Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Status, Widow?" Steve asks, voice staticky over the comms. "I'm approaching the Quinjet."

"In the basement, give me a second," Natasha replies, glaring at the large red hourglass symbol on the wall. "Still no sign of survivors." Old blood stains the floor a dark brown, the cells lining the walls wrecked and empty.

"I need you to get up here. The foundation is unstable-" He's replaced with loud crackling. Natasha mutters a curse before turning the comm volume down.

Some of the lights flicker out. Nat's head snaps up from where she was examining the crumpled body of a scientist.

Nat moves silently down the corridor, pistol aimed in front of her, and is so focused on sight that she nearly misses the sound of a boy crying.

"Wanda, make it stop-"

"I'm sorry," comes the broken reply. "They're all dead-"

"Hello?" Natasha calls, and glowing red eyes cut through the dark.

"Who's there?" the feminine voice whispers. "Who are you?"

"I can get you out," Natasha bargains. Steve's warning was clear, and she doesn't want to die buried alive. There are much more impressive ways to go out.

"Who are you?" 

"Natasha Romanov. The-"

"The Black Widow," the boy replies. There's a larger cell in the very back of the hall, bars bent to create an opening. She can make out two silhouettes in the shadows, the same red eyes still focused on her.

"What do you want?" One of the silhouettes moves, rising shakily off their knees and moving protectively in front of the other. "We'll be dead in a moment. The building will crush us."

"I don't want that to happen," Natasha says.

"It will." The silhouette moves closer. She can make out a swinging ponytail behind them, and a belt of knives glinting against the flickering lights.

"It doesn't have to."

"Then why are you still holding your gun?" And Natasha's pistol crumbles into ash.

She stares at her hands in disbelief, and that's all the time that the girl needs to strike.

The hook kick catches Nat in the side of her head, sending her staggering into the wall, and she spits out a mouthful of blood. The girl is a teenager, with light brown hair and pale skin, and she's in what looks like a newer version of the Widows' training outfits, complete with a belt of knives around her waist and tasers at her wrists. She goes in for another punch, but this time Nat's ready, blocking the hit easily and responding with a kick to the girl's gut, knocking her to the floor. Nat holds her down to the floor, taser aimed at her head-

Instead of delivering the stunning shock she'd intended, Natasha finds herself levitating in the air, hands pinned to her sides and a band of red light squeezing tight around her neck.

"I'll ask you again, Natasha Romanov," the girl hisses, one hand raised and trembling. "What do you want?"

"I-"

"We're going to die here, Wanda," says the masculine voice, still shrouded in darkness. The walls shudder, dust raining down and settling on the girl's eyelashes.

"Good," the girl hisses. "The only question is whether I should kill her with us."

"She's a hero," the boy begs. "And I don't want to die."

"There are no heroes," Wanda says. "Death is mercy compared to what they'll do to us out there."

"I can keep you safe," Nat chokes. "Let me down."

"Wanda, don't kill her. Please." There is a rumble from the ceiling. "Wanda, please, we have to go. Don't kill me, please-"

"Fine," she growls. "Fine." She sends Natasha crashing to the ground. "I need you to help me with him."

Nat ventures a little further down, finally catching sight of the boy. He has matching brown hair and similar features to the girl, but where her frame is healthy and athletic, his is emaciated to the point of his ribs sticking out and his eyes sinking back into his skull. To her horror, he has a bullet hole in his side.

"It missed the organs," the girl grunts, lifting the boy. "But he has lost too much blood."

Natasha supports his other side, trying to move them down the dark hall as fast as she can. 

They reach the staircase just as the ceiling starts shaking violently, and hobble up it with the boy, before Wanda, face screwed up in what looks like painful concentration, pushes the three of them up and out of the building with a force of red magic just as the first floor collapses.

Steve, standing over a pile of bloodied guards, looks up to face them, eyes widening when he sees the two strays Natasha's collected.

"Nat, what-"

"Later," she hisses. "Medical, now."

"I don't want to come with you," Wanda says coldly. "Take him if you want. He's more useful."

Natasha looks at Wanda and sees a carbon copy of herself at fifteen-frigid, ruthless, and secretly terrified.

