Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sterile white walls of the lab reflected the flickering overhead lights, casting jagged shadows as Yelena Belova grappled with the scientist—a man whose name she would never bother to learn. The air was thick with the sharp scent of antiseptic, undercut by the coppery tang of blood and the acrid sting of fear.

The man’s fingers clawed desperately at her arm, his lab coat rumpled and stained with sweat. His breath came in ragged gasps, his pupils dilated with terror. He was just another faceless pawn in whatever game Valentina was playing, another loose end to tie up.

"Try to say your last words," she uttered, her voice low and cold, already shifting her weight to snap his neck before he could so much as scream.

The scientist gasped, his free hand flailing at his waist. "Project… Sentry…" he choked out, his voice barely more than a wheeze. "Isn’t…" His fingers closed around something metallic—a scalpel, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. "What she thinks!"

Yelena barely had time to register the glint of steel before she felt the sharp, searing pain of the blade sinking into her side. A short, involuntary sound escaped her lips—more annoyance than agony—before instinct took over. With a snarl, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back violently, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat.  

The sudden movement threw him off balance just as his own finger jerked against the trigger of the gun still clutched in his hand.  

BANG.

The gunshot echoed through the lab, deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet tore through his skull in a spray of red, painting the pristine lab equipment behind him. His body went limp instantly, collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud, the scalpel clattering beside him.  

Yelena exhaled sharply through her nose, pressing a hand to her bleeding side as she caught her breath. The adrenaline was already dulling the pain, but the wound stung like hell. She glanced down at the ruined corpse, at the mess of blood and brain matter splattered across the tile.  

"Oh damn," she muttered, nudging the body with her boot. "I needed that face."  

Valentina’s going to be pissed.

She turned to her left, ready to set the charges—then froze.  

A sound.  

Retching .  

Her head snapped toward the noise, her body coiled like a spring. In one fluid motion, she snatched the gun from the floor—now slick with the scientist’s blood—and leveled it at the source of the disturbance.

A man stood frozen in the doorway of a side room, his wide eyes locked onto the scene before him. He was dressed in what looked like oversized, hospital-issue pajamas, his dark hair disheveled, his face pale as if he hadn’t seen sunlight in weeks. The walls behind him bore two strange, jagged black marks, as if something had scorched the surface in perfect, parallel lines.

The moment the barrel of the gun aligned with his chest, his hands shot up in surrender. "Oh! Woah! I’m—I just woke up here—I—I didn’t know that guy," he stammered, his voice cracking with panic. His feet shuffled backward, as if his body was trying to retreat before his brain could catch up.

Yelena’s grip on the gun didn’t waver. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass.  

“Who are you?" she demanded.  

He blinked rapidly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Uh—I’m Bob."

"What are you doing here, Bob?"  

Yelena took a step forward, the muzzle of the gun tracking his every twitch. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, their harsh glow reflecting off the polished tile floor like a funhouse mirror, warping their shadows into elongated, grotesque shapes. The air smelled of ozone and iron, the lingering scent of gunpowder still sharp in her nostrils.

Bob slowly lowered his hands, then glanced behind himself, as if the answer might be written on the walls. His gaze flickered over the black marks—those strange, deliberate lines—before snapping back to her.

"I—I came in for a medical study and… I was getting my blood drawn and then I woke up and you shot a guy—" 

His words tumbled out in a rush, his voice pitching higher with each syllable, before he suddenly cut himself off, his eyes widening further as he remembered the weapon still trained on him. His hands shot back up, fingers splayed in surrender. 

Yelena’s grip on the gun loosened just slightly—not enough to be careless, but enough to show she wasn’t immediately planning to put a bullet in Bob’s skull. Her sharp eyes scanned his face, searching for any flicker of deception—a micro-expression, a too-quick glance away, the telltale tension of a liar. But all she saw was raw, unfiltered panic.  

"You don’t remember anything in between?" she pressed, her voice edged with skepticism.

Bob frantically shook his head, his hands still half-raised like he wasn’t sure if she’d change her mind. “No, nope, nothing—I was just told they were going to… going to make me better,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “And then it’s all black. Like a—like a void in my mind.”

Something about the way he said void made the back of Yelena’s neck prickle. Not fear—she didn’t do fear—but the kind of instinct that had kept her alive through a hundred missions gone wrong. The kind that whispered when something wasn’t just off , but wrong in a way that couldn’t be scrubbed clean.

"A void, huh?" she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him.

With a slight shake of her head, Yelena finally lowered the gun fully and let it clatter to the floor. The sound echoed in the too-quiet lab, bouncing off stainless steel tables and glass vials like a gunshot of its own.

"Bob," she said, already turning away, "you’re coming with me." 

Bob blinked. "I—I am?" His hands finally dropped to his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He glanced at the dead scientist, then at the exit, then back at Yelena—as if waiting for the punchline to a joke he didn’t understand.

Yelena didn’t bother answering. Instead, she strode toward the far corner of the lab where a small guinea pig was still huddled in its maze, its body trembling. The creature’s beady eyes darted up at her as she scooped it into one hand, its rapid heartbeat fluttering against her palm like a trapped bird.

At least someone here has sense enough to be scared, she thought dryly.

Behind her, she heard Bob shuffle awkwardly but didn’t follow.  

Yelena rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose.

"Oh, come on," she muttered, pivoting on her heel and marching back to him. Before he could protest, she grabbed him by the arm—hard enough to make him stumble—and yanked him forward.  

"Woah—okay, okay, I’m coming!" Bob yelped, scrambling to match her pace as she dragged him toward the exit. His feet tangled in the too-long pants, nearly sending him face-first into a cart of shattered beakers before he righted himself.  

Yelena didn’t slow down.

The midday sun glared off the pavement as she cut through the crowded sidewalk, her boots striking the concrete with military precision. The charges were set, the timer ticking, and she had zero interest in being anywhere near that building when it went up. Behind her, the glass-and-steel facility loomed like a sleeping beast—for about thirty more seconds.  

Bob, to his credit, didn’t ask questions.

He just kept pace beside her, his breath uneven, his oversized sleeves flapping like a startled bird’s wings as he dodged pedestrians. Sweat beaded at his temples, his bare feet slapping against the pavement in a rhythm just shy of panic.  

The city streets pulsed with noise and movement—honking cabs, the tinny beat of someone’s sidewalk speaker, the chatter of lunchtime crowds spilling out of cafes. Yelena strode forward, the crowd parting unconsciously around her like she was a blade cutting through water. Tourists, businessmen, street vendors—all instinctively shifted aside without even registering why.  

Behind her, Bob trailed like a lost shadow, his oversized sleeves flapping with each hurried step. She'd released his arm the moment they'd cleared the building, but he kept following anyway—some mix of confusion, fear, and the desperate instinct of someone who had nowhere else to go.

Bored, Yelena lifted her phone to her ear, the other hand absently stroking the trembling guinea pig nestled in her palm. The creature had gone eerily still, its tiny black eyes fixed on the building behind them.  

"Assignment is..."

She paused mid-sentence, turning to glance over her shoulder—partly to check the building, partly because she could hear Bob tripping over his own feet trying to navigate the crowd. A hot dog vendor's cart rattled as he clipped it with his hip, sending condiment bottles clinking.  

Then—  

The explosion.

A thunderclap of sound rolled down the street, followed by a shockwave of heat that made the air ripple. The building's windows blew outward in a glittering rain, glass shards catching sunlight like falling diamonds before shattering on the pavement.

Yelena noted the way Bob flinched—full-body, like he'd been struck—his hands flying up to cover his ears instinctively. Around them, pedestrians screamed, ducked, or froze in shock. A car alarm wailed to life nearby.

Yelena just turned back around, unfazed.  

"Assignment is complete." A beat. "I think I found one of your test subjects in there though."  

"What?" Valentina's voice turned razor-sharp through the receiver. "What do you mean?"  

Yelena dodged around a group of drunk tourists clutching oversized novelty cocktails, not bothering to check if Bob kept up. "I found a guy named Bob. Presumed he was one of yours."  

She could practically hear the moment Valentina's perfectly manicured nails dug into her armrest through the phone. There was a rustle of fabric, the creak of a chair, then the distinct clack of keyboard keys being hammered like gunfire.  

"Bob? Bob, Bob, Bob..." The name became a mantra, each repetition more urgent than the last. Then, with sudden clarity: "Do you mean Robert Reynolds?"

Yelena pulled the phone away and called over her shoulder without breaking stride: "Hey! Is your name Robert Reynolds?"

Behind her, Bob nearly collided with a street vendor's cart in his haste to catch up, sending a pyramid of mangoes tumbling to the sidewalk. The vendor's angry shout died in his throat when he caught Yelena's icy glare. "Uhh. Yeah?" Bob blinked, confusion knitting his brows together as he righted himself. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was testing his own grip on reality. "How do you—how do you know that?”

Ignoring him, Yelena brought the phone back up. "Yeah, his name's Robert."

The other end of the line exploded into frantic activity—shouted orders, the slam of a door, what sounded like someone knocking over a chair in their haste. When Valentina spoke again, her usual composed demeanor had cracked, revealing something hungry and almost feral beneath. "Yelena, this is your most important mission yet. I need you to bring Robert Reynolds to me ASAP. Don’t let him out of your sight. Don’t let anyone else near him. Do you understand?"

Yelena sighed, already calculating the logistics in her head—safehouses, transport, how to handle a clearly unstable civilian in pajamas who might be more than he appeared. The guinea pig chose that moment to nibble on her thumb, and she flicked it gently on the nose. "Alright. Give me a day." She hung up mid-protest, cutting off Valentina's indignant squawk.

Turning fully to face Bob, Yelena found him nervously worrying at his frayed sleeves, the fabric stretched thin between his fingers. His knuckles were white with tension, the edges of his nails bitten raw. He'd clearly overheard enough to be concerned but not enough to understand why—his eyes darted between her face and the still-smoking ruin in the distance, tracking the plumes of black smoke coiling into the afternoon sky like ink in water.

"Looks like I'm taking you with me back to America," Yelena announced, watching his reaction closely. She kept her tone neutral, professional, but her gaze tracked every microexpression—the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the slight tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with the warm breeze ruffling his ill-fitting clothes.

Bob blinked. Then blinked again. His fingers stilled on his sleeve, frozen mid-fidget. For a long moment, he just stared at her, his brown eyes wide and strangely empty. Then, in a voice barely carrying over the din of the street: "Are you going to kill me?" The question was quiet but startlingly direct, stripped of pretense or dramatics. Just simple, awful curiosity.

Yelena studied him—really studied him. The way he held himself like someone who expected pain at any moment, the resignation in his slumped shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes that spoke of too many sleepless nights. There was no fight in him. No spark. Just... waiting.

"Maybe," she answered truthfully, because lies were for people who couldn't handle consequences. The sunlight glinted off something metallic in the middle distance—a police badge, maybe, or just a discarded soda can.

Bob just nodded, a small, jerky motion that made his overgrown hair flop into his eyes. "That's okay." As if he'd been waiting for this confirmation his entire life. As if someone had finally handed him the last puzzle piece he'd given up searching for years ago.

The sheer quiet of his acceptance struck her like a physical blow. No pleading. No panic. Just... okay. Like death was just another item on a to-do list he'd long since stopped caring about. The guinea pig in her other hand squirmed, its tiny heartbeat frantic against her palm—more alive in that moment than the grown man standing before her.

Yelena exhaled sharply through her nose, the sound almost lost in the city's chaos. Fine. If the universe was going to dump this broken lab experiment in her path, she'd play along—for now.

"We'll go to Baltimore," she declared, turning on her heel with sudden decision. Not New York. Not D.C. Not whatever black site Valentina had prepared. Somewhere off-script, where she could figure out what the hell made Robert Reynolds so important that an entire floor needed to burn to cover his tracks.

Behind her, Bob honest-to-God tilted his head like a confused dog. "Baltimore?" he echoed, shuffling after her.

“Baltimore.” Yelena confirmed, solemnly.

Chapter Text

The porch light buzzed softly above them, its jaundiced yellow glow pooling over the weathered wooden planks like spilled honey. Moths danced erratic patterns around the fixture, their wings casting fleeting shadows across the peeling paint of the doorframe. The night air hung thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and distant barbecue smoke—some optimistic neighbor still enjoying the unseasonably warm evening despite the late hour. Crickets chirped in the overgrown flower beds, their rhythmic song punctuated by the occasional far-off laugh from down the street.

Behind her, Bob hovered like a shadow, close enough that she could feel the nervous heat radiating off him in waves. The impromptu Target run had at least made him look less like an escaped lab experiment—his new jeans and plain gray hoodie almost passing for normal, if not for the way he kept picking at the tags like they were alien artifacts. At some point during their cross-country journey, he'd quietly taken over guinea pig duty without being asked, and now cradled the creature gently between his palms like it was the only solid thing in his unraveling world. The little animal nibbled contentedly on grass blades plucked from the scraggly lawn, its tiny paws twitching against Bob's thumb, blissfully unaware of the tension thickening the air around it.

Yelena took a deep exhale—the kind that started in her toes and worked its way up through clenched muscles and a tight jaw—before finally pressing the doorbell. The cheerful chime echoed through the house, absurdly bright against the heavy silence between them.

"I click leave on porch!"

Alexei's booming voice carried through the door, followed by the unmistakable crunch of chips. Yelena's eye twitched. She stabbed the doorbell again with more force than necessary.

"Your insubordinance will be reported to DoorDash HQ!"

Rolling her eyes so hard it nearly hurt, Yelena leaned closer to the door, her shadow stretching long across the porch boards. "Alexei, it's me, open up." Even to her own ears, her voice sounded exhausted—that particular brand of weariness that only family could inspire, layered with jetlag and the residual tension from seven hours spent babysitting a human question mark.

Silence. Then—the unmistakable sound of a couch squeaking in protest as several hundred pounds of super-soldier launched upright, followed by heavy footsteps approaching at a pace just shy of a full sprint. The porch light flickered as something inside the house drew sudden power—likely a television being muted or turned off.

While they waited, Yelena turned to survey the driveway. The ridiculous red limousine they'd passed on their way up the gravel path gleamed under the moonlight like a fresh wound against the otherwise quiet suburban street. The vehicle's side door bore a professionally printed decal that caught the glow of the streetlights with garish prominence:

"Protecting you from boring evening."

Yelena read the words aloud, her voice flat as the Maryland plains. Somewhere in the distance, a sprinkler system kicked on with a rhythmic hiss, the sound carrying through the quiet neighborhood like mechanical white noise. A dog barked three houses down.

The door swung open with theatrical flourish, revealing Alexei in all his glory. "Yelena!" His voice boomed loud enough to startle the guinea pig still cradled in Bob's hands, the little creature freezing mid-nibble. "So good to see you!" His grin faltered slightly as he noticed Bob peeking around Yelena's shoulder like a nervous shadow trying to hide in her silhouette. "And is this your boyfriend? We have much catching up to do!" "And is this your boyfriend? We have much catching up to do!"

Alexei ushered them inside with sweeping gestures worthy of a stage performer, his robe flapping dramatically behind him like a cape. The faint scent of pine cleaner and old takeout boxes hung in the air, barely masking the underlying musk of bachelor living. "You'll have to forgive the delay - very important business call," he declared, kicking aside a pizza box to clear a path. A half-empty bottle of Zubrowka sat sweating on the coffee table amidst a graveyard of snack wrappers and unopened mail. "Sit, sit! We drink!" He thrust two mismatched glasses into their hands before they could protest, the vodka sloshing dangerously close to the rims.

"How long has it been?" Alexei asked, plopping onto a couch that groaned in protest beneath his bulk. The springs screamed as he settled in, sending a cloud of Cheeto dust into the air. "A year? Long enough to find a boyfriend I see." He winked conspiratorially at Bob, his grin stretching wide enough to show a fleck of parsley stuck between his front teeth.

Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose hard enough to leave marks. The familiar headache was building behind her eyes - the one that only family could inspire. "Yes, it's been a year, and no he is not my boyfriend."

Across from her, Bob nearly choked on air. "I-I'm not her boyfriend," he stammered, fingers tightening around his untouched drink until his knuckles turned white. His gaze darted between them like a spectator at a tennis match.

"Semantics!" Alexei bellowed, collapsing further into the couch with enough force to send a stack of old magazines sliding to the floor in a glossy avalanche. He gestured expansively with his glass, sending a droplet of vodka arcing through the air to land on the guinea pig's head. The creature shook itself indignantly. "So, uh... what have you come to visit me with, Yelena? Other than introducing me to your—"

"He. Is not. My boyfriend." Each word landed like a hammer strike, sharp enough to make the guinea pig startle in Bob's lap. The room fell silent save for the creature's nervous squeak and the distant hum of the refrigerator. Yelena stared at her own reflection in the vodka glass—distorted, fractured, the clear liquid turning her features into something unfamiliar. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, the edges worn smooth with something that might have been exhaustion or grief. "Is it... Is it worth saving somebody, if you don't even know what you're saving them from?"

The change in Alexei was instantaneous. The boisterous facade melted away like snow off a rifle barrel, revealing something older and heavier beneath - the man who had survived the Red Room, the gulag, the crushing weight of history. His fingers stilled around his glass, the boisterous light in his eyes dimming to something more contemplative. "Well," he began, rolling the glass between his palms like he was polishing a memory, "the best I've ever felt was when I was saving people. When I was a hero." His gaze turned inward, staring at some memory only he could see - maybe a snowy battlefield, maybe a little girl with pigtails looking up at him with stars in her eyes. "There is no higher calling."

The silence stretched and thickened until it became its own presence in the room, settling over them like dust on forgotten trophies. Somewhere outside, a car alarm whooped twice before cutting off. When Alexei spoke again, his voice carried the weight of decades, of choices made and unmade, of red in his ledger that no amount of vodka could wash away. "Your sister understood something about that." He met Yelena's eyes with startling clarity, the ghost of Natalia Romanova hovering between them like smoke. "Perhaps it is time that you follow in her path."

Yelena swallowed hard, the ghost of Natasha's smile flickering at the edges of her vision - that particular quirk of lips that meant she knew something you didn't. She opened her mouth to respond when her phone vibrated violently against her thigh, the buzzing unnaturally loud in the heavy air. The moment shattered like dropped glass. She inhaled sharply through her nose, the spell broken. "I'm stashing Bob here while I figure some things out," she announced, already turning toward the front door with the decisive movements of someone retreating from dangerous emotional territory.

