Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Part I - The Void

June, 2003.
Reid Famiy Home - Atlanta, Georgia.
Age 11.

“Ellie!” A man called from the back porch steps of a suburban home, just on the outskirts of Atlanta city. He was backlit by warm lights from inside. The house was small and ramshackle, but it suited them. The man and his daughter. “Get in here kiddo, before its dark. Dinner’s up.”

“Coming, dad!” A voice responded from the yard. The girl, Ellie, brushed her dirt stained hands on her similarly dirt stained jeans and stood from where she was knelt in front of a garden bed. A pile of plucked weeds lay nearby her bare foot.

The man, satisfied his daughter would be in shortly, turned back to the kitchen. He dished a couple of plates of oven fries and pizza. Simple fare, but it was a Friday, and it had been a long week. He sighed and placed the plates onto the dining table, stained and pot-burnt from years of use, before taking one of the three wooden chairs for himself. It was only a second later the girl trailed inside, closing the back door behind her. She pulled a chair up next to her father and slid un-gracefully onto it.

“What you been up to, kiddo?” The girl sniffed, and picked up a fry.

“I did some weeding around mom’s stone.” She shrugged, matter of factly. The man gave her a look, his gaze soft and a smile pulling up the corner of his scruffy cheek.

“Yeah?” The girl nodded in response. She wasn’t supposed to talk with food in her mouth, house rules. “You’re a good kid, El. She would’ve liked that.”

The pair settled into a relaxed quiet as they both ate, as was their routine. It was a simple life. Ellie walked to school in the mornings, while her dad left for work. He worked on cars. She didn’t know much about cars. She spent the afternoon at her friend’s house and he would pick her up when he finished at the ‘shop’. He would cook dinner while she did her homework, or read, or did her chores. She would clean up after dinner. They’d watch some TV, maybe her dad would fall asleep, and she’d yawn and take herself up to her small bedroom on the second floor and do the same. On the weekends, they’d work together in the garden or fixing up the house. Her dad had a modest vegetable patch they’d care for together. If she worked hard, they’d wander down to the store on the corner and get an ice cream. Dinner. TV. Sleep.

Ellie knew her dad was sad. Mom was gone, she had been sick for a while. But her dad always said Ellie was tough, and she knew she could be tough enough for them both. She pretended she didn’t see, when her dad’s eyes would mist with tears, and pretend she didn’t hear, when his voice was thick with grief. He was a good dad, and he was tough too, but Ellie knew he was just sad sometimes. About mom.

Ellie stood to clear the plates when both she and her dad had finished.

“Hey, hey, hey,” She looked up at him, brown eyes wide, “You eat your crusts, El. Makes your hair curly.” He raised a brow at her pin straight red locks. Mom’s hair was curly.

“Daaaad…” Ellie groaned, “That’s not even true.”

“Could be.” He shrugged, and eyed the pizza crusts left on her plate. Ellie laughed and shoved one in her mouth anyway as she carried the plates over to the sink.

She looked out the window for a while, as the sink filled with hot water, mixing with the dish soap to create a layer of foamy bubbles on top of the water. Clean up was easy tonight. There was only the plates they had eaten off and the large kitchen knife her dad had used to slice the pizza.

Absentmindedly, Ellie shoved her hand into the water to fish out one of the plates and yelped at a sharp sting across her fingers. She yanked her hand back, spraying soapy bubbles across the counter top.

“Shit, Ellie. You alright?” Her dad was already at her side, quick to respond to her cry of pain. She had her fingers cupped in the palm of her other hand.

“Yeah, sorry. Just got a fright.” Bright blood pooled and dripped into her palm. Her dad grabbed a half damp tea towel from the oven handle and took her hand, drying away the mix of water and blood and soap. Underneath, there was no evidence of a wound.

For as long as Ellie could remember this was how it had been. Any injury she’d had healed almost immediately. Her mom had figured it out when she was pretty young — when Ellie came crying to her complaining of scraped knees and stubbed toes, and the blood was there, but there was no evidence of any injury. So Ellie was homeschooled until she was old enough to understand that this wasn’t a normal occurrence and that she had to hide the fact that she healed at superhuman speed. So Ellie learnt how to hide it. How to hide the pain when she tripped and cut open her hands on the gravel, and how to wash away the blood before anyone saw it. But it was easier to avoid injury altogether. When Ellie’s mom had died, she had to go back to school. Her dad had to work, to take care of them both.