"But you're my sister," the boy whimpers.

"I have no family." Wanda turns to walk in the opposite direction, into the treeline.

"Come on, kid," Natasha says. "You're bleeding too. Let me disinfect it."

She bites her lip, looks down at the dripping gash on her leg, and follows Natasha up the ramp.

Chapter Text

There is a fullness in falling

MAXIMOFF, WANDA IRINA

AGE: 16YR 8MO

STATUS: MIA

WARNING: HIGHLY DANGEROUS, SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES

KNOWN AFFILIATES: N/A

DO NOT PROVOKE

IF ONE WORD COULD BE USED to describe Wanda's Madame, it would be motherly.

Not that she could remember her mother.

But from what she knew, from the little knowledge that had come from Red Room-sanctioned movies and books, mothers were good to you, but they died. Sleeping Beauty's mother loved her, Cinderella's mother loved her, Snow White's mother loved her, Ariel's mother loved her, Belle's mother loved her, Jasmine's mother loved her, Lilo's mother loved her. 

The mothers were all dead, but they still loved their daughters, so the daughters were strong and beautiful. And once the mothers were replaced, the happy ending drew nearer.

That was what had been taught to Wanda's generation of Widows, the ones who grew up knowing that the Red Room loved them. The generation who had grown up on horror stories of Natasha Romanov and all the bodies she left in her wake, the ones who grew up into sharp weapons, blades honed by years of careful conditioning and polishing. The ones who topped the charts, who broke records, who left no survivors.

Madame had been wonderful to Wanda, and to Sarah, and to Margaret, and to Kit, and to Linnet, and to the fifteen other girls in Group 413. She had braided their hair, said good night, and taught each of the skills they would need to find their place in the world. 

I have no place in the world

She had told stories of her most successful missions and never failed to correct them when a fork was held wrong or their posture was slumped. When they were younger, still with memories of their families, she held them while they screamed for their parents and waved away the men who came in with guns, ready to eliminate any complainers.

She told Wanda that Pietro was in heaven now, instead of in the black plane she'd seen him be dragged into when they were separated. He was warm and safe in a place filled with light, and he was with her parents, and Wanda had to make all of them proud now by being a good girl and doing what she was told. Madame had repeated that over and over when Wanda was small and wouldn't stop crying.

This soft behavior ended when they got older, of course.

As they got older, the girls were moved to a smaller base in the woods, far from the constantly moving floating headquarters. Madame saw them less, and ballet lessons became infrequent. Group 413 started to focus on other skills; how to seduce, how to stab, how to strangle, how to smile in the way that made men's knees weak.

The primary purpose of their group, however, was to be subjects. Some of the girls in the group, like Isabel and Amelia, had been left alive because the General wanted to see the difference between the effects of radiation on a weakling versus a strong, healthy girl like Anastasia. 

The girls started dying off, too; kind, unlucky Amelia was discovered and killed on her first mission, and little Isabel was left out in the woods after it became clear she didn't have it in her to eliminate targets.

Wanda lived in constant fear; fear that she would lose Linnet and Anastasia and Rosa, to the cold or to the gun or to the General himself.

Eventually she did.

Eventually the hole in her heart grew smaller.

The last time she had seen Madame, Wanda had been thirteen. Only herself, Sarah, and Margaret had survived, by mostly luck but also due to their abilities-Wanda was by far the most impressive with her magic (Demonic, the General had said reverently) but Sarah could run faster than a bullet and Margaret could turn invisible just as quickly as Sarah could move. 

Wanda was appointed leader of the trio after beating the other two in a three-way fight, which the trio had partaken in reluctantly. They were dangerously attached to each other, having been at each other's sides through lab tables, burning buildings, freezing nights, thirty-mile runs, and ten-hour ballet classes.

Madame had taken one look at them and her face had fallen instantly, scanning the trio with tight eyes and pursed lips. 

"I see the herd has thinned," she'd said, pressing her lips together.

Wanda had hoped she wasn't too disappointed.

"Yes, Madame. Tatiana was last to go. She did not check for snipers." It had been a messy mission. Too many things had gone wrong, and Wanda had barely gotten out in time.