"Wait, what—" Alexei's protest was cut off as Yelena disappeared outside, the click of the door sealing his fate with finality. He turned his bewildered expression toward Bob, who sat frozen with his vodka still untouched, his free hand unconsciously stroking the guinea pig's fur as if seeking comfort. The creature sneezed, the sound absurdly loud in the sudden quiet.

Outside the rather shitty place Alexei called home, the humid night air clung to Yelena's skin like a second layer as she pressed the phone to her ear. The lone porch light flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows that leapt and twisted as moths performed their suicidal dance around the bulb. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked twice before falling silent, leaving only the electric hum of suburban insomnia - the whisper of air conditioners, the faint glow of television screens behind curtained windows.

"Yelena, I will not repeat myself," Valentina's voice crackled through the receiver, sharp enough to cut glass. The static couldn't disguise the undercurrent of something dangerous—the razor's edge between irritation and outright fury. "You need to bring Robert Reynolds in immediately."

Yelena tilted her head back, tracking the erratic flight of an especially persistent moth as it battered itself against the flickering porch light. The insect's shadow danced across her face in jagged patterns, its wings beating a frantic rhythm against the hot bulb. "Why?" she asked, her voice deliberately flat, giving nothing away.

A staticky sound that might have been a scoff crackled through the phone's speaker. "Your job isn't to ask why, Yelena, it's to simply do." The condescension dripped like honey laced with arsenic, sweet enough to disguise the poison beneath. "Now be a good little murderer and bring me Robert."

Yelena rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt, her vision blurring momentarily at the edges. The moth finally gave up its suicidal dance, spiraling drunkenly into the darkness. "Hmm... No." Simple. Final. Like slamming a vault door. Like cocking a gun.

"No?" Valentina repeated, the word dripping with offended disbelief, the first genuine emotion she'd heard from the woman all night. "Yelena, this will not end well for you. If you do not do as I say then—"

Click.

Yelena ended the call mid-threat, the silence afterward as sweet as the first breath after surfacing from deep water. She slipped the phone into her pocket with deliberate calm, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than it had any right to be. The night air smelled of wet grass and distant rain, the ozone tang of an approaching storm mixing with the earthy scent of neglected flower beds. She took a steadying breath—just one—letting it out slowly between her teeth before shouldering back through the front door.

The scene inside hadn't changed - Alexei sprawled across his battered couch like a retired monarch holding court in a thrift store, one meaty arm draped over the back cushions. Bob remained frozen in his chair like a man awaiting execution, his fingers twitching against the guinea pig's fur.

"It is done. Bob stays here," Yelena announced, kicking the door shut behind her with more force than strictly necessary. The framed photos on the wall rattled in their cheap frames.

Alexei's face crumpled in theatrical protest, his mustache quivering with indignation. "Yelena—" he whined, the sound grating against her nerves like nails on a chalkboard, "I cannot just babysit this man. I have many jobs to do, many irons in fire!" He gestured wildly toward... nothing in particular. A stack of unpaid bills on the coffee table, maybe. The half-disassembled toaster oven in the corner. The life of a retired superhero was clearly treating him well.

Yelena opened her mouth to retort—

Then the world exploded.

The arrow came out of nowhere, shattering the living room window in a hail of glass that glittered like deadly snowfall. Yelena had just enough time to register the sleek, high-tech shaft humming through the air—its matte black surface etched with faint circuitry—before it detonated in a concussive blast of fire and shrapnel. The force lifted her off her feet, slamming her back-first into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall and send a photo of a younger Yelena crashing to the floor. Somewhere to her left, Bob made a sound like a stepped-on puppy as the shockwave sent him skidding into the corner, his body curling instinctively around the squeaking guinea pig like a human shield.

Then Taskmaster of all people landed in a crouch amid the wreckage, shards of glass raining down around her like deadly confetti. The mercenary's blank, expressionless mask scanned the room with eerie, mechanical precision before locking onto Yelena with terrifying focus.

Alexei's bellow cut through the ringing in Yelena's ears as he launched himself at Taskmaster like a runaway freight train, his robe flapping behind him like a tattered cape. For all his usual buffoonery, the man still moved with the terrifying precision of a Soviet super-soldier when it counted—every muscle in his body coiling with lethal potential as his fist connected with Taskmaster's ribs in a blow that would have shattered concrete.

Or it should have.

Taskmaster flowed around the strike like water, her body contorting in perfect mimicry of a move Yelena recognized instantly—Natasha's signature dodge from the Battle of New York, the one she'd seen a hundred times in SHIELD footage. Before Alexei could react, Taskmaster's elbow snapped up in flawless imitation of Captain America's shield bash, catching him square under the jaw with bone-rattling precision.

Alexei went down hard, his massive frame shaking the floorboards as he crashed onto the scattered remains of his coffee table.

Yelena was already moving before the last shard of glass hit the floor. She snatched a broken chair leg from the wreckage, its splintered end glinting dangerously in the flickering light of the shattered overhead bulb. Swinging it in a brutal arc toward Taskmaster's temple, she put her full body weight behind the strike—only for the mercenary to catch it effortlessly, using the exact same disarmament move Yelena had employed against some operative in Budapest last year. The familiarity sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the night air whistling through the broken window.

They traded blows in a dizzying blur of motion, each of Yelena's attacks met with her own perfected techniques thrown back at her with terrifying precision. A knife-hand strike from the Red Room training she'd endured at fourteen. A sweep kick from that Sao Paulo extraction gone wrong. Even that stupid elbow jab she'd improvised during that bar fight in Madrid after too many tequilas. Every move, every counter, every breath - mirrored perfectly. 

It was like fighting a mirror that hit back harder.

Yelena feinted left—a sloppy move she'd only ever used once during that Moldova extraction when concussed—and for half a heartbeat, it worked. Taskmaster's head tilted slightly, the blank mask somehow conveying confusion. Yelena seized the opening like a starving wolf, driving her knee toward the mercenary's unprotected gut—

Only for Taskmaster to suddenly move with Alexei's unmistakable bear-like grace, bracing with that same wide-legged stance the Red Guardian favored during the eighties. The counterthrow sent Yelena crashing over the coffee table, wood splintering beneath her back, the impact knocking the wind from her lungs in a pained gasp.

Before she could rise, Taskmaster's boot planted itself on her chest, pinning her with brutal efficiency. The mercenary drew a knife—Yelena's own favored reverse grip from the Red Room program—the blade catching the flickering light as it raised for the killing stroke aimed precisely at her carotid artery.

In the corner, Bob made a small, broken sound like a wounded animal.

Then, suddenly—with no warning—Taskmaster's body went completely limp atop Yelena. The dead weight knocked the air from her lungs in a pained oof. For one disorienting second, she could feel the cool press of the mercenary's mask against her cheek, smell the gun oil and sweat embedded in the tactical suit's fibers, count every shallow breath that wasn't coming.

"What the—?" Yelena shoved the lifeless body off with a grunt, rolling sideways to snatch the fallen knife from the floorboards. Her fingers closed around the familiar grip just as her brain caught up with the situation—the unnatural 45-degree angle of Taskmaster's neck, the slackness of her limbs, the absolute stillness that only came with death. Not unconsciousness. Death.

Behind her, Alexei was coughing like a chain-smoking bear, hauling himself upright using the shattered remains of his coffee table. But Yelena's attention was laser-locked on the far corner of the room.

Bob stood frozen in the wreckage, back pressed against the peeling wallpaper like he was trying to phase through it. The guinea pig trembled violently in his left hand, its tiny nose twitching rapid-fire. His right hand was splayed wide, fingers contorted in what might have been a pushing motion, his entire arm trembling with either exhaustion or shock. The dim light caught the sweat beading on his pale face, his pupils dilated so wide his blue irises were nearly swallowed by black.

Three facts clicked into place in Yelena's mind with cold, brutal clarity:

1. Taskmaster had been mid-killing-stroke, milliseconds from ending her
2. Taskmaster was now very, very dead without any visible cause
3. Bob's hand was still extended like he'd... pushed something that wasn't there

"Oh no." The words escaped her lips before she could stop them, dripping with the weary resignation of someone who'd just realized they'd picked up a nuclear warhead thinking it was a toaster. The kind of oh no reserved for accidentally adopting a tiger cub thinking it was a large cat.

Bob blinked, his expression shifting from dazed horror to confusion as he noticed his own outstretched hand. He jerked it back against his chest like he'd been burned, nearly crushing the guinea pig in his sudden panic. "I—I didn't—" His voice cracked like thin ice underfoot, the words dissolving into shaky breaths.

Alexei chose that moment to stagger upright, spitting out a mouthful of blood and what might have been a tooth fragment. He took one look at the scene—Yelena crouched by a dead assassin, Bob looking like he'd just seen a ghost in the middle of a panic attack—and burst into booming laughter that shook the remaining intact light fixtures.

"Yelena!" He bellowed, slapping his thigh hard enough to leave a bloody handprint on the fabric. "Your boyfriend saved the day!" He lumbered over to Taskmaster's body with all the grace of a drunken bear, poking her mask with his toe before letting out a low whistle. "Da. Very dead. No pulse, no nothing!" He turned back to beam at them with bloody teeth, spreading his arms wide. "We have won!"

Yelena's groan this time could have rattled windows three blocks away. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes hard enough to see supernovas. "He's not my—" 

The guinea pig sneezed, the tiny sound somehow louder than the explosion that started this mess.

Chapter Text

The limousine's interior smelled like old leather and the faint chemical tang of too many spilled vodkas, undercut by the stale perfume of forgotten dates. Bob sat stiffly in the backseat, his dirty sneakers planted awkwardly on the stained floor, the guinea pig cradled in his palms like a holy relic. Moonlight streamed through the partition, casting prison-bar shadows across his face with each passing streetlamp. Yelena watched his fingers tremble around the tiny creature from the corner of her eye—microscopic vibrations that betrayed the seismic shift happening inside him.

"So," Yelena finally broke the silence, her voice carefully neutral as she picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, "are we talking lifelong secret abilities, or was that a fun new development back there?" She kept her gaze fixed on the passing streetlights, pretending not to notice how Bob's breathing hitched at the question. The flickering glow painted his profile in intermittent gold and shadow.

The pause stretched long enough that Alexei started humming the Soviet national anthem off-key from the driver's seat, his meaty fingers drumming an arrhythmic beat on the steering wheel.

"I've never—" Bob's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, staring down at the guinea pig as if it held the answers. "That's never happened before." His fingers flexed unconsciously, tendons standing out in sharp relief. "But when I saw her about to..." He swallowed hard. "It felt like... like turning a key in a lock I didn't know existed. And the door opened before I could stop it."

Alexei whooped loud enough to startle the guinea pig, slapping the steering wheel hard enough to make the entire vehicle swerve into the next lane. A chorus of angry honks followed them. "Is beautiful! Like me when I first discover I could bench press tractor!" He caught Yelena's lethal glare in the rearview mirror and added, with significantly less enthusiasm, "But yes, very scary also. Much responsibility. Like... uh... grenade with pin already pulled."

Yelena shifted to face Bob fully now, her knee bumping against his in the cramped space. The contact sent a static shock through her pants. "You're still just a person," she said, more gently than she intended. The words tasted strange in her mouth—too soft, too kind. "A person who might be lying about what he remembers." She studied his face for tells, the way the Red Room had taught her: pupil dilation, micro-expressions, the betraying flutter of a pulse.

Bob just shook his head, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he exhaled through his nose. "I wish I was." His thumb stroked the guinea pig's fur absently. "At least then I'd have some answers instead of just... this." He flexed his free hand, staring at his palm like it belonged to someone else.

The limo hit a pothole, jostling them together. Bob's shoulder pressed against Yelena's—warm and solid and unexpectedly comforting. Neither moved away.

"I just didn't want you to die," he murmured, so quiet the words nearly drowned in the hum of the engine.

Yelena froze. Not at the sentiment—she'd heard prettier lies from better liars—but at the raw, unvarnished honesty in them. No agenda. No calculation. Just a truth so simple it left her unbalanced, like missing a step in the dark. Her throat tightened around a response that wouldn't come.

Alexei, blissfully oblivious, chose that moment to cheer, "And what a kill! One shot! Like pro!" He mimed a sniper rifle through the partition, nearly sideswiping a parked delivery truck. "Boom! Neck broken!"

Bob went rigid beside her, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. The shadows under his eyes looked suddenly darker. "I didn't want to kill anyone," he whispered, more to his own shaking hands than to them.

Yelena surprised herself by reaching over—her calloused fingers brushing against his wrist, tracing the rapid-fire pulse beneath his skin. "People die," she said, matter-of-fact as a weather report. "They do terrible things, then they die. It's simple." She hesitated, then added, softer, "Doesn't mean you have to like being the one who pulls the trigger."

Another silence settled, but this one was different—easier, like the air after a summer storm. Bob's knee stayed pressed against hers, a quiet point of contact in the spinning world. The city lights painted fleeting patterns across his face as they drove, illuminating the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Alexei turned up the radio, some terrible 80s power ballad Yelena would never admit she recognized. The synthesized drums and wailing guitar filled the space between them as the guinea pig finally curled into a tiny ball in Bob's hands, its nose tucked under its paws—asleep for the first time since the explosion.

The limousine's engine ticked softly as it cooled, its metallic sighs blending with the chorus of crickets in the surrounding fields. Parked in a deserted rest stop under a sky thick with stars, the vehicle looked absurdly out of place—a glossy red relic from another era resting beneath a flickering sodium vapor lamp. Alexei had insisted this was a "very tactical location" before immediately passing out across the front seats, his snores rattling the windows with enough force to make the steering wheel vibrate. The sound reminded Yelena of a bear hibernating in a tin can, if the bear had also consumed several liters of vodka.

Yelena perched atop the limo's roof, knees drawn up to her chest like a child hiding in plain sight. The pistol resting across her thighs still smelled of gunpowder and oil from the night's earlier violence. She'd been counting the stars visible through the light pollution—twenty-seven, not counting the ones that might have been satellites—when the limo's back door clicked open with the subtlety of a landmine detonating.

In one fluid motion perfected through years of Red Room training, she had her weapon trained on the movement below, finger hovering beside the trigger guard.

Bob's wide-eyed face peered up at her, illuminated by the sickly yellow glow of the rest stop lights that turned his already pale complexion jaundiced. He froze like a deer in headlights, hands half-raised in surrender, the too-long sleeves of his hoodie flopping comically around his wrists. "It's just—just me," he stammered, voice cracking on the last word.

Yelena lowered the gun with an exasperated sigh that didn't quite mask her relief. "You should be sleeping," she said, though the dark circles under his eyes told her exactly how likely that was.

Bob shook his head, his dark hair flopping into his eyes like an overgrown sheepdog's. "Couldn't," he admitted, fingers worrying at a loose thread on his sleeve. "Every time I close my eyes..."

Yelena exhaled through her nose and reholstered the weapon with a practiced flick of her wrist. "You should try harder," she said, but there was no real bite to it. The words came out softer than she intended, diluted by the quiet between them. "You're not on watch."

Bob hesitated, then started climbing up the side of the limo with all the grace of a newborn giraffe on ice skates. The roof dented slightly under his knee with an expensive-sounding crunch. "I know," he admitted as he finally settled beside her, legs dangling over the edge like a kid at a swimming pool. "But I keep seeing her. Taskmaster. The way she just... stopped." His hands flexed unconsciously in his lap.

The night air smelled of asphalt still radiating the day's heat and the faint promise of distant rain. Yelena studied his profile—the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed, the nervous tap of his fingers against his thigh in a rhythm that might have been Morse code for 'I'm terrified'. "First kill's always the worst," she said finally, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

Bob stiffened, his entire body going rigid as if struck by lightning. "I didn't mean to—"

"You did." Yelena tilted her head back to study the few visible stars, tracing Orion's belt with her eyes. The constellations looked the same here as they had in Ohio, a fact that unsettled her more than she cared to admit. "And you'll do it again if you have to. That's how staying alive works."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the chirping of crickets and Alexei's subterranean snoring from below. Somewhere in the distance, a barn owl called, its mournful cry slicing through the night.

"Who are you, really?" Bob asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I mean—you saved me. You didn't have to." He turned to look at her properly, his eyes reflecting the rest stop lights. "You could've left me in that lab."

"I'm a shitty person who does shitty things for shitty reasons," she said, the mantra as familiar as her own reflection.

Bob surprised her by laughing—a quiet, startled sound that seemed to surprise him too. "You saved me from that lab. You're protecting me now." He nudged her shoulder with his, the contact warm through their layers of clothing. "Doesn't sound very shitty to me."

She ignored that, choosing instead to ask, "Where's your rodent?" because it was safer than examining whatever warmth his words had sparked in her chest.

"With Alexei. He started singing it Russian lullabies." Bob's mouth quirked in a smile that looked unfamiliar on his face, like a muscle he hadn't used in years. "I think he's calling it 'Misha' now. Kept saying something about 'tiny comrade.'"

Yelena groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Of course he is." The mental image of Alexei cradling the guinea pig like a baby while belting out Kalinka was almost enough to make her smile. Almost.

Another pause settled between them, this one more comfortable than the last. A semi-truck rumbled past on the distant highway, its headlights cutting brief arcs through the darkness like a lighthouse beam scanning for lost ships.

"I was thinking of naming her Daisy," Bob offered quietly, his fingers tracing patterns on the limo's roof that might have been constellations or just nervous energy.

Yelena snorted. "It's a guinea pig, not a golden retriever." The words came out more fond than she intended, the edges softened by exhaustion.

Bob shrugged, smiling faintly as he watched the horizon. "She deserves a nice name. After today." His fingers stilled, pressing flat against the cool metal. "Everyone deserves at least that much."

The words hung between them, weighted with something Yelena didn't want to examine too closely—something that felt suspiciously like hope. She focused instead on the horizon, where the first faint streaks of dawn would appear in a few hours, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold she hadn't let herself notice in years.

"You should still try to sleep," she said at last, but made no move to send him back inside. The night felt less heavy with someone else sharing the watch—even if that someone was a walking question mark who named rodents after flowers and looked at her like she hung the moon instead of being the one who put bullets in people for money.