School was fine. Ellie wouldn’t play on the playground or run around with the other kids though, for fear of injury. She’d kept her head down and made a few friends, and she was never bullied for her lack of participation. She did feel like she was missing out on her childhood a bit, but it was okay, she understood. In the evenings after school her dad would take her to a playground near their house and let Ellie run and play until it got dark. Her dad was happy to do this if it meant she got to be a kid, even just for a while.

Later, Ellie grew out of wanting to go the playground in the evenings. It’s fine dad, I have homework anyway. She felt like she was fitting in better with the other kids, able to do most of the things they could. She still couldn’t play sport or anything. Too risky.

Ellie was 10 when her dad had picked her up after work with a burn on his hand. When they got home, her dad had asked her to get their first aid kit and help clean him up. Ellie had obliged. When she’d taken her dad’s wrist to help wipe the wound before they bandaged it, she realised her hand burned. She dropped her dad’s wrist. She could feel the wound as if it was on hers, and almost as quickly as the feeling had appeared it was gone. Ellie had looked down at her own palm and watched the red scald mark fade, and when she’d picked up to her dad’s hand there was nothing there either. A wave of exhaustion swept over her. Her dad just looked up at her from his seat at the shabby kitchen table in amazement and fear. You can’t tell anyone, El her dad had said. And she hadn’t.

Over the next months Ellie had kept practicing this ability. Whenever her dad had accidentally cut himself making dinner for them both, or tripped carrying the groceries up the stairs of their home, or stubbed his toe on their coffee table, Ellie practiced fixing it. Her dad always said she didn’t have to do it, he hated that Ellie felt his pain, but Ellie liked to help. Slowly, she realised she could mend the wound partially, or take the pain away without mending the wound, or mend the wound without taking the pain. She always healed it completely in the end, but her dad encouraged her to practice. Ellie realised, slowly, a pattern of exhaustion followed these exercises.

At night Ellie wondered if this power, this magic, could have saved her mom. If she’d figured it out sooner, could Ellie could have taken her pain? Or died in her place?

It was a few weeks ago Ellie had slipped up. She hadn’t told her dad. She’d been at school. It was a normal day. A few of the boys in her class were chucking their textbooks around while the teacher had stepped out for a moment. Ellie had turned to joke to her friend behind her about maturity, when one of the boys missed a shot he’d taken at his buddy and the book had clocked Ellie in the head. Just above her left eyebrow. She’d ducked her face and held a hand to her eye. She could feel the blood seep between the cracks of her fingers. Ellie had stood and tried to make a run for the bathroom, her head down, focussed on cleaning the blood before anyone could see. She’d heard her friend yell at the boys. She’d made it into the corridor when she’d bumped headlong into something solid. She had looked up. A mistake.

“Ellie?” Her teacher had asked, she looked concerned. Ellie could feel the blood trail down the back of her hand. “Show me.”

“I’m okay miss, really.” She’d attempted to brush past the teacher, still focussed on her bathroom mission, but a hand had grabbed her forearm, pulling her palm from it’s place covering her eye.

“What…?” Ellie could imagine what the teacher saw. Blood on Ellie’s hand and face. A bruise bloom dark purple around her eye. Then the bruise would have faded to a greenish yellow, and then it would have vanished. Within seconds.

She hadn’t said anything to Ellie, just let her hand go, turned, and walked down the corridor. Ellie couldn’t remember the look on her face, just burning panic in her lungs. She’d gone and robotically cleaned herself up before returning to the classroom. The teacher had made it back first and had started the lesson. Ellie’s friend looked at her questioningly. Ellie had stared straight ahead.

No mention of it had been made since. Classes continued as usual. She hadn’t been called to see the principal. Everything seemed normal. But Ellie couldn’t stop feeling like she had made a mistake.

Once she had cleaned up after the dishes, Ellie and her dad had settled in front of the old TV. Ellie sat curled on the sofa, and her father relaxed next to her on his ratty recliner.

“Dad?” She looked down, picking at her nails. A nervous habit. “Something happened at school the other day.” She watched her dad’s brow furrow, but he didn’t look away from the TV set. A replay of the football game from yesterday holding his focus. “Well… a few weeks ago, actually.”

“What happened, kiddo?”

“I got hit. Someone saw.” Ellie bit at her lip, watching her dad closely for a reaction. At this he turned to her, incredulous, muting the TV as he did so.

