Chapter Text
The hardest part is over; She's survived the coronation.
The crown is heavy on Natasha's head and the scepter's metal is cold in her hand. Crowds have gathered in celebration, cheering and wishing 'Princess Natalia Romanova' good health.
She's present enough to hear the words, sort of, in her red embroidered corseted gown tied snuggly at the waist before it meets a ballroom-style skirt of 6 layers.
Nicholas Fury should be proud. His voice echoes in her memory;
"Wear the crown, keep the wolves out."
She's managed to infiltrate, convince the people of Mashna she's long lost royalty, and secure the palace.
Easy. And bloodless for one of her first big missions with S.H.I.E.LD
Ivan Dreykov trained her to do far worse than lie, hold control over a country's people, and wear pretty dresses.
If Dreykov was the mastermind behind Russia's first attempt to infiltrate Mashna, then she hoped he was watching the broadcast tonight. Let him see her standing here, not as his weapon, but as a sovereign.
Phase One: Infiltrate. Convince. Secure. Complete.
Mashna might be small compared to its neighbors, but nothing rivaled the wealth buried under its soil. The tourists came for the cliffs and the coast.
But the truth, what Fury wanted, lays deep beneath the hills: Isoform-8. Crystals so potent they powered everything from light to medicine, coveted by every power within a thousand miles. A single ounce could be traded for vibranium at priceless rates. It was. Frequently.
But Isoform-8 was more than currency.
Mishandled, it could destabilize reactors, poison water supplies, flatten cities. That was why Russia wanted it.
Phase Two is Natasha's next step.
This would be harder; Become Queen. She will have to wear the crown for long enough that even the wolves believe it.
The worst part is that she can play this part and do it well.
Maybe a job well done will lighten the sting of completion. Of leaving the country in favor of her next assignment.
Natasha lifts her chin as the cheers rise higher, her smile practiced and flawless.
Her most trusted friend and fellow undercover agent spares a smirk from her side. Agent Clint Barton applauds with the crowd and squirms in the uniform she knows he detests.
"It's the damn Russians, I'm telling you. Once they get their hands on the crystals, it's over for us," General Thaddeus Ross says through a snarl, pausing only to bite down on his cigar.
His opposite hand stays buried in his pocket as he leans back on his heels, addressing the equally well-dressed younger man beside him.
The palace steps gleamed under the lantern light, music drifting faintly through the doors into the night where Ross refuses to stop lecturing.
This was his third rant today containing a new variation of the same paranoia. He could've brought a soldier, even a seasoned spy. Instead, he dragged along Bruce Banner: scientist, physicist, seven PhDs, and usually forbidden to leave the bunker unless there was a bomb to build.
Bruce had no idea why he'd been chosen. Not when Ross hated his guts. Not when, no matter how many degrees he stacked, the General only ever saw a liability.
"They've already wormed their way into Mashna's banks," Ross snaps, smoke curling between his words. "Next comes the ore. You choke the supply, you choke Europe. And don't get me started on this so-called 'princess'. A Romanov suddenly appears? It's a shitty trap."
Bruce doesn't answer. He'd been staring at the marble columns instead, tracing the ornate grooves and admiring their symmetry until Ross's bark cuts through his thoughts.
"Are you listening to me, boy!"
Nope. Not a word.
Bruce jumps and fiddles with his tie.
The General reviews the plan he's circled multiple times, "I got us into the palace for the next three weeks. I'm not leaving until I get my intel, Banner, and you're gonna get it for me. The girl is an operative. She'll expect a gun at her back, not a glass of wine and a dumb smile. Get her talking."
Bruce snorts, talking under his breath, "No strings you pull are getting me within ten feet of the princess."
"You're spineless. She'll expect a soldier. A spy. Not...you. Some harmless milksop with his books. You'll get closer than anyone in that marble prison."
Once, he'd been thrilled to be invited to work alongside the General. Being in the military 'opens doors', or, that's at least what Banner's Aunt Susan told him. Now, Bruce isn't entirely sure the General's paranoia hasn't crowded his capacity for logic.
While Bruce sees the potential danger in the young Princess if she is a pawn, this could ultimately just be the latest of Ross's escapades.
"Flirt with her- I don't care.” Ross continues. "You're good at that; annoying the shit out of people with useless facts until they give you what you want so you'll shut up."
Bruce frowns but doesn't say a word. He doesn't flirt. He reads, analyzes, and drowns people...with useless facts- FINE. Fine. The General is right.
He barely understands when or why the General's daughter, Betty, found him so alluring in the first place.
But none of that matters; His personal opinion least of all. Banner is in Mashna to get details on Isoform-8. He wants to write his 300-page report on the ore and go home. It's an educational endeavor. That's what he tells himself. What he told Betty.
Assess the risks, get the details back to the General, and ensure the Princess holds no suspicion. And keep your job for the next ten years.
If he does his job fast, he could get back to his angry girlfriend. Get back to apologizing for whatever Betty is mad at him for this week. They can move on.