Bob leaned back on his hands, staring up at the sky with the wonder of someone who'd spent too long ignoring it. "I will. Later." 

The limousine's air conditioning wheezed like an asthmatic camel fighting for its last breath as Yelena jerked awake, her neck stiff from sleeping upright against the cracked leather seat. A thin line of drool connected her cheek to the headrest for a brief, humiliating second before she wiped it away. For one disoriented moment, the swaying motion made her think they were under attack again—until the glare of desert sunlight through the window burned away the last remnants of sleep, replacing nightmare with what might actually be worse. Endless red rock formations stretched to the horizon under a merciless blue sky, the landscape so alien compared to the Maryland suburbs they'd left behind that it might as well have been Mars.

"Ah! Sleeping Beauty awakes!" Alexei's booming voice nearly rattled the rearview mirror loose from its mounting.. "Good morning, sunshine! Or should I say—good afternoon!" He punctuated this with a dramatic flourish of his beefy hand, nearly swerving into a Joshua tree.

Yelena's gaze snapped to the dashboard clock—11:37 AM—then to Bob still peacefully asleep on the opposite seat, his head lolled against the window at an angle that would leave a spectacular kink in his neck. The guinea pig now curled into a tiny beige ball on his chest rose and fell with his steady breaths, its whiskers twitching with each exhale. Her fingers twitched toward the knife strapped to her thigh before she forced them to relax, the familiar weight of the blade reassuring against her skin.

"Where the hell are we?" she demanded, voice still rough with sleep and the lingering taste of yesterday's protein bars. The words came out more gravelly than intended, scraping against her dry throat.

"Utah!" Alexei announced with the enthusiasm of a Soviet-era tour guide, gesturing grandly at the barren wasteland outside. His robe flapped dramatically with the motion. "Land of the free, home of the really big rocks!" He smacked the steering wheel for emphasis.

Yelena pressed her fingers to her temples, where a headache was already brewing behind her left eyeball. "We were supposed to be laying low. Not taking scenic road trips in the world's worst parade car!" She kicked the back of his seat for emphasis, sending a cloud of Cheeto dust puffing up from the upholstery.

"Plans change!" Alexei gestured grandly at the wasteland outside, nearly taking out another cactus. "I drive all night while you two snore like synchronized sawmills. Very clever evasion tactic—who would look for red limousine in desert?" He nodded sagely, as if this was military genius rather than the plot of a particularly bad action movie.

Yelena deadpanned, "Aerial surveillance." She ticked points off on her fingers. "Satellites. Literally anyone with eyes." She gestured at the vehicle's gleaming candy-apple paint job, currently kicking up a dust trail visible for miles, like a neon sign screaming 'SHOOT HERE.'

Alexei scoffed, adjusting his newly acquired sunglasses with one hand while the other rummaged in a bag of beef jerky. "This is why you will never be great strategist. Sometimes best hiding is right in front of nose!" He patted the dashboard affectionately. "Limousine is perfect camouflage. Americans see fancy car in desert, they think 'Ah, rich idiot doing Burning Man drugs.' Not suspicious at all."

Yelena stared at him. The desert heat must be frying his already questionable brain. "You think we look like Burning Man attendees."

"Da! Look at us!" He gestured wildly between his stained tank top and robe combination, her all-black tactical outfit that had seen better days, and Bob's rumpled hoodie and jeans that still had Target tags dangling from the sleeve. "We have eclectic fashion. Mysterious backstory. Small furry creature." The guinea pig chose that moment to sneeze violently. "See? Very authentic festival experience. We just need some glow sticks and ketamine!"

Yelena opened her mouth—then closed it with an audible click of teeth. Arguing with Alexei was like wrestling a bear—exhausting and ultimately pointless. "Just... get us to a highway," she muttered, slumping back against the seat that smelled faintly of stale vodka and regret.

"Highways are where police look!" Alexei declared triumphantly, as if this was some brilliant tactical insight rather than the plot of every mediocre road movie. "This is genius backroad route I plan using..." He squinted at his phone, which was duct-taped to the dashboard. "App called 'Pokeyman Go.' Very reliable. Also," he added proudly, "I have caught fourteen Sandshrew. They like the desert."

Yelena's eye twitched. The vein in her forehead pulsed dangerously. "You're navigating the Mojave Desert using Pokémon Go."

"Not just navigating!" He waggled his eyebrows while somehow also taking a swig from a suspiciously labeled water bottle. "Also catching many Sandshrew. Excellent multitasking.”

Bob stirred suddenly, blinking sleepily at them like a man waking into a nightmare. His hair stuck up at absurd angles, and there was a faint imprint of seat fabric on his cheek. "Are we... are we in the desert?"

Alexei beamed like a proud father. "Good morning, Sleeping Robert! Welcome to Team Limo Adventure!" He swerved to avoid hitting what was either a tumbleweed or some strange desert creature. "Now we bond over shared hardship of no toilets for hundred miles. Is classic road trip experience! Like American 'National Lampoon,' but with more existential dread!"

Bob looked down at the guinea pig now nibbling on his hoodie strings with quiet determination. "Daisy," he said slowly, as if realizing his life had taken a sharp turn into absurdity, "I think we might be in trouble."

Yelena decided to ignore all her current troubles—the oppressive desert heat seeping through the windows, the absurdity of their candy-apple escape vehicle, the fact that Valentina's shadowy forces were undoubtedly hunting them—with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent a lifetime dodging emotional baggage. She grabbed the duffel bags they'd hastily packed during their midnight escape, the fabric still damp with dew from the Maryland grass. The zipper screeched in protest as she yanked it open, revealing neatly folded tactical gear beneath a layer of protein bars and spare ammo. The familiar weight of a loaded magazine comforted her as she began inventorying their supplies with military precision, the numbers adding up to "not nearly enough" for whatever fresh hell awaited them in this wasteland.

"Look away," Yelena ordered Bob, already pulling her shirt over her head without ceremony. The fabric caught briefly on the strap of her sports bra before sliding free, revealing the latticework of scars across her torso—some thin and surgical, others ragged and violent. A living map of her history written in flesh.

Bob made a sound like a stepped-on squeaky toy and spun so fast he nearly elbowed Daisy the guinea pig off his lap. His entire body went rigid, shoulders hunched up to his ears as he stared determinedly at the desert landscape whizzing past the window. "Yep! Looking! Looking at rocks! Very interesting... geology out there." His voice cracked on the last syllable, hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles turned white.

Yelena rolled her eyes as she shimmied into her combat pants, bracing one hand against the ceiling as the limo hit another bump. "It's just skin, Bob. You've seen people change clothes before." The vehicle lurched violently, sending her shoulder crashing into the roof lining. "Ow. Damn it, Dad!"

"Was not my fault!" Alexei called back cheerfully, his reflection in the rearview mirror grinning like a madman. "American roads have many... character!" He punctuated this by swerving around what might have been a pothole or possibly a small crater.

"Still not looking!" Bob announced to the window, his voice climbing an octave with each word. His fingers fumbled with his hoodie strings, tying and untying them with nervous energy that made the veins in his hands stand out. The tips of his ears burned crimson, visible even from Yelena's angle.

Yelena fastened her thigh holster with practiced efficiency, the weight of her Glock a familiar comfort. "You know," she continued conversationally as she adjusted the straps, "if you were really a superpowered killing machine, you'd be less flustered about a woman changing clothes."

Bob made a sound like a deflating balloon, his shoulders creeping even higher toward his ears. "I'm not—that is—it's just—" He took a steadying breath that did nothing to calm the flush spreading across his neck. "Polite?"

"Polite is holding doors, not having an existential crisis over a sports bra," Yelena deadpanned, snapping her belt buckle into place with finality. She rolled her discarded clothes into a tight bundle and stuffed them in the duffel. "Alright, you can turn around. Crisis averted."

Bob did so with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb—each movement measured and cautious—only to immediately regret it when he saw Yelena in full tactical gear. The black Kevlar weave hugged her torso, the straps and holsters accentuating the lethal efficiency of her frame. His hands flew back to his hoodie strings, twisting them into elaborate nautical knots as his flush spread from his ears down to his neck. "So. Um. That's... tactical." He gestured vaguely at her entire ensemble.

"Observant," Yelena deadpanned. The silence stretched just long enough to become uncomfortable before Bob suddenly blurted out:

"I killed someone."

The words landed like a grenade in the confined space, sucking all the air from the limo's interior. Even Alexei's tuneless humming from the front seat cut off abruptly.

Yelena stilled, then deliberately sat back against the leather seat that suddenly felt both too hard and too soft at once. "Taskmaster was going to kill us all," she said evenly, watching the way Bob's fingers trembled against his knees, repeating the same conversation they've had many times now. "It was self-defense."

"That's not—" Bob ran a shaky hand through his hair, leaving it standing in chaotic spikes. He stared at his palms like they belonged to someone else, the hands of a stranger capable of impossible violence. "I don't even know how I did it. One second she was there, and then..." His fingers flexed unconsciously, the memory of that terrible power coursing through them again. "What if it happens again? What if I—"

Yelena studied him—the way his shoulders tensed like drawn bowstrings, the nervous tap of his foot against the floor that matched the racing pulse in his throat. She'd seen that look before, on new Widows after their first kill. The bone-deep realization that your body could do things your mind hadn't consented to, that the line between person and weapon was thinner than anyone wanted to admit.

The limo hit another bump, sending Daisy scrambling for purchase in Bob's lap. The mundane distraction seemed to ground him, his fingers automatically moving to steady the small creature even as his thoughts clearly spiraled.

"We'll figure it out," Yelena said, more gruffly than intended. She reached forward and tapped his knee—once, briefly—the closest thing to comfort she could manage. "You, me, even Alexei with his terrible driving." She hesitated, then added, the words unfamiliar on her tongue, "You're not alone in this."

Bob's shoulders relaxed slightly, the death grip on his hoodie strings easing just enough that circulation might return to his fingers. Before he could respond, Alexei's voice boomed from the driver's seat with all the subtlety of a foghorn: "Is true! Family sticks together! Even when son-in-law is strange little man who kills with magic!" He punctuated this by honking the limo's absurdly loud horn at a completely empty stretch of road.

Yelena's groan could have powered a small turbine. "He's not my—"

Chapter Text

The gas station looked like it hadn't seen a paying customer since the Reagan administration. The peeling sign above the pumps read "Desert Oasis" in sun-bleached letters, the irony almost painful. Faded stickers on the glass door advertised prices that would've been nostalgic if they weren't so depressing - 89 cents for premium, the numbers barely legible under layers of grime and decades of UV damage. The building itself sagged like a drunk leaning against a lamppost, its stucco facade cracked and pockmarked from years of sandstorms. A single flickering fluorescent light inside gave everything a sickly green hue, like the whole structure was suffering from food poisoning. Even the tumbleweeds seemed to avoid the place, piling up against the chain-link fence like nature's own barricade.

The trio had pulled the ridiculous red limo up to the farthest pump, its gleaming paint job looking absurd against the cracked concrete and rusted oil drums that littered the lot like industrial tombstones. The limo's reflection in the grimy store windows stretched and warped, making it appear even longer and more out of place. Somewhere under the awning, a wasp buzzed angrily around a long-dead light fixture.

Yelena sat sideways in the open limo door, one boot propped on the frame as she scanned their surroundings with professional detachment. Her fingers drummed a restless rhythm against the pistol grip in her lap - three taps, pause, two taps - the motion at odds with her otherwise still posture. The desert heat made the air shimmer above the asphalt, playing tricks on the eyes, but she didn't blink. Every sense was tuned to potential threats - the creak of the sign in the wind, the distant cry of a hawk, the faint hum of power lines. Her nostrils flared at the mingled scents of gasoline, stale oil, and something faintly rotting from the dumpster out back.

Across from her, Bob fidgeted with Daisy's makeshift leash—a repurposed hoodie string tied around the guinea pig's middle like some kind of fuzzy belt. The creature sniffed at the gasoline-scented air with clear disapproval, her tiny nose wrinkling as she pawed at Bob's wrist in protest. "I know, I know," he murmured, stroking between her ears. "Just a quick pit stop."

The silence had stretched taut since they'd pulled in, the kind of quiet that made ears ring. Bob cleared his throat. "You think they have snacks inside?" His voice sounded too loud in the desert stillness, bouncing off the empty pumps. "Like those weird gas station taquitos that always look like they've been rotating since the Clinton years? Or maybe—"

The glass storefront exploded outward as Alexei came flying through it in a shower of glittering shards. The big man hit the concrete hard enough to send up a cloud of dust, rolling through a display of motor oil that erupted in slippery black puddles around him. Glass rained down like jagged hail, scattering across the oil-slicked pavement.

"Stay in the car!" Yelena barked at Bob as she kicked open the limo door, rolling into a crouch with her gun already up and tracking. Her boots skidded slightly on the oil-slicked concrete as she found her footing. Her eyes locked onto the figure stepping through the broken window—John Walker, his Captain America-inspired armor gleaming under the buzzing fluorescents, face set in that particular brand of military determination that never ended well for anyone. The shield on his arm caught the light as he advanced, casting prismatic reflections across the oil-stained concrete like deadly rainbows.

Walker didn't bother with warnings or one-liners. He just raised his pistol and fired three rapid shots that pinged off the limo's frame as Yelena ducked behind it. The impacts left dime-sized craters in the candy-apple paint. "Dad!" she yelled over the ringing in her ears, keeping her sights trained on Walker's advancing form. "You alive?"

From the wreckage of the oil display came a pained groan followed by, "This is terrible American hospitality!" Alexei emerged like an angry bear from hibernation, shaking glass from his beard with one meaty hand while the other clutched a now-dented can of motor oil. His robe was torn at the shoulder, revealing a nasty-looking cut that was already staining the fabric crimson. Then he charged, roaring something in Russian that was definitely anatomically impossible, his boots slipping slightly on the oil-slicked pavement before finding traction.

Yelena used the distraction to flank right, her boots silent on the oil-slicked concrete despite the treacherous surface. Every step was calculated—weight balanced on the balls of her feet, center of gravity low, muscles coiled like springs. But Walker anticipated her movement with unsettling precision—bashing Alexei away with the shield hard enough to send the big man crashing into a gas pump with a metallic clang that echoed across the lot like a funeral bell. The impact dented the pump's housing, setting the display screen flickering erratically as numbers spun into nonsense.

Before Yelena could react, Walker fired again, the rounds chewing through the air where her head had been a millisecond earlier. She felt the heat of their passage against her cheek as she executed a desperate dive behind a stack of oil cans. The smell of petroleum filled her nose as one of the cans sprang a leak from a stray bullet, thick black fluid oozing across the concrete in a spreading stain that mirrored the blood trickling from Alexei's split lip.

The fight became a blur of motion and violence, each exchange measured in fractions of seconds:

Yelena came up firing, her shots forming a perfect grouping that forced Walker to raise his shield defensively. The bullets sparked off the surface in brilliant blue-white flashes as she closed the distance, leading with a knife-hand strike aimed at his exposed wrist—a Red Room technique designed to disarm opponents permanently. Walker countered with a brutal shield bash that she barely dodged, feeling the displaced air ruffle her hair as the metal edge passed millimeters from her face. The afterimage of the shield's scratched surface burned across her vision.

Alexei recovered with a bellow that shook the windows, ripping the damaged gas pump from its concrete moorings with a screech of protesting metal. The veins in his neck stood out like cables as he swung it like a baseball bat, the severed fuel line whipping through the air and spraying gasoline in wide arcs. Walker was forced into a hasty retreat, his boots slipping on the slick concrete. The pump hit the ground with a shower of sparks that made everyone pause—a collective breath held—but thankfully didn't ignite the spreading fuel. The smell of unleaded gasoline grew overpowering, stinging their eyes and throats.

Yelena pressed the momentary advantage with a spinning kick that connected solidly with Walker's ribs, feeling something give under her boot with a satisfying crunch. He grunted—the first sign of pain he'd shown—but retaliated with a pistol whip that caught her across the temple. Stars exploded across her vision as she stumbled back, her equilibrium shattered. The world tilted nauseatingly, and she tasted copper where her teeth had cut into the inside of her cheek.

Walker didn't waste the opportunity after hitting Yelena. He turned toward the limo with military precision, his shield glinting in the desert sun like a beacon as he crossed the parking lot in six purposeful strides. Each footfall sent tiny pebbles skittering across the asphalt, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. When he reached the vehicle, his enhanced fingers dug into the door frame like it was tissue paper, the metal groaning in protest.

With a screech of tortured metal that set Yelena's teeth on edge, he ripped the entire back door clean off its hinges, tossing it aside like a child discarding a toy. The heavy door tumbled end over end before embedding itself in the gas station's exterior wall with a thunderous crash that sent drywall dust billowing through the broken windows. The limo rocked on its suspension, the remaining back door swinging wildly on its hinges like a broken wing.

Inside, Bob sat frozen, Daisy clutched protectively in his hands. The guinea pig's tiny heart beat wildly against his palm, its rapid pulse visible through the delicate skin. Walker's shadow fell across them both, elongated and distorted by the harsh desert light. Sunlight glinted off the barrel of the pistol as it came up, pressing cold and unyielding into Bob's side through the fabric of his hoodie. The metal's chill seemed to seep straight through to his bones.

"Come quietly," Walker ordered, his voice all business, the kind of tone that brooked no argument. His fingers dug into Bob's arm with enough force to leave bruises as he hauled him halfway out of the vehicle. The sudden movement sent Daisy scrambling up Bob's sleeve in a panic, her tiny claws pricking his skin through the fabric. "Or I bring you in with a few extra holes."

Yelena and Alexei both froze where they stood, hands raised in surrender not out of fear but tactical necessity. The standoff stretched for endless seconds, each heartbeat thundering in Yelena's ears louder than the last. The only sounds breaking the silence were Daisy's panicked squeaks from where she'd burrowed into Bob's collar and the intermittent buzz of a dying neon sign fighting its last battle against entropy. Sweat trickled down Yelena's back beneath her tactical gear, tracing icy paths between her shoulder blades as she calculated angles, distances, the infinitesimal odds of reaching Walker before his finger could complete that fatal quarter-inch of trigger pull.