“Someone hit you?”

“Not on purpose!” She corrected, “Some guys… they were chucking their books around.” Ellie looked back down at her lap, voice softening. “One hit me in the head, it bled, and…”

“And?”

“The teacher saw.” Ellie swallowed. Guilt rising like bile in her throat.

“Shit, El.” He sighed, running a hand over his red stubbled jaw. “Did she say anything?”

“No, but-“ A loud creak from the kitchen cut her off. Ellie knew that creak. Same as what happens when her dad steps on that one floorboard right by the back door. Her dad turned to look.

“Wait here, El.” She did. Ellie watched as her dad stood and walked down the hall, through the darkened doorway toward the kitchen. At the same time the light flickered on, flooding the hall with the same warm glow, there was a crack. And then a thud.

“Dad?” Ellie called, springing off the side of the couch. There was no answer. Something was wrong. She called out again, hesitating. He’d told her to wait. Screw it.

Ellie took the few steps to the kitchen at a run, and turned into the doorway. Her dad was on the ground. Blood pooled sticky and dark under the side of his head. A man stood over him, facing Ellie. He wore all black, except for his left arm which gleamed metallically in the kitchen light. His hair was dark and hung limply at the sides of his face. He was wearing a mask, covering his nose and mouth, but his grey eyes looked blank. Empty. Dead.

Ellie sucked in a breath. Dad. She leapt toward him, hands outstretched. Fix this. Fix this. Before Ellie could, the metallic arm snapped across her vision, clasping around her forearm not unlike the teacher’s had all those weeks ago. She was lifted off the ground, grunting and kicking and scratching at the metal with her free hand.

“Stop.” The voice was like gravel, vibrating through Ellie. The man reached around behind him and pulled out a mask similar to his own. He shoved it roughly toward Ellie’s face.

“No!” She cried, and the arm grasped tightly around her own switched tactics, letting go only to tightly clamp under her jaw. She still dangled helplessly above the floor. She couldn’t breathe now. Couldn’t speak. Her arms weren’t long enough to reach the man’s face (Go for the eyes, her dad had taught her), so she clawed instead at the exposed flesh around the man’s wrist as he shoved the mask onto her face. He hissed in shock? Surprise? And Ellie looked up in time to see a gash open across his eyebrow. Blood dripped down over his eye and onto the floor, mixing with her father’s.

The man moved to grasp her once again by the arm. Ellie tried to yell out, but no noise penetrated the mask. She was being dragged, unceremoniously, out the back door. She looked back to see the door swing shut on her father, still crumpled on the floor of their small kitchen. Tears blurred Ellie’s sight, and the garden was bathed in darkness.

Chapter Text

June, 2003.
HYDRA Facility - Western Canada.
Age 11.

The dead-eyed man had bound her hands at the wrist and her feet at the ankles. She had been thrown into a crate, not much bigger than her, sitting in the back of a truck. It could have been hours ago, it could have been days. Time held no meaning in the darkness.

She was jostled about sometimes. Heard voices speaking in a language she didn’t understand. The roar of an engine bigger than a truck for a while. Then later, nothing.

Ellie must have slept, she realised. Despite the fear and pain rattling violently in her chest, the exhaustion had gripped her so thoroughly she’d had no choice.

-

When the crate was cracked open, Ellie was curled up in a ball shivering. She’d wet through her old jeans and was lying in the dampness. A cold, sterile light blinded her and she blinked it away through tear-swollen eyelids. A new man crouched in front of her, his lip curled in distaste. He wore a green camouflage uniform and a red hat. A soldiers uniform, but not a familiar one. His face was harsh, and the gold medallion on his hat depicted a star.

“This one is small.” His voice held an accent Ellie didn’t recognise. Another man’s laughter echoed from somewhere she couldn’t see.

“It’s of no concern.” American this time. The man she could see seemed to contemplate this for a moment.

“Very well.” Ellie only watched as the man stood and stepped away. Watched his perfectly shined black boots disappear around the side of the crate. “Soldat, vytashchi yeye.”

Ellie didn’t understand. She saw a pair of black combat boots appear and that same metal arm reach down into the crate. She shrunk back, scrabbling as far back into the familiar metal at her back as she could with her hands and ankles still bound. No. The mask preventing her from making any noise still held it’s tight grip around her jaw, despite Ellie’s initial frenzied attempts to claw and rip it off when she first entered the crate.

