blood ran cold. Steven knew that she would be coming no matter what – that had been their deal, and the fact that he was telling her to leave him alone late at night was a warning sign she could not ignore. Zara embraced Alina one last time, heading for the door. Alina took her arm just as she made to leave, their eyes locking.
“Thank you, Zara,” Alina clasped her hands, sincere. Then her expression shifted, and Zara realised she was studying her again, like a code she was trying to decipher. “You have that look.”
Zara frowned. “What look?”
“That look,” Alina gave her an uneasy smile. “That look we all get, when we know we’re about to do something dangerous. Is that the other reason you’re in London?”
Even after all these years, her old teacher could still read her like a book.
“It is,” Zara confirmed, trying to tamp down on the anxiety beginning to rise in her chest. Alina, of course, did not pry. “I have to leave but you have my number, and I’m in London for the time being. Call me if you need me, Alina.”
Alina nodded as she exited the apartment, her voice following Zara down the hall as she called after her. “Bud’ ostorozhen, l’venok.”
Be careful, little lion.
* * *
Marc woke up with blood on his hands.
Something cold and damp pressed into his cheek, the moisture from the frost-coated grass beginning to soak straight through his clothes. Marc managed to push himself to his feet, swaying as he stood upright, his head spinning like a top. It was dark, and surprisingly quiet. He cleared his throat, that all-too-familiar wave of nausea threatening to spill out of him in place of his words. Despite the crimson streaks coating his hands, Marc was (physically, at least) totally fine – apart from the fact that he was now freezing and his mouth was completely dry, save for the faint taste of cinnamon.
When the hell would he have eaten that? Marc didn’t even like cinnamon. His voice came out hoarse, as if he’d been yelling. “Steven?”
“Marc,” Steven’s voice immediately resonated through his head, slightly easing the knot building in his chest. “It’s happened again, hasn’t it?”
Marc swallowed, hard. “Where are we?”
Steven paused for a moment as Marc took in their surroundings. “Looks like Hyde Park.”
Marc glanced down at his hands, which were trembling – from the cold or the shock, he didn’t know. Splashes of red stained them, the blood slowly drying out in the crisp night air. Marc fumbled for Steven’s phone, checking their conversation with Zara, a lump slowly forming in his throat. Steven had texted her:
Donna’s decided to put me on inventory, so I’ll be a while longer. Don’t wait up, I’ll be back at the flat later. Laters, gators!
Before his mouth could even form the words, Steven spoke, his voice grave in Marc’s head. “I don’t remember sending that text.”
“And you were supposed to finish work two hours ago.” Marc’s hand tightened around the phone so intensely he thought he might crush it. “Where the hell have we been for two hours?”
“And why the hell is there blood on your hands?” Steven’s voice rose, and it took Marc a moment to realise it wasn’t an accusation. “First Harrow, now this – ”
“It’s all right, buddy,” Marc consoled him, heading towards the amalgamation of lights and buildings he could only assume meant the exit of the park. Maybe if he focused on consoling Steven, he could block out the tidal wave of fear threatening to consume him, to drown him in his memories. “We’re gonna figure this out, okay?”
“I…” Steven trailed off.
“It’s all right, Steven,” Marc reassured him, while simultaneously feeling his stomach drop to his feet. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to us.”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” Steven said quietly. Marc furrowed his brow, slowing his pace.
“What is it, then?”
“I was just going to say that…” he sighed. “I don’t want you to have to go through this again.”
Marc stopped dead. He reached for a reply – something, anything to say in response – but words failed him.
“After you told me about that fugue state, and what happened to you in the military…I just worry about you, Marc,” Steven murmured, his voice gentle. “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I understand that you don’t want to tell me about all of it, but – ” He hesitated, and Marc felt frozen in place. “I just want you to know that you can. Tell me, I mean. You can tell me anything. We’re in this together.”
The lump seemed to grow in his throat, blocking his words. They were both silent for a long time, then suddenly Steven’s phone rang. Marc picked up without even looking at it, Zara’s lilted voice coming straight down the line:
“I take it the disappearing act happened again.”
Marc huffed an almost-laugh, his breath fogging in the cold night air. “What gave it away?”
“Well, you weren’t at the apartment, or in the museum.” She sounded slightly out of breath, like she’d been running, the sounds of the city behind her. “So I broke in for nothing.”
Steven gasped. “She what?”
“You broke what?” Marc exclaimed, and he heard her chuckle.
“I broke in, into the museum. I didn’t break anything,” Zara informed him, gracious as ever. “I’m far too talented for that.”
Marc shook his head, incredulous. “Why am I even surprised?”
She paused, and then her voice came back through, serious. “What happened?”
“I…I don’t know.” Marc tried to swallow the lump in his throat, in vain. “We just woke up here.”
“Okay,” she breathed, and he could practically hear the cogs turning in her head. “Where’s here?”
“Steven says we’re in Hyde Park,” Marc relayed, and he heard her hum in comprehension.
“Do you know where, exactly? Hyde Park is huge.”
Marc turned in a slow circle, Steven’s tour-guide voice coming out in full force as he explained their location to him. Marc spoke. “He thinks we’re on the end closest to the museum, near Governor Square.”
She was silent for a moment. “Do you mean Grosvenor Square?”
“Sure,” Marc muttered in reply, running a hand down his face. “Why not?”
“I was just coming back from the museum, so it won’t take me long to get there with my armour.” Zara was definitely running now, her words a little breathier. “Just stay there, okay? I’ll be there soon.”
Marc nodded, the knot in his chest loosening just a little further. “See you s – ”
A sharp pain suddenly shot through his shoulder, the force of the projectile sending Marc staggering back, hitting the ground hard. He groaned as his hand touched the site of injury, coming away red. Except this time, the blood was definitely his.
Steven was incredulous. “What the bloody hell was – ”
Marc dropped as another shot fired, the phone a distant memory as he scrambled for cover behind a tree, his shoulder feeling like it was on fire. All was silent, the click of his assailant’s gun being reloaded the only other sound penetrating the night air. Another shot fired and he ducked, the bullet connecting with the tree, sending bark skimming just above his head like shrapnel. Suddenly Marc felt his eyes start to roll back, his hands moving on their own, fighting to keep himself from fading.
And then he blacked out completely.