Then Bob made his move—a clumsy, desperate attempt to disarm Walker that would have been laughable if not for the stakes. His hands fumbled at Walker's wrist in a motion that looked more like a bad handshake than any proper combat technique, his fingers trembling visibly even from where Yelena stood. The gun went off with a deafening bang that echoed across the empty desert, the sound bouncing off distant rock formations before fading into stunned silence.

For one terrible moment, Yelena's world narrowed to the smoking barrel of Walker's gun and the hole torn through Bob's hoodie. Her breath caught in her throat, muscles coiled to spring forward even as her mind calculated the irreversible trajectory of events.

Then Bob looked down in shock at where the bullet had torn through the fabric... revealing unbroken skin beneath. His breath came in short, disbelieving gasps as he prodded the spot where the bullet should have entered with trembling fingers. No blood. No pain. Just smooth, unharmed flesh beneath the ruined fabric.

His wide eyes met Walker's just as something inside Bob seemed to snap. A strange white light flickered deep in his pupils for half a heartbeat - like distant lightning beneath ocean waves - before his hand shot out—not striking, but pushing at the air between them with that same instinctive motion he'd used on Taskmaster, fingers splayed wide as if pressing against an invisible wall.

The effect was instantaneous. Walker launched backward like he'd been hit by a freight train, his body arcing up, up, up into the cloudless sky until he was just a speck against the blue, his scream trailing behind him like a comet's tail. The pistol tumbled from his grip, clattering to the pavement with finality as he shrank to a dot in the vast desert sky.

Yelena rushed to Bob's side before the dust had even settled, her fingers probing the bullet hole in his hoodie with urgent precision. The edges of the fabric were singed black from muzzle flash, the cotton fibers curled inward where the bullet should have torn through flesh. "You're not shot," she breathed, unable to hide her astonishment as she confirmed what her eyes were telling her. The skin beneath was warm but unbroken, not even a bruise forming where the bullet should have torn through muscle and bone. Her thumb brushed the spot unconsciously, as if needing physical proof.

Alexei whooped, clapping so hard it sounded like gunfire. "HA! Like volleyball serve! Gold medal technique!" He bounded over to slap Bob on the back hard enough to stagger him, his face split in a grin that showed every one of his teeth. "You are a natural! First kill was assassin, now fake Captain America! Next week, maybe president!" He mimed throwing someone into the stratosphere with exaggerated windup. "Bye-bye White House! Hello Bob House!"

Bob blinked rapidly, his hands shaking as he stared at his palms like they belonged to someone else. The fading glow in his eyes left afterimages when Yelena looked away. "Did I just... kill a guy?" His voice was small, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat. Daisy poked her head out from his collar, whiskers twitching as she sniffed the charged air.

Yelena was about to respond when a distant, building scream cut through the desert air—the sound of a man who'd just realized gravity wasn't just a good idea, it was the law. They all looked up just in time to see Walker plummeting back to earth like a particularly patriotic meteor, his limbs flailing as he tried in vain to control his descent. The impact shook the ground, sending up a plume of dust and asphalt chunks as he cratered into the parking lot not twenty feet from where they stood.

"If the ground didn't finish him," Yelena said, drawing her pistol with a smooth motion that belied the exhaustion creeping into her muscles, "I will." She racked the slide with more force than necessary, the metallic click echoing with finality across the ruined gas station. The desert heat made the gun's grip tacky against her palm, the scent of gun oil mixing with the acrid tang of spilled gasoline and the coppery bite of blood in the air.

"Wait!" Bob grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through Yelena, like static electricity with an aftertaste of sunlight, that strange energy she'd seen in his eyes still lingering just beneath his skin. "We don't have to kill him! We could just... tie him up? Leave him here?" His eyes pleaded with hers, that same heartbreaking earnestness that had somehow survived whatever horrors had been done to him.

Yelena gave him a flat look that had made hardened mercenaries reconsider life choices. The kind of look Natasha used to give her when she'd done something particularly stupid as a child. "He's a super-soldier, Bob. Ropes last about as long as New Year's resolutions." She nodded toward the crater Walker had just created in the parking lot, where dust still swirled around his motionless form like a miniature sandstorm. "And leaving him means he reports everything he's seen about you. Which, need I remind you, includes the whole..." She mimed throwing someone into orbit with a lazy flick of her wrist.

Alexei suddenly gasped like he'd had an epiphany, snapping his fingers loud enough to startle Daisy back into hiding. The sound echoed off the broken gas pumps like a gunshot. "Wait wait wait!" He jogged over to the wrecked gas station with surprising agility for a man his size, his feet slapping against the oil-slicked concrete with the grace of a drunken ballerina. He returned moments later with a length of rebar that he'd somehow procured from the wreckage, the twisted metal gleaming dully in the sunlight. "We take him with us! Interrogate! Learn all Valentina's secrets!" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he twisted the metal rod into a pretzel shape with his bare hands, the tendons in his forearms standing out like cables. "Make him sing like tiny bird!"

Yelena sighed, rubbing her temples where a headache was forming with nuclear intensity. The skin there was tender from Walker's pistol whip, the bruise already purpling beneath her fingertips. "Fine. We'll take him with us." The words tasted like surrender, and she hated it. "But you," she pointed at Bob, her finger nearly poking his chest, "are in charge of babysitting our new prisoner since you're so set on keeping him." Her glare could have melted steel, but Bob only blinked at her with those infuriatingly guileless eyes.

Bob blinked. "Like... a pet?" He looked down at the guinea pig, who stared back with an expression that clearly said 'I want no part of this.' Daisy's tiny nose twitched in apparent disapproval as she burrowed deeper into Bob's pocket, only her twitching whiskers visible.

Yelena sighed with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to affection - a feeling she promptly shoved into the same mental lockbox where she kept memories of her childhood. This was her life now - protecting a walking supernatural disaster and his emotional support rodent, while hauling around an unconscious super-soldier in a bullet-riddled limousine with her overenthusiastic father figure, all while covered head to toe in fuel and oil that made her smell like a mechanic's rag. The universe, she decided, owed her several very large drinks.

Alexei chose that moment to reappear, now fully decked out in his Red Guardian uniform, the red star on his chest gleaming proudly despite the dust and sweat. He'd somehow found time for a complete costume change in the middle of the desert—Yelena didn't want to know where he'd been keeping it—and was currently adjusting the fit with the precision of a Hollywood star preparing for their close-up. "Is perfect timing for costume change!" he declared, striking a pose that showed off the frankly unnecessary musculature of the suit. "Now we have proper prisoner transport!" He gestured grandly at the limo, which now had only three functioning doors and a growing puddle of something suspicious underneath that smelled suspiciously like transmission fluid.

Yelena just sighed again, long-suffering, as she began dragging Walker's unconscious form toward the limo. The super-soldier weighed approximately as much as a small car, his dead weight leaving twin trails in the dirt as his boots scraped along. Alexei immediately set to work wrapping the rebar around the super-soldier's body with the enthusiasm of a child crafting a macaroni necklace, humming the Soviet anthem under his breath all the while. The metal groaned in protest as he twisted it into makeshift restraints, his massive hands moving with surprising dexterity.

Bob hovered nearby, wringing his hands. "Should we... I don't know, check for concussions or something?" He reached out tentatively toward Walker's forehead, then pulled back as if afraid the man might bite.

Yelena snorted, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. It came away streaked with grease and blood. "If he wakes up, you get to push him into the sky again." She wiped her greasy hands on her pants. "Now help me stuff Captain America 2.0 into the backseat before I change my mind about this terrible plan."

Daisy sneezed from Bob's pocket, as if to remind them all that at least one member of their bizarre party remained blissfully uncomplicated. For now. The sound was tiny but decisive, like a period at the end of a very long, very strange sentence.

Chapter Text

The limousine's battered air conditioning wheezed like a dying animal as they crossed into Arizona, its struggling vents barely stirring the heavy desert air that seeped through the cracked windows. The landscape shifted subtly from endless desert scrub to towering red rock formations that glowed like embers in the afternoon sun, their layered striations telling ancient stories of geological violence. Dust swirled in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the cabin, motes dancing around their bruised and battered faces.

Yelena watched in the rearview mirror as John Walker jolted awake with a gasp, his entire body tensing against the rebar restraints the moment consciousness returned. The metal groaned in protest as his enhanced muscles flexed instinctively, the sound setting Yelena's teeth on edge. His head snapped up, bleary eyes blinking against the sunlight streaming through the spider-webbed windows, his blond hair matted with blood and dirt from his crater landing.

"AH!" Alexei bellowed from the passenger seat, slapping the dashboard hard enough to make his phone jump from its precarious perch on the center console. The device skittered across the sticky vinyl before tumbling into the footwell, where it joined a growing collection of snack wrappers and spent shell casings. "Welcome to Arizona! The beautiful state of... uh..." He squinted at a passing road sign that listed distances to Flagstaff and Sedona, his lips moving silently as he sounded out the unfamiliar names. "Grand Canyon! And... cactuses! And..." He snapped his fingers loud enough to startle Daisy from her nap in Bob's lap. "That one town where people think aliens crashed! Very important American cultural site!"

John's head whipped around with military precision, his tactical assessment of their surroundings almost audible in the sudden tension that filled the limo. His gaze - sharp despite the lingering concussion - locked onto Yelena first, noting her relaxed posture and the casual way her fingers rested near her thigh holster. Then flicked to Alexei, taking in the man's ridiculous uniform and even more ridiculous grin. Before finally landing on Bob, who gave a slight, awkward wave from his corner of the limo, Daisy peeking out from his collar like a fuzzy spectator to this unfolding disaster.

"What the hell—" John's voice was rough with sleep and pain, the words scraping out of his throat like they'd been dragged over broken glass. He tested his restraints again, the rebar creaking ominously but holding firm against even his enhanced strength. A vein pulsed in his forehead as he strained. "Let me go right now." The command in his tone would have worked on subordinates, would have made junior agents snap to attention - but Yelena just rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

"Ah, he speaks!" Alexei turned in his seat far enough that the limo drifted momentarily into the oncoming lane before correcting. "Was beginning to think Bob broke you permanently. Not that it would be tragedy—America has many Captain replacements. Like... what is name... that guy from Twilight movies?" He snapped his fingers again. "Robert Pattinson! Very broody, very dramatic—perfect for modern audiences!"

John ignored him, his focus zeroing in on Bob with unsettling intensity, the way a hawk might study a particularly puzzling mouse. "What the fuck are you?" The question came out half-curious, half-accusatory, laced with something that might have been fear beneath the anger.

Bob shrunk back into his seat like he was trying to phase through the leather, his fingers nervously stroking Daisy's fur in a rhythm that was either calming for the guinea pig or himself - possibly both. "I'm... Bob?" It came out as a question, his voice cracking on the single syllable. "Robert Reynolds, technically, but—"

"Cut the bullshit," John snarled, straining against his bonds with renewed vigor. His gaze flicked to Yelena, then back to Bob, calculating. "Normal people don't throw trained operatives fifty feet in the air with their fucking minds." His nostrils flared as he took in Bob's hunched posture, the way his free hand trembled slightly against his knee. "And you're just okay with traveling with whatever this is?"

Yelena adjusted the rearview mirror with deliberate slowness, angling it to get a better look at their captive. The sunlight caught the fading bruise on her temple, painting the purple skin with gold. "Bob stays. You're tied up in the back of a limo that smells like gasoline and poor life choices." She tilted her head. "Maybe reconsider who's in the weaker position here."

John barked a humorless laugh that turned into a cough halfway through, his ribs clearly still tender from both the fall and Yelena's earlier kick. "You think this changes anything? They'll send teams after me. Black ops. Drones." His eyes tracked to the passing landscape outside, the endless expanse of desert that offered no cover. "You're driving a fucking parade float through the desert—you won't last twelve hours."

"People are already after us," Yelena countered, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she parroted his own words back at him. She reached into the duffel bag at her feet and produced a bottle of water, taking a slow sip just to watch his throat work with thirst. "See, we have this problem where super-soldiers keep showing up where they're not wanted." She glanced at him in the mirror, her gaze sharp enough to draw blood. "Sound familiar?"

John's jaw worked, his biceps straining against the rebar with enough force to make the veins stand out like topography maps. A drop of sweat traced down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his torn uniform. "You don't understand what you're dealing with. That thing—" He jerked his chin at Bob with such venom that Daisy actually squeaked in alarm, "—is a walking WMD. You really think Valentina’s just going to let you walk away with him?"

That gave Yelena pause, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around the water bottle. The plastic crinkled in her grip, but she recovered quickly, her mask of indifference sliding back into place. "Oh no, did I steal Valentina's favorite toy?" She affected a pout that would have been comical if not for the cold calculation in her eyes. "However will she manage without her precious murder machine?" The words tasted bitter on her tongue, too close to home.

Alexei snorted, tossing a peanut into his mouth from a gas station bag that proclaimed them to be 'HOT & SPICY!' in aggressively cheerful font. "Is funny because is true! Valentina collects people like trading cards. Very sad hobby for grown woman." He shook his head mournfully. "No stamps, no coins, just living weapons. Where is joy? Where is passion?"

Yelena and John were still arguing, their voices sharp enough to cut glass, when the first bullet shattered the limo's rear window. The gunfire came without warning—three precise shots that punched through the trunk in quick succession before anyone could react, sending glass cascading over the backseat like deadly confetti. The sudden violence froze them all for half a heartbeat - just long enough for the acrid smell of gunpowder to reach their noses.

"Get down!" Yelena barked, her combat reflexes kicking in a split-second before conscious thought. She shoved Bob's head below window level with one hand while drawing her pistol with the other, her shoulder connecting painfully with the doorframe as she twisted to assess the threat. More gunfire erupted in staccato bursts, the bullets chewing through the limo's thin metal skin like it was tissue paper. John, still bound with rebar, had no choice but to flop onto his side with an undignified grunt, his face smashing into the leather seat hard enough to leave an imprint.

Yelena risked a glance backward through the spiderwebbed glass, squinting against the sunlight glinting off the broken edges. Two olive-green military vehicles were gaining on them, their heavy tires kicking up dust devils from the desert road. The lead vehicle's gunner adjusted his aim with mechanical precision—she barely ducked in time as another volley tore through the cabin, sending upholstery foam snowing through the air like some bizarre winter wonderland. The rounds punched through the front seat headrest, missing Alexei by inches.

"Alexei, lose them!" Yelena screamed over the gunfire, pressing herself flat against the seat as a bullet whizzed past where her head had been, close enough to part her hair. Her ears rang from the concussive blasts, the metallic taste of adrenaline flooding her mouth.

"I am losing!" Alexei bellowed back, stomping the gas pedal to the floor with enough force to dent the metal. The limo gave a pathetic wheeze and accelerated maybe three miles per hour faster, the engine sounding like a dying lawnmower being pushed beyond its limits. "Is very heavy car! And prisoner is fat!" He punctuated this by swerving violently to avoid another burst of gunfire, sending them all sliding across the seats.

"They're here to rescue me, you idiots!" John yelled, struggling against his restraints as bullets tore through the seat cushions around him, sending up puffs of foam and fabric that stuck to his sweaty face. One round passed so close to his ear he felt the heat of its passage. "Just let me go and maybe they won't turn you into Swiss cheese!"

Yelena popped up just long enough to fire two precise shots out the back—both ricocheting harmlessly off the lead vehicle's reinforced grill with bright sparks. "They don't care about you!" she snapped, ducking again as return fire took out another window, the glass exploding inward in a glittering shower. She spat out a shard that had landed in her mouth, the bitter taste of glass mixing with blood from where it cut her tongue. "You're collateral damage at this point!"

On the floor, Bob had curled into a protective ball around Daisy, his arms cradling the squeaking guinea pig as bullets punched through the door above them. His breathing came in short, panicked gasps that fogged the limo's carpet, his entire body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with the increasingly potent scent of gasoline—Yelena's nose twitched as the realization hit like a physical blow.

"We're leaking fuel!" she shouted, panic sharpening her voice. The carpet beneath her feet was already damp with it, the fumes making her eyes water and her head swim. A single spark could turn them into a rolling fireball. "Alexei, do something now or we're a moving fireworks show!"

The rest of her warning was drowned out by Alexei's colorful Russian curses as he swerved to avoid another volley, the limo's tires screeching in protest. The massive vehicle fishtailed wildly, its rear end swinging like a drunkard trying to walk a straight line. More gunfire. More shouting. The fuel smell grew stronger with each passing second, the puddle spreading beneath their feet.

And in the center of it all, Bob slowly rose from the floor.

His movements were oddly calm, deliberate—completely at odds with the pandemonium around him. He stared at his hands as if seeing them for the first time, flexing his fingers experimentally while bullets whizzed past his head with deadly indifference. The noise, the bullets, the screaming all seemed to fade into background static as he stepped toward the shattered window, his expression shifting from fear to something far more dangerous—recognition.

"Bob, get down!" Yelena reached for him, her fingers brushing the hem of his hoodie, but it was too late. The air around him seemed to shimmer with barely contained energy, the fine hairs on her arms standing at attention as static electricity crackled through the cabin.

Then—with the suddenness of a lightning strike—Bob thrust his right hand toward the shattered window. The air between his fingers warped visibly, bending light like a heat mirage for one impossible second before—

BOOM .

The lead military vehicle erupted in a fireball that lit up the desert brighter than the midday sun. The shockwave rattled the limo's remaining windows as twisted metal rained down across the highway in a deadly hailstorm. Secondary explosions rocked the armored vehicle as its fuel tank ignited, sending a mushroom cloud of black smoke boiling into the blue sky. For one breathless moment, the only sound was the roar of flames and the limo's struggling engine, the sudden silence more deafening than the gunfire had been.

Alexei whooped loud enough to rupture eardrums, nearly driving them off the road in his excitement. "HA! That's my son-in-law!" He reached back to slap Bob's shoulder with enough force to stagger him. "One shot! Like pro! We make good team - you explode things, I drive getaway car, Yelena looks pretty and scowls!"

Yelena could only stare, her mouth slightly open as the desert wind carried the stench of burning metal and fuel to them. The remaining military vehicle had fallen back momentarily, their driver clearly reassessing life choices after witnessing their companion vehicle erupt into a fireball. But the reprieve wouldn't last—and the gasoline smell permeating their clothes was getting stronger by the second, the volatile fumes making her head swim.