"A loss. She had potential."

"I hope you are not displeased, Madame."

"No, Wanda. The point of your pre-graduation missions has always been to test you. Tatiana was unfit to be a Widow, and that mission let us know that."

"Yes, Madame."

"Do you miss them? Be honest with me."

Wanda hesitated, but Madame could always tell when she was lying. "Only Sophia. She was like-"

"Like your sister. I know, solnyshka. I'm too soft with my girls, yes? They all think they're sisters. They are not your blood, Wanda. Nothing runs thicker than blood." Madame had traced her jaw with a sharp nail and smiled. "The pain will make you stronger."

Wanda hadn't meant to say sister, she was going to say forbidden words like lifeline like true love like soulmate, but it was for the best. Her sisters didn't need to know how much she missed Sophia's bright smile and soft black hair. They didn't need to know how when they were paired as Seduction partners, Sophia had told her that it felt a little too real. They didn't need to know how Sophia kissed her that night after ballet, the two of them crammed into a bathroom stall, leftover red lipstick from Seduction lessons smeared on Sophia's neck like a smattering of crushed ladybugs.

The last Wanda ever saw of Madame was her beautiful glossy hair, the dark locks woven into a coronet. Her heels clicked on the concrete floor, perfectly straight steps away from her last surviving girls, and it had felt so horribly final.

Later, she'd find out that Madame had long since moved on to training a new batch of Widows, this time a standard group instead of an experimental one. Wanda's class had been deemed wasteful; more often than not, the girls had died as a result of uncontrollable powers. 

Wanda refused to join their ranks, even when Sarah was shot down and Margaret was discovered hiding in a vent. Wanda had dragged their bodies back with her feeble powers, made weaker by her grief, and went down with them to the incinerator. She'd felt like she had to see them off.

Nothing could seem to kill Wanda after that, no matter how many times her hands missed the parachute strap or her boots made her trip while running. 

Something had kept her there, in the arms of the Red Room, and away from Death.

Something was watching out for her, and Wanda needed to know what it was.

ROMANOVA, NATALIYA ALIANOVNA

AGE: 32YR 3MO

STATUS: DEFECTED

WARNING: HIGH-PROFILE

KNOWN AFFILIATES: SHIELD, YELENA ALEXEYEVNA BELOVA, STARK INDUSTRIES, THE AVENGERS (CORE MEMBER)

DO NOT ENGAGE UNLESS NECESSARY

Natasha stared down at the boy, his hands pressed to his side where the bullet entered. She'd been here before. She'd seen other teenagers clutching their wounds, bleeding out while they stared at her desperately. She'd seen the agonized looks on their faces, watched their eyes flutter shut in resignation. 

And maybe it was her imagination, but the boy was half the size of the girl, despite them sharing the same face and allegedly being of the same age. The little information she'd been able to squeeze out of Wanda betrayed his name(Pietro), blood type(AB positive), and age(sixteen). Other than that, Wanda had remained silent and tense, sitting perfectly straight in her chair and barely blinking. Natasha recognized that, too; waiting. For a command, for a strike, for a scolding, or for praise in the form of a slight nod or a changed placement to the front of the line. 

But Wanda's upbringing could have been different from Natasha's. Judging from her display of power underground, she was likely from a different training program-maybe a new experimental branch instead of the intense advanced program Natasha had been run through. Natasha squinted at the patches on her shoulder, so unlike the ones Natasha had worn. 

Each Red Room patch on the girls' canvas training jackets signified a completed course or specialty. Natasha had a red circle for her first kill, a navy star for her first American reconnaissance mission, a black hourglass for her first seduction mission. Sewn onto her shoulder with a rare smile from her Madame and later from her handlers; the most maternal affection she'd received since Melina and the house in Ohio.

Wanda's shoulder bore the patches that Natasha had received-the hourglass, the red target, the black star, the navy star-but also a leadership badge (the white diamond), an oddly shaped red patch, a black pentagon, and a white crescent. She'd never seen those badges before. They looked newer, too, as if they'd all been sewed on in the last few months. The others were tinged brown with many years' worth of dirt that couldn't be scrubbed out even by the Red Room's sterilizing washes. 