"We need to bail. Now." Yelena grabbed Bob's arm, her fingers pressing into his sleeve hard enough to feel the strange warmth radiating from his skin. There was an almost electric quality to it, like static electricity but deeper, more alive. "Can you do that again?" Her voice was tight with urgency, her eyes darting between Bob and the pursuing vehicle that was already beginning to accelerate again.

Bob turned to her, and for a fleeting moment she saw it—a faint white glimmer deep in his pupils, like distant stars winking through a midnight sky. Then it was gone, extinguished as quickly as it appeared, and he nodded with a certainty that surprised her. "I can do it." His voice didn't shake this time, carrying a quiet confidence that hadn't been there before the first explosion.

"Then we go on three!" Alexei jerked the wheel hard right without warning, sending the limo careening toward the shoulder in a spray of gravel and dust. His massive hands spun the wheel like it was a toy, his biceps straining against the ridiculous spandex of his uniform. "ONE—"

"Wait, what are you—" John began, his protest cut short as the limo hit a bump that sent his face smashing into the seat again. The rebar groaned against his struggles, the metal protesting but holding firm.

"TWO—"

The soldiers in the remaining vehicle opened fire again, bullets stitching across the hood in a deadly line that punctured the radiator. Steam hissed from the fresh wounds in the limo's metal skin, the acrid scent mixing with the gasoline fumes that grew thicker with each passing second.

"THREE!"

Alexei launched himself out the driver's side like a cannonball, his massive form somehow moving with the grace of a trained acrobat. Yelena went out her door in a controlled slide, keeping one hand firmly on Bob's wrist while her other arm yanked John along like an angry, swearing suitcase. The super-soldier's boots dragged twin furrows in the dirt as she hauled him bodily from the vehicle. Daisy clung to Bob's collar for dear life, her tiny claws digging into the fabric like miniature grappling hooks.

The abandoned limo careened off the road in a shower of dirt and sparks, its fuel trail glistening in the sunlight like a deadly breadcrumb trail. Bullets still flew as the remaining military vehicle closed in, the gunner adjusting his aim toward their fleeing forms.

"Bob!" Yelena shoved him behind the scant cover of a sandstone boulder, her eyes wild with urgency. She could feel his pulse racing beneath her fingers, see the way his breath came in short, sharp gasps. "Now would be good!" Her shout was nearly lost in the roar of an approaching engine.

Bob raised his hand with eerie calm, his fingers splayed toward the approaching threat. That same shimmer distorted the air around his fingertips, the very molecules seeming to vibrate with pent-up energy. Then the world exploded in fire and noise as the second vehicle detonated like a bomb, the concussion wave slamming into them with physical force. The chain reaction was instantaneous—the explosion raced along the fuel trail straight to the limo, which erupted in a fireball that sent a mushroom cloud of black smoke boiling into the sky, painting a dark smudge against the perfect blue.

Yelena's ears rang as dirt and pebbles rained down around them. She lifted her head to see the wreckage burning merrily in the ditch, twisted metal glowing cherry-red in places. No more gunfire. No more engines. Just the crackle of flames and Alexei's distant cheering as he pumped his fist in the air.

Then she noticed it—the fresh bullet holes peppering Bob's hoodie. Three neat punctures formed a perfect triangle over his heart, the edges singed black from the rounds' passage. Through the holes, unbroken skin gleamed in the sunlight, not even a bruise marring the surface. Yelena reached out almost against her will, her fingers brushing the spot where three bullets should have ended a man's life.

Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose Yelena surveyed their ragged group. The desert stretched endlessly in every direction, the heat already baking the sweat onto their skin. In the distance, vultures circled hopefully. "We walk from here," she announced, jerking her chin toward a distant rock formation that might offer cover. Her voice was hoarse from smoke inhalation. "Five miles due west to the highway."

John immediately erupted. "Are you insane? It's 110 degrees out there!" He rattled his makeshift rebar restraints for emphasis, the metal creaking ominously. Sweat poured down his face, cutting tracks through the soot and dirt. "I'm wearing Kevlar and you expect me to—"

"Would you prefer to stay here?" Yelena cut him off, gesturing to the still-burning wreckage of the limo. The flames cast dancing shadows across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes and the fresh cut on her cheekbone. "Maybe roast some marshmallows while we wait for Valentina's next team to arrive?" She hefted her pistol meaningfully. "Or we could just shoot you now and save you the heatstroke. Your choice."

Alexei, meanwhile, had already clapped Bob on the back with enough force to stagger a normal man, his massive hand leaving a dusty imprint on the ruined hoodie. "BOB! MY MAGIC EXPLOSION SON-IN-LAW!" His voice boomed across the desert like a cannon shot, startling a nearby horned lizard into scurrying under a rock in a flurry of tiny feet. "Two vehicles! POOF! Like capitalist economy under true communism!" He mimed explosions with his hands, complete with sound effects that would have embarrassed a six-year-old - high-pitched whistles followed by exaggerated kaboom noises that sent echoes bouncing off the distant rock formations. "You save us all! Very heroic! Very... what is word... cinematic!"

Bob immediately turned the color of the Arizona sandstone, the flush spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. He clutched Daisy like a living stress ball, the guinea pig's tiny feet paddling frantically against his palms as she sought purchase. The poor creature squeaked in protest as his fingers twitched nervously around her soft fur. "I-I mean, I guess? It was more of a reflex really, I didn't actually plan to—" His voice cracked on the last word, the adrenaline crash making his hands shake visibly.

"You saved our lives," Yelena cut in, her voice softer than usual but still edged with that familiar Belova steel. She stepped closer, close enough to see the fine layer of dust coating Bob's eyelashes, the way his pulse jumped in his throat. Meeting his eyes properly for the first time since the explosions—really looked at him—she found herself adding, "That was... impressive." The compliment tasted foreign on her tongue, like a language she'd studied but never spoken. She cleared her throat awkwardly, suddenly aware of how close they were standing.

John scoffed loudly, the sound grating like sandpaper. He strained against his restraints, the rebar creaking ominously. "Oh yeah, real hero," he sneered, jerking his head toward the still-smoking wreckage where black plumes rose into the cloudless sky. The acrid scent of burning rubber and fuel hung heavy in the air. "Congratulations on murdering what, eight guys? Ten?" His lip curled. "Some fucking power you've got there, Bobby." The nickname dripped with contempt.

The air changed instantly. Yelena saw it before anyone else—that flicker of white in Bob's eyes, like lightning behind stained glass, there and gone so fast she might have imagined it. His fingers stilled on Daisy's fur, his posture shifting subtly from awkward to... something else. Something older. When he spoke, his voice carried an unfamiliar weight, deeper and more resonant than his usual nervous stammer. "Maybe they deserved it." The words hung in the air, vibrating with something dangerous.

Daisy sneezed—a tiny, delicate sound that somehow cut through the tension like a knife.

The moment shattered. Bob blinked, the strange light in his eyes fading as quickly as it had appeared. He looked down at the guinea pig in his hands like he'd forgotten she was there, his expression shifting to horrified realization. "I-I mean... that's not..." His voice cracked back into its usual register, the brief moment of otherness gone as suddenly as it had come.

Yelena studied him—the way his fingers trembled slightly now, the sheen of sweat on his forehead that hadn't been there a moment ago, the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the bullet-riddled hoodie. The desert stretched endlessly around them, the heat waves making the horizon dance, suddenly feeling far too large and far too small all at once. She found herself reaching for him without thinking, her fingers brushing his wrist—just for a second—to check his pulse. His skin was fever-warm beneath her touch.

"Let's move," she said finally, turning toward that shimmering line where the highway waited. Her voice was all business again, the momentary softness gone. "We've got miles to cover before dark." She adjusted her grip on her pistol, the metal warm from the sun. "Alexei, take point. Walker, if you slow us down, I'm leaving you for the vultures." She didn't look back to see if they were following.

But as they began their trek—John grumbling colorful curses with every step, Alexei humming some song off-key, Bob characteristically quiet behind her—Yelena couldn't shake the image of those white-lit eyes, or the cold certainty in Bob's voice when he'd spoken those last words. The memory settled between her shoulder blades like a knife she couldn't reach, sharp and uncomfortable.

Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled. The sound carried on the wind like a warning, rising and falling in a way that raised the hairs on the back of Yelena's neck. Behind her, she heard Bob's footsteps hesitate for just a second before continuing, his breathing still uneven. Daisy sneezed again, the tiny sound somehow louder than the desert around them.

The sun beat down mercilessly as they walked, their shadows stretching long and strange across the sand. Yelena kept her eyes on the horizon, her fingers never far from her weapons. The highway shimmered in the distance, but it wasn't just heat making the air ripple now—it was the unspoken question hanging over them all: 

What exactly had she unleashed when she pulled Bob from that lab?

Chapter Text

After hours trudging through the blistering desert heat, the group finally reached a point that was slightly less... well, deserted. The sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange and deepening purple as evening approached. A dusty roadside parking area materialized like a mirage, complete with a weather-beaten picnic table bleached gray by years of sun exposure and a single flickering streetlight that buzzed like an angry insect. The real prize, however, was the lineup of vehicles belonging to some absent hikers - including a dingy 1990s Ford pickup truck with peeling paint the color of dried blood and a bumper sticker that read 'My Other Car is a Spaceship' next to a faded UFO graphic.

Yelena wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of grime across her forehead that mixed with the dried blood from her earlier wounds. Every muscle in her body ached from the miles-long trek while hauling their reluctant prisoner, her boots feeling like they'd been filled with lead. But the sight of potential transportation sparked new energy in her step, the promise of escape cutting through the exhaustion like a knife. "Finally," she muttered, cracking her knuckles with a series of pops that echoed in the quiet desert air as she approached the driver's side door.

While Alexei maintained his iron grip on John's restraints - the rebar now supplemented with several belts and a length of rope they'd scavenged from the limo wreckage, creating a makeshift harness that would make a bondage enthusiast blush - Yelena set to work. She peered through the truck's dust-caked window, noting the ancient locking mechanism with satisfaction. The interior smelled like stale cigarettes and regret even through the glass. A quick jab of her elbow shattered the side window with minimal noise, the glass crumbling into tiny shards that scattered across the worn upholstery like diamonds on a thrift store couch.

"Really?" John sneered, straining against his bonds. The metal creaked ominously but held, the various restraints digging into his tactical gear. "Breaking and entering now? What's next, jaywalking?" His sarcasm couldn't quite mask the exhaustion in his voice - even a super-soldier had limits when marched across the desert in full tactical gear under the Arizona sun.

Yelena ignored him, reaching through the broken window to unlock the door with practiced ease. The hinges protested with an earsplitting screech that sent a nearby raven flapping into the darkening sky as she pulled it open, releasing a wave of stale air that smelled of old fast food wrappers, motor oil, and something suspiciously like wet dog. With a slight grunt, she ducked inside, the vinyl seats crackling under her weight as she began the delicate work of hotwiring the ancient ignition system. Her knife made quick work of the plastic housing beneath the steering column, exposing a nest of wires that had probably been installed when Nirvana was still topping the charts.

"Bob," she called over her shoulder, her voice slightly muffled by the dashboard she was half-buried under, "get in the back." Her fingers danced beneath the steering column, tracing wires with the precision of a surgeon performing open-heart surgery. A spark jumped between two stripped cables, making her curse under her breath in Russian - a particularly creative phrase involving a bear, a bottle of vodka, and anatomically impossible positions.

Bob approached cautiously, cradling Daisy in one hand while using the other to help guide John into the truck - no easy task given the man's constant struggling. The guinea pig's nose twitched violently at the truck's interior smells, her tiny paws kneading nervously against Bob's palm. "C'mon man, just... just get in," Bob pleaded, his voice hoarse from dust and exhaustion. His own clothes were soaked through with sweat, the bullet holes in his hoodie a stark reminder of their earlier encounter. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."

John dug in his heels, his boots scraping against the cracked asphalt. "Oh I'm sorry, is kidnapping me inconvenient for you?" he snapped, but ultimately had little choice as Bob and Alexei muscled him into the backseat like a particularly uncooperative sofa. The truck rocked alarmingly on its suspension as the three grown men wrestled inside, Daisy squeaking in protest from her new perch on Bob's shoulder.

Yelena finally got the engine to sputter to life with a sound like a tuberculosis patient taking their first breath of the day, just as Alexei slammed the passenger door shut with enough force to rock the entire truck and probably shorten its lifespan by several years. The Russian beamed at their success, completely ignoring John's string of creative curses from the backseat that would have made a Marine drill instructor blush. "Is good truck!" Alexei declared, patting the dashboard with affection. "Strong like Russian tractor! Maybe we keep forever, yes?"

"When are you gonna finally unbind me?" John demanded, rattling his restraints against the door for emphasis. Sweat had plastered his blond hair to his forehead, and his uniform was streaked with dust from their long march. A thin trickle of blood from a cut on his temple had dried into a rusty streak down his cheek. "I'm not exactly a flight risk in the middle of nowhere. And these belts are cutting off my circulation."

Yelena didn't even glance back as she adjusted the rearview mirror, her eyes meeting John's in the reflection with icy calm. The truck's AC wheezed to life, blowing lukewarm air that smelled vaguely of mildew and failed dreams. "We'll unbind you when we kill you," she said flatly, her tone suggesting this was the most reasonable thing in the world.

A beat of silence passed before she added, deadpan, "Until then, suffer."

Bob immediately turned in his seat, his brow furrowing as the truck hit a pothole that sent them all jostling against each other. The movement made Daisy squeak in protest, her tiny claws digging into Bob's sleeve. "We're not going to kill him," he said firmly, his fingers tightening around the guinea pig protectively. The declaration hung in the air, underscored by the whine of the truck's struggling transmission. Daisy sniffed the air, her tiny nose twitching at the unfamiliar scents of oil, sweat, and desert dust that filled the cab.

John barked a humorless laugh that turned into a cough as the truck's exhaust fumes wafted through the broken window. "Could've fooled me," he shot back, jerking his chin toward the distant column of smoke still visible on the horizon - a dark smudge against the sky that marked all that remained of the military vehicles Bob had destroyed.

Bob's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him like air from a punctured tire. His fingers stilled on Daisy's fur as he stared down at the floor under his feet. "I didn't mean to," he murmured, so quiet it was nearly lost under the rumble of the engine and the whine of the ancient cassette player. The admission seemed to cost him something, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "I just... reacted. I'm sorry." His fingers resumed stroking Daisy's fur absently, as if drawing comfort from the small creature's steady heartbeat.

Yelena watched this exchange in the rearview mirror, her expression unreadable despite the fading light. The apology seemed to surprise John too - his sneer faltered for just a moment, his eyes flickering with something that might have been recognition before he recovered with a derisive snort. "Save it," he muttered, turning to stare out the window at the passing cacti.

Alexei, meanwhile, had found an ancient country music cassette tape wedged under the passenger seat and popped it into the truck's stereo with far more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. The twangy guitar and nasally vocals flooded the cab as some long-forgotten singer crooned about lost love and pickup trucks, the sound tinny through the truck's blown speakers.

John practically had to yell over the twangy country music blaring from the truck's tinny speakers. "Where the hell are we even going?" His voice dripped with frustration as he strained against his restraints, the rebar clinking against the door frame with each bump in the road. A bead of sweat traced its way down his temple, cutting through the layer of grime on his face.

At the exact same moment, Yelena coolly replied, "We're leaving the country," while Alexei cheerfully announced, "I have no clue!" Their overlapping answers hung in the air for a beat before John let out a disgusted snort and banged his head back against the seat.

"You realize leaving the country won't stop Valentina, right?" John rattled his restraints for emphasis, the metal scraping against itself with a sound like grinding teeth. "That woman's reach makes the CIA look like mall cops." He leaned forward as much as his bonds would allow, his breath hot and angry against the back of Yelena's seat. "Running just means you die tired." The fading desert light streaming through the windows painted sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the stubborn set of his jaw and the sweat still drying at his temples. "Better to face her head-on than spend the rest of your lives looking over your shoulders."

Yelena's grip tightened on the steering wheel, her knuckles bleaching white against the cracked vinyl cover. She stared straight ahead at the endless stretch of highway, the setting sun painting her sharp features in amber light and throwing her reflection back at her in the windshield - a ghostly double image of a woman who looked as tired as she felt. "It's a suicide mission," she said flatly, the words tasting like gunmetal and bad decisions.

John's answering grin was all teeth, the expression of a man who'd long since stopped caring about the odds. "Good."

That single word seemed to flip a switch in Alexei. He twisted in his seat with enough force to make the old truck sway dangerously, his eyes alight with sudden excitement. "AH! Now we are talking!" He slammed a meaty hand against the dashboard, making the speedometer needle jump erratically and several warning lights flicker to life. "We have makings of team! The angry one—" He pointed at Yelena, nearly poking her in the cheek as she swerved to avoid an armadillo crossing the road. "The magic one—" A finger jabbed toward Bob in the backseat, making the younger man flinch. "The prisoner—" A dismissive wave at John that nearly took out the rearview mirror. "And me! The handsome leader!" He struck a pose that made his Red Guardian uniform strain dangerously at the seams, the star on his chest catching the last rays of sunlight. "We go to New York, fight Valentina, become heroes!" His grin widened impossibly further. "And see sights! Maybe catch Broadway show after kicking ass! I hear Lion King has many political metaphors!"

Yelena didn't even glance over, her grip on the steering wheel tightening just enough to make the cracked leather creak. "Well, it's a good thing I'm driving then," she muttered, her tone drier than the desert they'd left behind. The setting sun painted the dashboard in hues of burnt orange, making the various warning lights glow like tiny distress signals.

Alexei crossed his arms with a petulant huff that made his Red Guardian uniform's seams strain dangerously with the movement. "When I am driving we will go to New York then!" he declared, as if this settled the matter once and for all, his voice booming loud enough to make Daisy burrow deeper into Bob's hoodie pocket.

Yelena didn't even glance his way, her eyes fixed on the endless stretch of highway before them. The truck's headlights cut through the gathering dusk, illuminating the occasional tumbleweed or roadkill. "Then you'll simply never drive," she said, her voice as final as a judge's gavel.

"What? This is mutiny!" Alexei crossed his arms over his broad chest, the motion making the truck list slightly to the right. His lower lip jutted out in a pout that looked ridiculous on a man who could probably bench press a small car. "I am best driver! Moscow to St. Petersburg in six hours flat!"