"Romanoff," Steve called from the front. Natasha rose, aware of Wanda's eyes tracking her steps, and went to sit in the co-pilot's chair next to Steve. 

"What?"

"What do we do with them?" He looked tired. They'd been working too hard for too long, and it was taking a toll. He was thinner. The bags under his eyes had sunk deeper and darker, turning lilac on his fair skin. She was sure she looked just as haggard, if the crunchy sound her hair is making was any indication. "Ross will want them."

"Ross can't have them," she singsonged, kicking her feet up on the armrest of his chair. "They're kids."

"Your call, Nat. We could take them to Barton, or maybe the-"

"Maybe to Clint's," she interrupted, acting like it was her idea. He gave her a Look Of Righteousness but didn't interject. "Or they could stay with us."

"What, at the Tower?" he scoffed. "We know nothing about them."

"I do," Nat replied. "The girl, anyway. The shoulder of her jacket, see the patches?"

Steve tried and failed to look at Wanda's shoulder without being obvious. She didn't react except for a small twitch of the eyelids.

"What about the patches?"

"They're for achievements. The target for your first kill, the black star for the first successful reconnaissance, the hourglass for surviving the Five Winters, the red star for the Pas de-" She stopped. She'd almost given herself away.

"The what?"

"I forgot," Natasha lied. 

Steve didn't pry. He never did, not unless it was important. It was, of course, but Natasha would never have said by how much. 

"Anyway," he continued. "Why does that clear her to live with us?"

"Because I know what she's been through," Natasha said. "I've done it all." I've killed the same people. I've used the same guns. I danced until my toes broke and my kneecaps shattered from the pressure; probably the same variations as she did. Odile's 32 fouettes. Kitri's tambourine. The handcuffs on the beds; the men with their greedy hands and greasy lips. The Five Winters. The same Disney movies. The same talks. The Madames, with their batons and their bared teeth. The girls lined up in a row, gunshots bringing them to the floor while the favorites remained standing. "I can help her. I got help; I got out. I know how to get better."

"Alright," Steve conceded. "What about the boy?"

"We can deal with him later?"

"I'll deal with him. You focus on her. You said she had some kind of supernatural ability?"

"Yeah," Nat sighed. "We can call in one of our associates. Stephen, maybe, or Thor. His mom knew about magic; I'm sure he picked at least a little bit up."

"Sounds good. You wanna tell them, or should I?"

"I got it." She rose and headed back in Wanda's direction. "Hey. We think it might be best if-"

"I heard," Wanda said coolly. "I know. The Avengers Tower. The centerpiece of American heroism. I am familiar. I assume you will exercise brute force in ensuring I stay there."

"It's not that," Natasha said. "I can help. I can-"

"Help me. Save me."

"Help you acclimate. Help you get back into the open. I know you don't have a plan for your life; I know you don't know your purpose. You don't have a place in the world."

Wanda's face fell out of its sneer. 

"What would you do with your freedom? I can get you documents, get you a safe place to live. Just come back with us. We can get him help, too." She gestured to Pietro, who had fallen unconscious, the steady beep of the small monitors filling the silence.

Wanda cast an uncertain look Pietro's way. "He's not enhanced. The experiments they ran on him didn't work. You can let him die; there's no point."

"There is," Natasha said. "He's a person."

"He's not...necessary," Wanda replied uncertainly. "He's not-"

"Everyone is necessary."

Wanda inhaled. "I'll go with you. Because I want to see this through." Natasha inferred that this was Pietro. 

"We have people, too, that we can get in contact with. If you want to learn more about your ability." Wanda's head shot up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Really?"

"You could get hurt."

Wanda sat back. "Why do you care?"

"Because I was you, a long time ago. And someone was there for me, when I got out, and someone needs to be there for you."

The younger girl bit her lip. "Okay."

Wanda could tell there was something deeply, terribly wrong with the woman she was going to live with.

For one, there was a clear American mask she wore, even appearing in her name-Natasha Romanoff instead of Nataliya Romanova-and in the way her hair hung loose about her shoulders, a style that would get any other fighter killed within minutes in a fight. That had been one of Madame's earliest lessons-leave nothing out. You are a shadow, a silhouette-no sharp edges unless they are needed, nothing extra that could get stuck. That's how you break your neck. That's how you die.

Madame had chosen Sonia to demonstrate, a tiny slip of a girl with plain features and trembling hands. To her credit, Sonia had been good in a few fields-deception and strategy-but ultimately she hadn't made the cut. Madame, with sad eyes and a terse mouth, had taken hold of Sonia's braid and snapped her head back so fast that the girls didn't even have time to realize what the crack had meant. Sonia, like a puppet with its strings sliced, had fallen to the floor, her mouth slightly open in a half-scream, and was dragged away to the incinerator. 

"This is what failure looks like, sweet girls," Madame said softly, caressing Sarah's hair. "Do not fail, please. You know I do not like to do these kinds of things. Now, go and get changed for Seduction. I want your pink dresses today, and the white heels. Wanda, stay a moment."

"Yes, Madame?" Wanda didn't let herself look at Sarah as the other girl passed her. 

"You are the best out of the class; my leader, my strongest girl. I need you to listen carefully to what I am about to say, malyshka."

Wanda did her best to look attentive, straightening her posture and clasping her hands behind her back.

"You will be separated very soon. You will not see me, or any of the other training groups, for an unspecified amount of time. That is what I have been told. You will be experimented on; they will use you to find a new way to serve the Motherland. Don't be weak. Don't leave loose ends. Don't get attached to anyone. It is crucial that you stay alive."

So if Madame's words rang true, Natasha Romanoff should have been long dead. 

And like always, as the memories of death approached, Wanda felt the corners of her vision tinge green. The beginning of a whisper started to form in the back of her mind, on the very edge of forming a coherent idea, then faded. Like a dream you could remember nothing about-except maybe a single color. 

It was fitting, Wanda supposed, that she saw green in death; her own power was always red, and it was the only thing that had kept her alive. The color of blood, the color of the Red Room, the hourglass on her belt and the patches on her jacket. What she wasn't so sure about was the voice; it almost felt like a presence.

Like someone-someone unwelcome-was in her head. 

...

Wanda stepped off the plane, temporarily blinded by the bright lights against the black sky. The city still thrummed with energy beneath them, but the Tower was mostly dark, only the top floors lit. 

The glass doors to the main Tower opened suddenly, and a group of people dressed in white swarmed around Pietro, dragging him away and onto a stretcher. Wanda stepped back skittishly, almost reaching for her brother companion but drawing her hand back to rest against the gun at her thigh instead. Pietro lifted his head and made eye contact with Wanda, about to call out for her, but he disappeared behind a wall before she heard what he was about to say.

Natasha placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Wanda, to her embarrassment, flinched. Natasha offered a small smile-more like a twist of the lips, honestly-and it looked so shockingly like Madame that Wanda could smell the bloody scent Madame always left behind. 

"Let's get you inside," Natasha said softly, and Wanda, like a concussed little donkey, followed her inside.

It was even brighter inside, all glass and spotless surfaces. So different from the dozens of training facilities Wanda had grown up in, but it still evoked a sense of deja vu. How many times had her head been slammed against a smooth white wall like the one right next to her? How many times had she watched a girl collapse on a floor identical to the one she stood on now?

"You'll stay here tonight, and tomorrow we'll talk about long-term arrangements for you and Pietro," Natasha said, and Wanda realized numbly they'd arrived at a door. The room was spartan; just a desk, empty wardrobe, and a large bed that looked fluffier than anything Wanda had ever seen. "I'll bring you some of my old clothes, so you don't have to sleep in your tac suit."

"Thank you," Wanda said. Madame didn't raise an animal. 

Natasha smiled tightly, then closed the door behind her. "I'll be back in a minute."

Wanda took a staggering step toward the bed, then another, and barely made it to the edge before her knees gave out and her vision went black.

"Wanda Maximoff," a woman's voice said delightedly. "I have been waiting a very long time for you."