"With three stolen cars and an international incident," Yelena shot back without missing a beat, her fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the wheel. The truck hit a pothole, making them all bounce in their seats and sending Daisy scrambling for purchase on Bob's shoulder.

"Details!" Alexei made a flamboyant gesture that nearly knocked the rearview mirror off its mounting, his massive hand cutting through the air like a bear swatting at bees. "The point is—"

John chose that moment to let out a loud, derisive snort that turned into a cough as he inhaled a cloud of dust coming through the broken window. "Christ," he wheezed, wiping his watering eyes with his bound hands, "I'd rather take my chances with Valentina than listen to you two bicker all the way to—wherever the hell we're going." His tactical vest creaked as he slumped back against the seat, looking every bit the disgruntled road trip participant who hadn't signed up for this particular adventure.

Yelena's fingers flexed on the wheel, her short nails leaving tiny crescents in the worn vinyl. "Then jump out," she suggested sweetly, her voice dripping with false cheer. The truck hit another bump, making the suspension groan in protest. "We're doing eighty on the highway. It'll be quick." Her smile didn't reach her eyes, which remained as cold as Siberian winter. "Mostly."

The truck fell into temporary silence, the only sounds the rumble of the struggling engine, the whistle of wind through the broken window, and the faint squeaks from Daisy as she nibbled on a piece of protein bar Bob had produced from some hidden pocket. The desert landscape outside was giving way to sparse vegetation as they headed east, the sun dipping lower on the horizon and painting the cab in long shadows that stretched and warped with each passing mile marker.

After several miles of tense quiet broken only by Alexei humming along off-key to the radio, the Russian suddenly perked up again like an overexcited golden retriever spotting a squirrel. "I have idea!" he announced, as if struck by divine inspiration, slapping his thigh hard enough to leave a red mark. "We put vote to team! All in favor of going to New York to punch Valentina in face?" His hand shot up with enthusiasm.

John, after a beat long enough to convey exactly how much he regretted all his life choices leading to this moment, raised his bound hands as far as the restraints would allow. "Fuck it. Why not?" His shrug was more of a full-body motion thanks to the rebar. "Worst case scenario, I get to watch you all die horribly."

Bob hesitated, looking to Yelena for guidance like a lost puppy seeking directions. When none came - the assassin's stony expression giving nothing away - he slowly raised a tentative hand, though he kept Daisy cradled protectively in the other as if afraid someone might take a vote about her next. "I mean... if everyone else thinks..." His voice trailed off into uncertain mumbling.

Yelena didn't move, her gaze fixed on the road ahead like she could burn a hole through the asphalt with sheer willpower. The muscles in her jaw worked as she ground her teeth together, a faint ticking sound audible to everyone in the suddenly quiet cab. "This is the worst idea we've ever had," she said at last, the words dragged out of her like a confession.

Alexei beamed like he'd just won the lottery, his grin wide enough to show every one of his teeth. "Is unanimous then! To New York!" He reached for the radio dial with the enthusiasm of a child grabbing for candy, only for Yelena to smack his hand away with reflexes honed by years of dealing with his nonsense.

"We're not actually—" Yelena began, her voice rising in rare frustration, then cut herself off with a weary sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul when she saw the expectant looks from all three men (and one guinea pig, who had paused her snacking to stare up at Yelena with beady, hopeful eyes). Her shoulders then slumped in defeat, the movement so uncharacteristic that even John raised an eyebrow.

Chapter Text

The Target parking lot was eerily quiet at 2:37 AM, the flickering fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the empty asphalt like prison bars. Yelena killed the truck's sputtering engine with a relieved sigh that turned into a cough as she inhaled the lingering exhaust fumes. The sudden silence was almost deafening after hours of highway drone, broken only by the occasional pop of cooling metal from their overworked vehicle. The store's red bullseye logo loomed over them like a mocking eye, its cheerful corporate cheerfulness at odds with their battered, fugitive status.

John was the first to break the silence. "You've got to be kidding me," he groaned, rattling his rebar restraints against the door with enough force to leave fresh dents in the interior paneling. "We're stopping at a Target? Now?" His voice dripped with the particular disdain only career military men could muster for civilian errands, the kind of tone usually reserved for incompetent lieutenants and MREs that claimed to be "beef stew."

Yelena didn't even look at him as she unbuckled her seatbelt with one hand and whacked him on the back of the head with the other. The smack echoed through the cab like a gunshot, startling a nearby flock of pigeons into flight. "We've been wearing the same clothes for two days straight," she snapped, wrinkling her nose at the lingering smell of gasoline and sweat that permeated the truck's upholstery - and likely their very pores. "Unless you want to ride to New York smelling like a gas station bathroom that's been used as a meth lab, we're getting new outfits." She gestured to their motley crew - her tactical gear stained with blood and dirt, Alexei's Red Guardian costume now more grease than fabric and Bob's bullet-riddled hoodie. "We stick out enough as it is without looking like we just lost a fight with a trash compactor."

Bob, who had been quietly petting Daisy in the backseat while trying to avoid eye contact with their prisoner, cleared his throat with the tentative air of someone about to point out the obvious. "Uh... the store is closed?" He pointed to the darkened windows and locked doors visible through the windshield, where a handwritten sign announced cheerfully that they reopened at 8 AM. The fluorescent lights buzzed ominously overhead, making the shadows of abandoned shopping carts stretch long across the empty parking spaces.

Alexei's face lit up like a child on Christmas morning who'd just discovered Santa left him a tank instead of toys. "Is perfect!" he bellowed, slamming his door open with enough force to make the truck rock alarmingly on its suspension. The sound echoed across the empty parking lot like a gunshot. "No witnesses! No lines! No annoying questions at register!" He rubbed his hands together gleefully, the motion making his leather gloves creak. "Is why nighttime shopping is best shopping! Like Black Friday, but with more..." He mimed breaking and entering with surprisingly graceful hand motions. "...finesse."

Yelena and Bob exited the truck, the night air cool against their grimy skin. The parking lot asphalt still radiated heat from the day's scorching temperatures, creating odd thermal currents that made the distant shopping carts appear to shimmer.

John's eyes darted between the darkened store and his captors, his expression cycling rapidly through disbelief, outrage, and grudging resignation. "Wait, you're just gonna leave me in the car? With the guinea pig?" His voice climbed an octave, cracking slightly on "guinea pig." He rattled his restraints emphatically. "I'm tied up with rebar! What if there's an emergency?"

"Da!" Alexei nodded enthusiastically, completely missing the point. "Is perfect plan. You make friends with tiny comrade while we shop." He reached in to adjust Daisy's position on the seat. "Maybe teach her patriotic songs! Is never too early for political education!"

"Like hell I—"

"Would you rather we leave you tied to the bike rack?" Yelena interrupted sweetly, already testing the blade of her pocket knife with her thumb. "I hear they have complimentary security cameras."

John's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. "I'm a goddamn super-soldier," he growled, straining against his restraints hard enough to make the truck's frame creak. "Not a purse dog you can leave in the car with the windows cracked."

Alexei stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm. Good point." He brightened suddenly. "Ah! We take you inside then! You can be... what is word... mannequin!" He snapped his fingers. "Yes! We dress you in funny outfits, take pictures for Instagram!"

John's face turned an impressive shade of purple. "I will bite you," he threatened through gritted teeth, his eyes wild. "I swear to Christ, I will sink my teeth into whatever part of you I can reach and not let go until someone shoots me."

Alexei threw back his head and laughed uproariously, the sound echoing across the empty parking lot. "Ha! I bite back harder!" He bared his teeth in a terrifying grin. "Russian dentistry make jaws strong like bear trap!"

Yelena watched this exchange with the weary patience of a kindergarten teacher supervising recess, her fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on the truck's roof. When John started making credible threats involving the rebar and certain bodily orifices, she finally intervened. "Enough!" she snapped, rubbing her temples. "You can come inside, but if you try anything—" She mimed an explosion with her hands, then pointed meaningfully at Bob.

Five minutes later - after some creative rebar adjustment that allowed John to shuffle awkwardly but prevented any meaningful escape attempts - they'd reached a compromise. John would join them inside, mostly because Yelena decided tying him to a bike rack was more trouble than it was worth, and also because Alexei had started suggesting they duct tape him to one of the concrete parking barriers "for safekeeping."

The security alarm gave one half-hearted beep as Yelena jimmied the lock open with a pocket knife and sheer force of will, the mechanism yielding with a click that sounded almost embarrassed. "American quality," she snorted, holding the door for their ragtag group with a mocking bow. The interior smelled of artificial citrus and new plastic, the air conditioning still running just enough to make the hairs on Yelena's arms stand up as they stepped into the darkened store.

Yelena immediately commandeered a shopping cart with the authority of a general seizing battlefield territory, slamming it into motion with a sharp push. She began stuffing clothes into it with the ruthless efficiency of someone who'd looted her fair share of retail establishments across three continents - jeans, shirts, jackets all disappearing into the cart in a blur of motion. Her hands moved with practiced precision, assessing fabric quality and sizing with barely a glance before making her selections.

Alexei followed suit, his approach surprisingly methodical despite his usual bombastic personality. He grabbed multiple duffel bags ("For organization! Is not messy revolution!"), a first aid kit, and several packs of socks with the seriousness of a survivalist preparing for the apocalypse. When he noticed Yelena watching, he held up a six-pack of plain white t-shirts with a grin. "See? Practical! Like I taught you!"

The two Russians met near the underwear display, their carts nearly colliding. For a moment, they simply looked at each other - the hardened assassin and the washed-up superhero, both covered in dirt and blood and smelling like a gas station dumpster fire.

Meanwhile, Bob lingered awkwardly near the men's section with John, who was still bound but at least able to shuffle along thanks to Alexei loosening the restraints slightly after Yelena threatened to duct tape him to a clothing rack. The two men made an odd pair - Bob nervously picking at a rack of graphic tees like he was defusing bombs while John glared at a mannequin wearing athleisure wear as if it had personally offended him.

"You gonna pick something or just stare at it all night?" John finally snapped, his patience wearing thinner than the store's bargain-bin tank tops. His tactical boots squeaked against the linoleum as he shifted his weight, the rebar clinking softly.

Bob jumped slightly at being addressed, nearly knocking over an entire display of Hawaiian shirts. "I, uh... I don't really know what to get?" He held up a shirt that read "Netflix and Chill" in bold letters, then quickly put it back when realization dawned, treating the garment like it had suddenly become radioactive. "Maybe just some basics? Like... plain things?"

John rolled his eyes so hard it looked physically painful. "Christ, you really are useless, aren't you?" He nodded toward Yelena, who was efficiently grabbing jeans and shirts in Bob's size without even looking at the tags, her selections eerily accurate. "Your girlfriend's got you covered." The jab was delivered with the precision of a sniper's bullet.

Bob's face turned an impressive shade of red that nearly matched the Target logo above them. "She's not my—we're not—I mean—" His voice cracked like a teenager's as he gestured wildly between himself and Yelena, nearly taking out a display of baseball caps in the process. Daisy, still tucked in his hoodie pocket, squeaked in protest at the sudden movement.

John just smirked, enjoying Bob's discomfort with the petty satisfaction of a man who'd been dragged across state lines in rebar restraints. "So do I get any clothes, or am I supposed to ride to New York in tactical gear that smells like an oil rig worker's laundry hamper?"

Yelena didn't even glance up from her shopping as she called over her shoulder, "You can share with Bob." The mental image of the two grown men having to coordinate outfits was apparently amusing enough to make her lips quirk slightly.

Bob and John stood in awkward silence for a moment before Bob tentatively held up a plain blue t-shirt toward his reluctant companion. "This, uh... this might fit you?" The offering was timid, but genuine.

John stared at the shirt like it might bite him, then at Bob's hopeful expression, before sighing dramatically. "Fine. But if you try to dress me in anything with ironic slogans or cartoon characters, I will find a way to strangle you with these restraints."

As the "shopping" continued - with Alexei now wearing a ridiculous cowboy hat he'd found and doing his best impression of a rodeo announcer, and Yelena tossing socks and underwear into the cart with military precision - Bob quietly slipped away to another aisle. He returned with a small mesh carrier typically used for small pets. "For Daisy," he explained when Yelena raised an eyebrow at his find. The guinea pig sniffed at her new mobile home suspiciously before allowing herself to be transferred inside, her tiny nose twitching at the unfamiliar fabric.

Soon enough, they were all changing in various corners of the store - Yelena behind a clothing rack with the efficiency of someone who'd changed in far more dangerous places, Alexei in the middle of an aisle with zero regard for modesty ("Is just human body! Very natural!"), and Bob in an actual changing room because some shred of normalcy had to be maintained. John, still partially restrained, struggled into his new clothes with all the grace of a drunk caterpillar attempting to enter its cocoon, muttering curses under his breath the entire time.

John leaned against a checkout counter, the rebar restraints clinking as he shifted his weight. He watched with undisguised amusement as Yelena emerged from behind a clothing rack in fresh black jeans and a dark green hoodie, her short hair slicked back. The fluorescent lights overhead caught the sharp angles of her face as she knelt to lace up her new boots.

"So," he drawled, rattling the rebar for emphasis, the sound echoing through the empty store. "Now that we're all looking so stylish—" His gaze flicked to Alexei's new ridiculous cowboy hat and Bob's painfully normal outfit, "—when exactly do I get out of these?" He flexed his fingers as much as the restraints would allow. "Circulation's getting a little iffy."

Yelena paused mid-lace, her fingers stilling on the boot strings. Without looking up, she asked bluntly, "Are you done trying to kill us?" Her other hand rested near her holster, the threat implicit in the casual placement.

John considered this for a long moment, his eyes tracking between Yelena's ready stance, Alexei's hulking form, and Bob's... well, Bob-ness. Finally, he sighed like a man accepting his fate. "I don't particularly want to get thrown into the air like a baseball again, so... no." The admission came with a roll of his shoulders that might have been resignation or just stiffness from being bound for hours.

Yelena studied him for another beat before sighing and nodding to Alexei. "Do it."

Alexei approached with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball. "Is time for freedom, American!" he declared with entirely too much enthusiasm for someone about to release their prisoner. He grabbed the rebar with both hands, his biceps straining against his new leather jacket. The metal groaned in protest as he twisted it apart like taffy, the restraints falling away with a clatter that made Daisy squeak in her new carrier.

The moment his hands were free, John hauled back and punched Alexei square in the face with a right hook that had clearly been brewing for the last 300 miles.

The sound of fist meeting flesh echoed through the empty store like a gunshot, bouncing off the silent registers and abandoned shopping carts. Alexei staggered back a step - more from surprise than actual pain - as Yelena's gun was suddenly in her hand and pointed at John's forehead before he could even blink. The safety clicked off with a sound as final as a judge's gavel.

John slowly raised his newly freed hands in surrender, a trickle of blood from his split knuckles the only evidence of his brief rebellion. "I'm all good now," he said, his voice carefully neutral despite the smug tilt of his mouth. His eyes never left Yelena's as he flexed his injured hand, testing the knuckles.

"You punch like toddler!" Alexei complained, rubbing his jaw where a bruise was already forming beneath his beard. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor with theatrical disgust. "In Russia, we teach babies to hit harder than that!" He squared up, cracking his own knuckles ominously.

Yelena's gun didn't waver as she cut in, her voice colder than Siberian winter. "I swear to God, if I have to tie you back up—"

"With what?" John shot back, nodding to the twisted remains of the rebar on the floor. "You used all your craft supplies on your little art project."

Alexei puffed out his chest, his cowboy hat tilting precariously. "I have many belts! Very sturdy! Hold tank in place during—"

"Nobody cares about your belts!" John and Yelena snapped in unison, then glared at each other for the accidental agreement.

Bob hovered nervously nearby like a referee at a boxing match, clutching Daisy's carrier to his chest. "Maybe we should just... go?" he offered weakly, eyeing the security cameras that had been blinking ominously throughout their entire exchange. "Before someone calls the police?"

John suddenly stopped mid-retort, his head tilting as if hearing something the others couldn't. "You know," he said slowly, eyeing their very recognizable stolen truck through the store windows, "if you really don't want to get caught, we should change vehicles."

Yelena groaned, massaging her temples with her free hand while keeping the gun trained on John with the other. "You're a captive, not a consultant," she reminded him through gritted teeth.

But Bob, the traitor, nodded thoughtfully. "He's got a point," he offered, shifting Daisy's new mesh bag to his other hand. The guinea pig peered out curiously, her nose twitching at the tension in the air. "I mean... we are kind of noticeable right now."

John's smug grin could have powered a small city. He crossed his arms, the picture of self-satisfaction as he watched Yelena's expression cycle through irritation, resignation, and finally exhausted acceptance.

Before she could protest further, Alexei suddenly perked up like a bloodhound catching a scent. "I find a solution!" he announced with the confidence of a man about to make things significantly worse. Before anyone could stop him, he disappeared into the night, his new boots kicking up gravel as he jogged across the parking lot.

Ten minutes later - during which Yelena kept John at gunpoint while Bob nervously paced and Daisy nibbled on a stolen lettuce leaf - the Russian returned triumphantly behind the wheel of a battered 1980s van painted an unfortunate shade of mustard yellow. The vehicle backfired violently as it pulled up to the store entrance, coughing black smoke like an asthmatic dragon.

"Is perfect!" Alexei declared through the open window, gesturing grandly to the peeling paint and suspiciously stained upholstery. A faded airbrushed wizard adorned the side panel, its glittering stars mostly worn away by time. "No one suspects a van!" He beamed as if he'd just presented them with a fleet of stealth helicopters. "Also has very good sound system!" To demonstrate, he cranked the radio, filling the night air with the tinny sounds of 80s power ballads.

Yelena stared at the monstrosity, her gun hand dropping to her side in stunned disbelief. "That," she said slowly, "is the ugliest vehicle I've ever seen."

John nodded approvingly. "Exactly why it'll work." He smirked at her glare. "What? You said I wasn't a consultant." Without waiting for permission, he strolled to the van and climbed in, making himself at home in the mostly empty back.

Chapter Text

The van's interior was a symphony of unpleasantness - stale fast food wrappers crinkling underfoot, decades of motor oil baked into every surface, and that peculiar metallic tang that only comes from too many unwashed bodies in too small a space. The single overhead light flickered like a dying firefly, casting erratic shadows that made Yelena's already twitchy nerves vibrate like plucked guitar strings. She sat perched on one of the bench seats, sharp eyes locked onto John with the intensity of a hawk tracking its prey.

Across from her, the former Captain America was engaged in a losing battle with an axle grease stain on his neck, scrubbing at it with an old rag that might have once been red but had long since surrendered to a universal shade of grime. His face contorted in a series of increasingly dramatic expressions - first concentration, then frustration, and finally outright disgust as he discovered the rag might have been filthier than the oil itself. 

"Christ," he muttered, holding the offending cloth between thumb and forefinger like a dead rodent. "This thing's got its own ecosystem."

In the dim corner opposite them, Bob was losing his battle against exhaustion with the same grace as a narcoleptic at a chess tournament. His head would dip forward in slow motion, chin sinking toward his chest, only to jerk upright at the last second with a quiet gasp that suggested he'd surprised even himself by waking up. The cycle repeated with metronomic precision every ninety seconds - the slow descent, the sudden snap back to consciousness, the bleary-eyed confusion as he took in his surroundings anew each time.

Daisy, at least, was living her best life. The guinea pig snoozed peacefully in her mesh carrier on Bob’s lap, her tiny paws twitching as she dreamed whatever blissful rodent dreams filled her little head—probably involving endless lettuce and zero vehicular manslaughter.  

And then there was Alexei.

From the driver’s seat came the thunderous sounds of his snoring, each exhale rattling the van’s frame like a subwoofer. Yelena was half-convinced his nasal passages were engineered by Soviet scientists to double as a natural disaster warning system.

John finally abandoned his futile cleaning efforts, tossing the rag aside with a grimace. It landed in a suspicious dark stain on the floor with a wet plop that nobody wanted to investigate further. 

"Someone should really be driving at all times," he commented snidely, wiping his hands on his new jeans in a gesture that was both fastidious and futile. "Basic operational security. Page one of the manual." His tone carried that particular brand of military superiority that made Yelena's teeth ache.

She didn't even blink, her fingers tapping a restless staccato against her thigh holster where her favorite knife rested. "Someone needs to keep an eye on you at all times," she countered, her voice as dry as the Arizona desert they'd left behind. "Page one of my manual." The corner of her mouth twitched in satisfaction when she saw his eye do that little involuntary twitch she noticed he had when she got under his skin.

John rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck that way. He gestured toward Bob, who was mid-micro-nap, his chin nearly touching his chest. "Let Sleeping Beauty over there watch me with his weird mind powers or whatever." His voice dripped with enough sarcasm to drown a small village. "What’s the worst that could happen? He’ll dream me to death?"

As if summoned by the mockery, Bob startled awake with a snort that sent Daisy's ears twitching in annoyance, blinking at them with the bleary confusion of a man waking into a bad dream that just kept getting worse. "I actually have no clue how to do any of that," he admitted sheepishly, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms in a way that stretched his sweater sleeves over his knuckles. The dark circles beneath his eyes looked like bruises, suggesting he hadn't had a proper night's sleep since long before the lab. "It just... happens when I panic?" He shrugged helplessly, looking between them like a kid caught in his parents' argument. "Like a... a sneeze, but with more... existential dread and property damage?"

John threw his hands up. "Great. So we’ve got a human grenade with no pin, a retired Communist mascot who can’t stay awake, and you —" He jabbed a finger at Yelena. "—who thinks babysitting me is a full-time job."  

Yelena’s smile was all teeth. "Because it is."  

This launched a fresh round of bickering that grew increasingly heated, the van’s interior temperature seeming to rise with each exchanged barb. John’s voice took on that particular tone of military condescension that made Yelena’s trigger finger itch—the I-was-Captain-America-for-five-minutes cadence that implied he still thought he was in charge. Her deadpan comebacks, meanwhile, were sharp enough to draw blood, each one expertly aimed at his fragile ego.  

Soon enough, both of them were on their feet, the van swaying dangerously as their movements shifted its weight distribution. John loomed in that way he thought was intimidating (it wasn’t), while Yelena stood her ground, unimpressed.

John's face twisted into that special brand of incredulous disgust he reserved for things that didn't fit neatly into his soldier-boy worldview. "You mean to tell me," he said, each word dripping with condescension as he threw his hands up in exasperation, "we've got a walking WMD who can't even weaponize on command ?" His voice climbed an octave on the last word, cracking like a teenager's. "What's next, a nuclear missile that only works when it's feeling emotional ?" 

Yelena felt the last thread of her patience snap with an almost audible ping . Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, the way they did right before she made people regret their life choices. The stifling air in the van suddenly felt ten degrees hotter. 

"Bob's not your WMD ," she bit out, stepping forward until she was close enough to count the stupid pores on John's stupid face. The van hit another pothole, making them both stagger slightly without breaking their locked glare. "He's just Bob. A person . With feelings ." She jabbed a finger toward the guinea pig carrier. "And a guinea pig ."  

John barked out a laugh that sounded more like a gunshot. "Oh, so now we're pretending he's just some normal guy?" His lips curled around the words like they tasted foul. "That's cute."  

"He's more normal than you'll ever be, Stars-and-Stripes," Yelena shot back, her voice a razor wrapped in silk.  

John's jaw worked like he was chewing on his own fury. "At least I can control my powers."  

"Your power is steroids and a superiority complex," Yelena volleyed without missing a beat.  

"Takes one to know one, Belova."  

Yelena didn't so much as blink. "Oh, real original. Did you think of that all by yourself, or did your shield help?"  

Bob made a small, distressed noise from the corner, his fingers tightening around Daisy's carrier. "Guys—" 

BANG.

The sound ripped through the van like a thunderclap—too sharp, too close to be anything but a gunshot.  

Yelena's combat reflexes fired before her brain could process the thought. She was already pivoting toward the sound when the van lurched forward like it had been kicked by the Hulk. The sudden acceleration sent her crashing into John, their limbs tangling in a graceless heap of elbows and knees as they slammed onto the hard metal floor.  

"Oof—get your shield out of my—"  

"—my face, Belova—"

Across the van, Bob barely managed to twist his body in time to take the impact on his shoulder, cradling Daisy against his chest as he smacked into a support beam. The thud of flesh meeting metal turned Yelena's stomach.

Yelena was on her feet before the ringing in her ears faded, lunging for the rear doors with the lethal grace of a Black Widow. Her fingers closed around the handles—  

Stuck .

She yanked harder. Nothing. Decades of rust and neglect had welded them shut tighter than a bank vault.  

John, meanwhile, had rolled into a sitting position against the wall, looking for all the world like a disgruntled teenager forced on a family road trip. He braced himself against the van's violent swerves with the practiced ease of someone who'd survived worse vehicular disasters - which, given his track record, was probably true.  

"Told you someone should be driving," he muttered, just loud enough to be heard over the engine's dying screams.

Yelena wanted to strangle him.  

"Stop standing there like a useless flagpole and help!" she snarled.  

John shrugged, the motion infuriatingly casual given their situation. "Bob's not helping either," he pointed out, nodding toward the corner.  

Bob had wrapped himself around Daisy's carrier like a human shield, his fingers white-knuckled around a support strap. The guinea pig let out a series of frantic squeaks as the van fishtailed.  

"I'm keeping Daisy safe!" Bob protested, his voice cracking. "She's delicate !"

Yelena shot him a look that had made hardened mercenaries reconsider their life choices. "We are all delicate right now, Bob!"  

John barked a laugh. "Oh, now we care about delicate?" He gestured wildly at Bob. "Because last I checked, delicate went out the window when we decided to go on this little joyride with a guy who could sneeze and level a city block!"

Bob blinked, his expression caught between offense and genuine concern. "I don't sneeze that hard."

Another sharp turn cut Yelena off mid-retort, the van's tires screeching in protest as centrifugal force sent them all sliding across the floor in a tangle of limbs and equipment. Bob's elbow connected painfully with her ribs as he scrambled to protect Daisy's carrier, while John's shield clanged loudly against the metal flooring, nearly taking out Yelena's kneecap in the process.

With a growl of frustration that came straight from the pit of his overinflated ego, John finally pushed forward and joined her at the doors. His enhanced strength made short work of the rusted lock—with one brutal yank and a metallic screech that set Yelena's teeth on edge, the doors flew open to reveal the road whipping by beneath them at speeds that would make a NASCAR driver sweat.

Wind howled into the van like a living thing, instantly transforming the interior into a tornado of loose papers, empty food wrappers, and Yelena's short hair, which lashed at her face with the sting of tiny whips. Outside, the world had become a dizzying blur of asphalt and dirt, the landscape smearing past in nauseating streaks that made her stomach lurch. The road surface looked close enough to touch—and hard enough to shatter every bone in her body if she fell.

All three of them instinctively grabbed for handholds as the sudden suction tried to yank them into oblivion.  

Bob let out an undignified yelp that would've been comical in any other situation as his body was nearly catapulted forward. At the last second, he hooked his foot under a seat bracket with the desperate grace of a man who refused to die without his guinea pig. His fingers turned white around the support strap he clung to, his entire body trembling with the effort of keeping both himself and Daisy from becoming roadkill.  

John, ever the showoff, braced himself in the doorway like some action movie hero, his ridiculous hair whipping around his face like a golden retriever sticking its head out a car window. He shot Yelena a look that was equal parts exasperation and smug superiority.  

"Great plan, Belova," he shouted over the roar of the wind, his voice dripping with sarcasm thick enough to drown in. "What's next? Jumping out at sixty miles per hour? Maybe you'd like to tuck and roll your way to victory?"

Yelena responded with the universal language of one raised middle finger while maintaining her death grip on a support bar with her other hand. Without hesitation—and without giving John the satisfaction of a verbal comeback—she launched herself onto the roof of the van.

Every bump in the road traveled up through the chassis and into her bones as she pulled herself onto the roof, muscles burning with the effort of fighting both gravity and the van's violent swaying. The wind immediately tried to claim her, howling in her ears like a living thing as it tore at her clothes.

With a muttered curse that was probably something creative about her life choices, John followed, hauling himself up with infuriating ease despite the van's drunken swerving. The moment he was on the roof, their argument resumed like they'd just pressed play on a paused recording.

"You couldn't have waited for an actual plan ?" John shouted, crawling forward on hands and knees as the van took another turn that nearly sent them both over the side.

Yelena shot him a glare over her shoulder as she inched toward the front. "You were too busy being a pain in my ass !"

"I was assessing the situation!" John retorted, his shield clanging against the roof as he adjusted his grip.  

"Assessing your ego, maybe—"

Their bickering died mid-sentence when they reached the front and saw... nothing.

The steering wheel turned on its own, jerking left and right with unnatural precision. Then the air above the driver's seat shimmered - not like heat haze, but like a corrupted video file - before resolving into the shape of a person. One second there was empty space, the next a figure sat there, their form flickering between solid and translucent in nauseating pulses.

"Ghost," John identified immediately, his voice tight with recognition. He shifted his weight as the van hit another bump, his fingers digging into the roof's seams for stability. "Ava Starr. Ex-SHIELD assassin with quantum phasing abilities—can walk through walls, disappear at will, the whole damn package." He shot Yelena a look that screamed I told you so . "Which is why I said we should've changed vehicles again hours ago."

Yelena opened her mouth to deliver a scathing retort when the van suddenly swerved *hard* to the side, the world tilting at a nauseating angle as the tires left the pavement entirely for one heart-stopping second.  

Both of them went sliding across the roof like ragdolls.  

John barely managed to grab onto the edge at the last second, his fingers digging into the metal hard enough to leave dents. Yelena, in turn, grappled onto John's back with the reflexes of a cat that had no intention of hitting pavement today. Her arm wrapped around his neck in a chokehold that would have left a normal man gasping, her legs locking around his waist in a move that was equal parts survival instinct and petty revenge.  

"Get off my back!" John barked, his voice strained as he struggled to maintain his grip with an angry Russian assassin clinging to him like a deranged backpack.  

"Make me!" Yelena snarled, tightening her grip just enough to be annoying.

The air crackled with unstable energy as Ghost materialized in front of them, her form flickering like a corrupted hologram caught between frequencies. One moment there was empty space, the next a black-suited figure stood there—only to dissolve partially at the edges, her outline bleeding static. Twin pistols coalesced in her hands with the same quantum instability, the weapons phasing into solidity just as their barrels locked onto Yelena and John.  

Yelena's muscles tensed—  

Too slow.

John's combat reflexes fired a half-second before hers. With a violent curse that would've made a sailor blush, he twisted his body like a grizzly bear performing ballet, using his bulk and the shield still strapped to his back as makeshift cover. The first shots rang out—three rapid cracks that sparked against the shield and roof metal in quick succession. The impacts vibrated through Yelena's body where she was pressed against him, each strike resonating through her bones like a tuning fork.

"If you'd let go , I could actually block these!" John snarled through gritted teeth as another volley whizzed past. One round grazed his sleeve, leaving a smoking hole in the fabric.  

Yelena's grip tightened around his neck like a vice. "Oh sure, and then what? You'd just—" Her warning came a heartbeat too late. " LOOK OUT !"

The van swerved violently onto a dirt road, its tires kicking up a storm of dust and gravel that reduced visibility to near zero. Through the swirling brown cloud, Ghost advanced with unnatural calm, her form phasing in and out of existence like a specter from a horror movie. The pistols in her hands solidified just long enough to take aim again—  

Click. Click.

Empty.  

For half a second, Yelena thought they'd caught a break.

So, with a grunt of effort, Yelena adjusted her grip, wrapping her legs around John's waist in a move that would've been intimate if it wasn't life-or-death. The position freed his arms while keeping her anchored—  

" Personal space, Belova! " John barked, his ears turning pink even as he wrestled his shield free.  

—just in time.  

Ghost opened fire again.

The impacts rang out like a demented church bell choir, each strike sending shockwaves up John's arm strong enough to make his teeth rattle. "See?" John panted between impacts, bracing against another volley. The smugness in his voice was almost impressive given the circumstances. "Teamwork."

"Shut up ," Yelena growled, already moving. Using John's shoulders as a springboard, she launched herself at Ghost in a flying kick that would've shattered ribs—  

—if Ghost hadn't simply phased into intangibility at the last second.

Yelena's momentum carried her straight through their attacker, the sensation like plunging into ice water and static electricity simultaneously. Her vision whited out for a terrifying moment as quantum particles screamed through her cells—  

—then she was tumbling toward the opposite edge of the van's roof, nothing but empty air and speeding dirt road waiting below.  

Only a desperate grab at the roof rack saved her. Her fingers caught metal with a clang that reverberated up her arms, her body slamming against the side of the van hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs.  

"You never learn, do you?" John called as he righted himself, shield at the ready.  

"Eat shit, Walker!" Yelena shot back, hauling herself up just as the van hit a particularly vicious bump.

The world turned sideways.  

The van's wild ride reached its crescendo as the driverless vehicle hit a rut deep enough to qualify as a canyon. The impact sent them into a violent skid, dirt and gravel spraying in all directions like shrapnel. Yelena had just enough time to see Ghost calmly phase—her form flickering out of existence—  

—before physics remembered it existed.  

The van flipped.  

Instinct took over.

John's arm shot out with super-soldier precision, wrapping around Yelena's waist in an iron grip as centrifugal force ejected them from the wreck. He twisted midair with the practiced form of a man who'd done this too many times—shield beneath them, Yelena tucked against his chest—  

—then impact .  

Dirt, grass and broken glass flew past Yelena's vision as they tumbled in a bone-jarring roll. John's body absorbed most of the impacts while his shield sparked against rocks, sending up showers of orange sparks that stung her exposed skin. She caught flashes of the world spinning:  

Sky. 

Dirt.

John's gritted teeth.

Sky again.

The wrecked van spinning away from them. 

After what felt like an eternity, they came to a stop in a cloud of dust so thick Yelena could taste it. She coughed, spitting out a mouthful of dirt that tasted like gasoline and regret. Every muscle screamed as she pushed herself up from where she'd landed half-atop John—her knee in his gut, her elbow somehow wedged against his shield strap.

Beneath her, John wheezed like a broken accordion. "Get... off..."

Before she could retort, the air a few yards away shimmered like heat rising off desert pavement. Ghost reformed from her phased state with eerie silence, not a single scratch marring her black suit. The assassin's pistols materialized in her hands mid-motion, already tracking toward their center mass when a new sound cut through the tension—  

The groan of twisting metal.

All heads turned as the van's rear doors burst open in a shower of broken glass and dented steel. Bob came tumbling out like the world’s worst gymnast, limbs flailing, yet somehow— miraculously —managing to keep Daisy's carrier cradled safely against his chest the entire time. He hit the dirt shoulder-first, rolled twice, and came up in a dazed crouch, his clothes torn and face smudged with grime. The guinea pig peered out from her mesh prison, tiny paws gripping the bars, whiskers twitching in what Yelena could only interpret as profound annoyance at the entire situation.

John saw the opportunity before the dust had even settled. Still lying half-sprawled in the dirt, he pointed dramatically at Bob with all the gravitas of a stage magician revealing his finale. "Back down, Ghost," he warned, his voice dripping with false confidence that didn't quite mask the strain in his ribs, "or the walking nuke here will atomize you before you can even think to phase."

Bob's eyes went comically wide, the whites visible all around his irises. " No, no, no I will not do that!" he insisted, holding up his free hand in surrender while the other kept a death grip on Daisy's carrier. His voice cracked like a teenager's. "I don't even know how I did it the first time!"

Ava finally unmasked herself with a hiss of nanotech retraction. Dark hair framed a face that might have been pretty if not for the cold, exhausted determination in her eyes. Shadows pooled beneath them like bruises, speaking of too many sleepless nights and too many missions gone wrong.

"My orders are simple," she stated, pistols never wavering. The words came out flat, robotic—like she'd repeated them too many times to care anymore. "Bring in Robert Reynolds. Eliminate anyone who interferes."

John barked out a laugh as he staggered to his feet, brushing dirt from his shirt with exaggerated care. "Yeah, that was my mission too." He gestured to his battered state—the torn clothes, the blood trickling from his hairline, the way he favored his left leg just slightly. "Notice how well that's going for me?"  

Yelena couldn't resist. "At least you admit you're failing spectacularly."  

John shot her a glare. "I'm adapting ."  

"Adapting to losing," she corrected sweetly.

John's face twisted. "You know, for someone who—"  

"—who what? Who—"  

They were so engrossed in their bickering that neither noticed Ava quietly adjusting her grip on her pistol. Her finger tightened on the trigger—  

Two shots rang out.  

Then silence.  

Yelena and John turned slowly, almost in unison, to see the impossible:  

Two bullets hovered inches from their faces, vibrating slightly in midair as if suspended in invisible gel. The rounds spun lazily, copper jackets glinting in the moonlight, casting tiny, distorted reflections of their stunned expressions. For one heart-stopping moment, time itself seemed to hold its breath.  

Then the bullets dropped to the dirt with dull thuds.

Behind them, Bob stood with his hand outstretched, his eyes flickering with that same eerie white light from before. His breathing was ragged, his entire body trembling with effort.

"I... I think I did it again," he whispered, more surprised than anyone.  

The silence that followed was absolute. Even Daisy seemed to hold her breath.  

Then—  

In perfect synchronization, Yelena and John drew their weapons. Her twin batons snapped into ready position with a metallic click-click as his sidearm cleared its holster with practiced ease. Both trained on Ava with deadly precision.  

John's smirk was downright predatory as he took a deliberate step forward, shield raised. The sunlight caught the scratches in the vibranium, turning them into golden scars. "Now... about that surrender."  

The smirk faded into something colder, more dangerous—the look of a man who'd seen too much war to bluff. "You've seen what he can do accidentally ." His finger hovered near the trigger. "Imagine what happens when he means it."  

Ava's gaze flicked between them—the guns, the shield, Bob's still-outstretched hand. For the first time, uncertainty flickered across her face.  

Yelena saw it.  

Got you.

Chapter Text

Despite it all—despite the guns leveled at her chest, the shield gleaming in the moonlight like a promise of violence, the unstable superhuman trembling behind them with power that could potentially crack continents—Ava Starr refused to surrender.  

Yelena saw the calculation flash across the woman's face like a shadow passing over water—a split-second decision made in that narrow space between fight and flight. It was written in the tightening around her eyes, the subtle shift of her weight to the balls of her feet, the almost imperceptible twitch of her trigger finger. The air around Ghost began to shimmer, her edges blurring like wet ink on paper as she prepared to phase into invisibility. The black of her suit dissolved first, becoming translucent patches that revealed glimpses of the dusty road behind her—a living x-ray of quantum instability, flesh and fabric unraveling at the molecular level.  

Then something went wrong .  

Ava's body glitched —violently, unnaturally, the way a television screen might fracture into jagged pixels before dying completely. One moment she was halfway to transparency, her outline bleeding into the background like a fading signal. The next, her form snapped back into solidity with a sickening jerk that sent visible shockwaves through her body, the quantum recoil so severe it made Yelena's own bones ache in sympathy.

Her body became a stuttering film reel—solid to translucent to solid again—each transition marked by bursts of static that crackled audibly in the night air. The phasing wasn't smooth anymore; it was broken , her molecules fighting against some fundamental corruption in the code of her very being. Strands of dark hair flickered in and out of existence, one moment plastered to her sweat-slicked forehead, the next disintegrating into fractal patterns of light.

A choked gasp tore from Ava's throat—raw and pained, a sound that didn't suit her assassin's poise. The kind of noise that came from somewhere deeper than lungs, primal in its distress. Her hands flew to her head, fingers digging into her temples like she was trying to physically hold her skull together. Veins stood out along her neck and forehead, pulsing visibly beneath skin gone sallow with strain. When she opened her mouth to breathe, Yelena saw flecks of blood on her teeth—tiny crimson constellations against white enamel.

When she collapsed, it wasn't the graceful, controlled fall of a trained operative—it was the uncontrolled crumpling of a marionette with its strings cut. Her knees hit the dirt first with a thud that sent up small plumes of dust, then her palms slapped against the ground, fingers spasming in the dirt like she was trying to claw her way to safety. Her entire body trembled—not the fine vibration of someone shivering, but the violent, full-body shakes of a seizure victim, muscles contracting and releasing in awful waves. 

For a heartbeat, no one moved.  

The world seemed to hold its breath.  

Then—  

Yelena's gaze snapped to Bob.

Bob's hand remained outstretched toward Ava, fingers splayed like he was gripping an invisible weight. The tendons stood out sharply against his skin, trembling with restrained power. His face had gone disturbingly blank—not the neutral mask of a soldier in combat, but the utter emptiness of a man who'd stepped outside himself. No fear. No confusion. Just terrible, hollow nothing.  

Yelena knew that look. She'd seen it in the mirror after particularly messy missions, when the Black Widow programming took over and left only the weapon behind. The kind of expression that made children shrink away on instinct, that told anyone with survival skills this is not a person right now .

The white glint in Bob's eyes pulsed brighter with each thundering heartbeat, the light leaking out between his lashes like water through a cracked dam. The light was hypnotic and horrifying, like watching a man slowly transform into something... other.

John didn't hesitate. He closed the distance to Ava in three long, ground-eating strides that kicked up small cyclones of dust with each impact. His tactical boots left deep impressions in the dry earth, the sound of each footfall like a judge's gavel pronouncing sentence. Planting his right boot near her shoulder, he pinned her writhing form with the casual brutality of a hunter displaying his trophy, the tread of his sole grinding into the dirt beside her collarbone with deliberate pressure. Not enough to break bone - yet - but enough to make the threat crystal clear.

His shadow fell over her like a shroud, the edges of his silhouette sharp enough to cut against the washed-out landscape. Moonlight caught the battle scars on his shield, transforming each groove and scratch into a silver thread in some celestial tapestry of violence. He raised it not in defense, but in threat - the curved edge catching the pale light as it angled toward Ava's exposed throat. The metal gleamed like a guillotine blade waiting to drop.

"Talk," John demanded, his voice scraping low like gravel under a tank tread. He leaned down, putting his full weight behind the threat, the edge of his shield catching the moonlight as it angled toward Ava's throat. The metal gleamed like a guillotine blade in the pale light. "What do you know about him? Why does Valentina want him so badly?" Each word landed like a hammer strike, deliberate and unyielding.

Ava couldn't answer. Couldn't even muster the strength to lift her head from where it lay pillowed in the dirt like a broken doll's. Her breaths came in sharp, wheezing gasps that hitched painfully in her chest, each inhalation sounding like it was being dragged through shattered glass. With every exhale, tiny droplets of blood sprayed from her lips onto the ground beneath her cheek, forming a constellation of crimson freckles in the dust. Her fingers scrabbled weakly at the ground, nails splitting as they clawed ragged trails in the dirt - the desperate movements of a wounded animal trying to drag itself to safety despite shattered hindquarters.

Thick blood crawled from her nose toward her upper lip in a sluggish crimson tide, the droplets trembling with each new tremor that wracked her broken form. The quantum instability still flickered across her skin in patches, making portions of her face and arms momentarily dissolve into static before snapping back with painful-looking jolts. Her pupils were blown wide with pain and disorientation, the irises nearly swallowed by black.

Yelena barely registered John's interrogation. Her entire focus was locked on Bob - on the way the white glint in his eyes had returned with terrifying intensity. The glow pulsed brighter now, synchronized with some unseen cosmic rhythm, leaking thin tendrils of light that curled upward like smoke from his lower lash line. His outstretched hand trembled slightly, the only movement in an otherwise statue-still body. Even his chest barely rose with breath - five... ten... fifteen seconds between each shallow inhale that did little more than flutter the fabric of his torn shirt.

The most disturbing part wasn't the glow or the unnatural stillness. It was his expression. Or rather, the complete lack of one. His features were slack in a way that went beyond calm into something deeply unnatural, like a wax figure's approximation of serenity. Only the faintest crease between his brows hinted at any inner activity at all.

Daisy's carrier dangled from his other hand, forgotten. The guinea pig pressed herself against the mesh, tiny black eyes wide with primal fear, her whiskers twitching frantically as she emitted a continuous stream of distressed wheeks that went unheard by her catatonic caretaker. The carrier swayed slightly with Bob's minute tremors, casting elongated shadows across the dirt that stretched and warped in the moonlight like living things.

"Bob?"

Yelena called softly, taking a cautious step forward. Her boots made no sound in the dirt, years of Red Room training keeping her movements silent even now, even with her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird. The night air smelled of ozone and iron, of crushed grass and something sharper underneath—like the scent of a lightning strike moments after impact, that peculiar metallic tang that lingered just before the smell of burning. 

No response.  

She moved toward him slowly, the way one might approach a spooked animal—keeping her body language open, non-threatening, every muscle coiled and ready to react. The dry grass crunched faintly under her boots, each step deliberate as she measured the shrinking distance between them. Three yards. Two. Close enough to intervene if he lashed out, far enough not to crowd him. Close enough to die if this went wrong.  

Her hands stayed visible at her sides, fingers slightly spread. A Black Widow's approach—calculated to disarm without telegraphing threat. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of scorched earth and copper blood, tossing strands of her hair across her vision like golden threads. She didn't brush them away. Didn't dare break the fragile moment with any sudden movements.

"Bob," she said again, softer this time, letting her voice wrap around his name like the gentlest of restraints, "look at me."  

Still nothing. Just that awful, empty stare fixed on Ava's twitching form. His pupils had swallowed nearly all the iris now, leaving only thin rings of blue around bottomless black. The white glow pulsed irregularly, like a faulty neon sign flickering before it dies, each surge sending new shadows of light dancing across his cheekbones. Tiny fractures in reality itself seemed to radiate from his strangely darkened fingertips, the air shimmering with unstable energy that made Yelena's skin prickle with static electricity.

She could see it now—the way the very fabric of space seemed to warp around him in minute distortions. The way dust motes hung suspended in impossible patterns near his hands. The way Daisy's carrier swung slightly too slowly, as if gravity itself had become uncertain in his immediate vicinity.

Yelena reached out, her fingers brushing his arm—  

Contact.  

—and just like that, the spell broke.

Bob jerked as if electrocuted, a full-body spasm that nearly knocked him off his feet. The white in his eyes vanished as if someone had flipped a switch, leaving his gaze startlingly human again—and utterly lost. He turned to look at her, his expression shifting from empty to confused to horrified in the span of a heartbeat, emotions crashing across his face like storm waves against a crumbling shore. His breath came in ragged gulps now, loud in the sudden silence, each inhalation sounding like it tore at his throat on the way down.

"Yelena?"  

His voice cracked on her name, rough as sandpaper. He blinked rapidly, as though waking from a dream, his free hand coming up to rub at his eyes like a child chasing away sleep. When he lowered it, his fingers shook visibly—not just a tremor, but a full-body vibration that made his entire arm quake. His other hand still clutched Daisy's carrier in a death grip, the mesh warped slightly from the pressure.

"I—what happened?" The last word came out small, quiet in its uncertainty. His eyes darted around the scene—to Ava's prone form, to John's guarded stance, to the still-smoking wreckage of the van—before returning to Yelena's face with growing alarm. "Did I... did I do this?"

Behind them, Ava sucked in a shuddering breath that sounded like it had been dragged through broken glass. Her body finally relaxed, the terrible tremors subsiding into occasional twitches - small aftershocks following the earthquake of whatever Bob had done to her. The blood from her nose had slowed to a sluggish trickle, painting a macabre Rorschach test across her cheek that the dirt turned into abstract art.  

John didn't let up. He leaned in closer until his shadow swallowed her whole, until the cold metal edge of his shield pressed just shy of cutting into the delicate skin of her throat. Moonlight caught the razor-sharp rim, casting a thin silver line across her windpipe that moved with each shallow breath she took.  

"Try anything else," he warned, voice dripping with venom that could strip paint, "and Bobby here will do that all over again." A pause, just long enough to let the threat sink its teeth in deep. "Worse this time."

Yelena ignored them. Her hand moved to the back of Bob's head, her fingers carding gently through his sweat-damp hair as she studied his face with clinical precision. Up close, she could see the fine tremors running through him—not just in his hands now, but in the subtle quiver of his jaw, the uncontrolled twitch of his left eyelid. His pupils were still slightly dilated, the blue of his irises almost gray with shock, the whites shot through with red from burst capillaries.  

A bead of sweat traced the sharp line of his cheekbone before disappearing into his scruff. His breath came too fast—shallow little sips of air that didn't reach his lungs. Early stages of shock.  

"Are you alright?" she asked, quieter now, the words meant for him alone, her thumb tracing soothing circles behind his ear where she knew the vagus nerve ran. A pressure point. A calming technique.  

Bob swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like he was trying not to be sick. His throat clicked dryly. "I'm... fine." A lie. His voice was too light, too careful—the tone of someone lying through their teeth while standing in the wreckage. His gaze flicked past her shoulder to where Ava lay broken in the dirt, then away just as quickly, guilt flashing across his face before he could school it into something neutral. "Just blacked out a little." His fingers flexed unconsciously, stretching then curling into fists. Testing. Remembering.  

Yelena opened her mouth—  

"HA! I HAVE ARRIVED!"  

Alexei's voice boomed across the road like a foghorn with delusions of grandeur. The Red Guardian came lumbering into view from the tree line, his massive chest heaving, his face flushed the same shade as his old Soviet uniform from what must have been a very enthusiastic sprint. Leaves and twigs stuck out of his beard at odd angles, suggesting he'd taken a more... direct route through the woods—likely involving several felled saplings and at least one startled deer.  

He skidded to a stop near the wreckage, kicking up a small storm of dust and gravel that rained down on Ava's prone form, before throwing his arms wide in a pose that was equal parts triumphant and ridiculous.

"Now the fight can properly begin!" he declared, as if they hadn't just finished nearly dying, as if the smoking remains of their van weren't scattered across fifty feet of roadside, as if there wasn't an unconscious assassin bleeding into the dirt at his feet.  

John threw his hands up so violently the motion sent a fresh spray of dirt flying.  

"Now you show up?" John's voice climbed several octaves, cracking on the last word. "Where the hell were you when we were getting shot at?!"

Alexei waved John off with a meaty hand that displaced enough air to qualify as a minor weather event. "Pah! You are all still alive, yes?" His beaming smile could have powered a small city—or at the very least, illuminated the entire roadside with its blinding, paternal radiance. "Then I am perfect timing!"

He eyed Ava, still limp in the dirt like a discarded marionette, and clapped his hands together with a sound like a gunshot that made everyone but Yelena flinch. Bob jumped so hard Daisy's carrier nearly went airborne.  

"Ah! And you have caught the ghost woman!" Alexei turned to Yelena with the kind of paternal pride usually reserved for kindergarten art projects and first bicycle rides. "Excellent work, malyshka—"

"—Bob did that," Yelena cut in dryly, jerking her head to the right where Bob stood, her hand still resting on the back of his neck like an anchor. The guy was swaying slightly on his feet, his breathing still uneven, his free hand flexing at his side as if testing whether it still belonged to him.

John bristled like an offended peacock, his shoulders hiking up toward his ears. "I nearly had her before Bobby here swooped in to claim the victory." The words dripped with enough petulance to drown a kindergarten class. 

Yelena scoffed so hard it hurt her lungs. "Bob saved our asses because you were too busy posturing to focus." She mimed John's earlier shield pose with mocking precision.

"Posturing? I was interrogating—"  

"Children!" Alexei interjected, his voice rising above theirs like a thunderclap. Daisy let out a series of alarmed squeaks, burrowing deeper into her carrier until only her twitching nose was visible. The guinea pig's tiny claws scrabbled against the mesh in a frantic bid for nonexistent cover. "No fighting! We are team!" He punctuated this profound statement by slapping John on the back hard enough to make the super-soldier stumble forward two steps. John wheezed, shooting Alexei a look that promised slow, painful vengeance involving rusty implements and several UN human rights violations.

Bob sighed quietly, the sound of a man who had long since accepted his fate of being surrounded by idiots. "Can we not do this again ? Please?" His voice was frayed at the edges, his fingers twitching where they gripped Daisy's carrier. The whites of his eyes were still faintly bloodshot from whatever cosmic horror he'd channeled moments ago.

While the others bickered, Alexei had already moved to Ava's side with surprising grace for a man built like a Soviet-era refrigerator. He hauled her up with one massive hand like she weighed nothing, her boots dangling several inches above the ground before he set her down with unexpected gentleness. The woman swayed on her feet, still disoriented, her black suit smudged with dirt and grass stains that ruined its high-tech aesthetic. When she blinked up at Alexei, there was something almost vulnerable in her gaze—the look of a cornered animal realizing it couldn't run.

Yelena finally took in the wreckage of their van—the twisted metal screaming in protest, the shattered windows glittering like malignant diamonds across the road, the fact that it was somehow even worse off than the last vehicle they'd destroyed (and that one had exploded )—and pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache was forming behind her eyes, relentless as John's ego, pounding in time with her pulse.

"We need to find a new ride," she muttered. "Again."  

John perked up like a golden retriever spotting a tennis ball. "Dibs on guard duty."

Yelena shot him a look that had made hardened mercenaries reconsider their life choices. "You're still a captive."

John rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. "I'm captive-adjacent at this point."  

Yelena stared at him. "What the hell does that even mean?"  

"It means I'm cooperating—"  

"—It means you're annoying—"  

"—It means someone needs to stop giving orders when they're not in charge—"  

Bob, having clearly had enough, sighed and trudged toward the van wreckage to salvage their gear. His shoulders were slumped, his steps heavy with exhaustion. Daisy peered out from her carrier, her tiny nose twitching as if to say, These are my idiots now. The guinea pig's beady eyes held the weary resignation of a creature that had seen too much, too young.

Alexei, still holding Ava upright with one hand, used the other to rummage through his pockets before producing—somehow, impossibly—a slightly squashed candy bar. The wrapper was half-peeled, revealing chocolate that had melted and re-solidified into something vaguely geological. He offered it to Ava with a grin. "Hungry, *da*? Fighting makes big appetite!"  

Ava stared at the proffered candy like it might explode. Or possibly judge her life choices.  

Yelena seriously considered throwing herself into traffic.  

Then she noticed the black tint to the tips of Bob’s fingers.  

Then John threw his shield at a tree.  

Then Alexei began enthusiastically explaining Soviet candy manufacturing techniques to a semiconscious assassin.  

Daisy sneezed.  

Yelena decided then and there that she was seeing this through, whether or not it killed her (or John) in the process.