The metal hand found purchase on her upper arm and gripped, dragging her kicking from the relative safety of her metal prison.

The room, as far as Ellie could see, was as sterile as the cold light that had intially blinded her. The walls looked like concrete, or maybe stone. The floor was the same material. A metal table and two chairs sat in one corner, and a metal door was left open to her right.

Ellie’s feet, at least, remained on the floor as the man in black (Soldat, they had called him) held her firmly to the side. He did not look at her. His focussed remained solely on the man with the accent.

“Soldat, dokladyvay.”

“Missiya uspeshna.” Came the gravelly voice of the man holding Ellie. Soldat, again. Was that his name? Her mind was too frantic to make much sense of anything, but that was the word that had kept constant. “Svidetel' likvidirovan.”

“He says the mission was a success.” The man with the accent turned to the man who must have been the American. This man wore a grey suit. Completely at odds with the others present. “The witness was terminated.”

The witness? Ellie sucked in a sharp breath. Shards of icy fear pierced through her chest. Dad. Her body heaved with a sob, though still no sound escaped the mask she wore.

“Good.” The man in the suit replied. “We will need to test her. Take the mask off.” Test her for what?

“Soldat, podchinyaysya.” Despite her previous compulsion to get the mask off, Ellie flinched, struggling away from the man holding her as he reached down toward her face. Her efforts were futile, and the mask was torn from her jaw and discarded.

“What do you want?” Ellie cried, tears running hot and think now down her cheeks. She looked at the man in the suit for an answer, he seemed to be the one commanding the others. He appeared unaffected by Ellie’s cries.

“I want,” the man spoke slowly, as if to an idiot, “to know what you’re capable of.”

“Nothing!” Ellie tried tugging away from the grip on her arm once more, not caring about the futility of her efforts. “Let me go!” The man just sighed, as if annoyed by her petty emotions regarding the death of her father and subsequent kidnapping.

“Let her go.” The grip on her arm released. “Hit her.” Before Ellie could react, blinding pain erupted on the side of her face. She was knocked onto the hard concrete of the floor, her breath battered from her lungs. Ellie managed a wheeze, then a gasp. Her ears rang. She tasted blood. Her skin had split over her cheekbone. Ellie could feel the skin knit back together as it healed. Reflexively, she turned her face away from the three men.

“Look at me.” The American man demanded, taking a step to stand over Ellie. She whimpered, and curled in on herself. Protecting her secrets within the cage of her body. The physical pain had faded. He sighed again. “Fine. Break her arm.”

Ellie flailed as a hand clamped down on her shoulder, roughly shoving her onto her back. She looked up into empty gunmetal grey eyes as the man with the mask knelt over her, pinning her legs under his body. A rough gloved hand tugged at the restraints around her wrists, snapping them off with minimal effort.

Ellie couldn’t speak. It was as if the mask was back on, smothering her voice. She could only stare with wide, brown, fear-filled eyes as the man managed to capture her left forearm in both of his hands. She lashed out with her free arm, scratching down his face, over his eye, where dried blood was still caked from where his eyebrow had split. On the man’s opposite cheek where she hadn’t managed to touch, another split in his skin bloomed and bled. She had done that. Again. Forced her pain onto him. He didn’t react this time.

“Fascinating.” A voice muttered from nearby. “She is better than I anticipated.”

A sharp crack echoed around the concrete space and a scream was ripped from Ellie. She fell, powerlessly, into the beckoning darkness.

-

When Ellie woke, there was no physical pain. Light refracted oddly through flashes of memory. Her dad, motionless on the floor. A metal crate. Bone protruding from the skin of her arm. No, there was no physical pain, but the emotional devastation and fear knocked the wind out of her once more.

She was in a different room now, strapped to a chair too big for her frame. Her arms were stretched wide to rest on the arms of the chair and were locked helplessly into metal bracelets around her wrists. Her legs were likely in the same position, though she could not move to see due to a similar band of metal around her temple pinning her head to the back of the chair.

Ellie’s breaths became erratic and panicked as the man from before, the one in the suit, stepped calmly into her vision.

“You’re in pain.” He said to her, simply. “Perhaps not physically, but emotionally.” Ellie locked her jaw. She wouldn’t tell this man anything, but that didn’t stop the single tear spilling down her cheek.

The man in the mask and the one with the red hat were gone now, replaced by several men and women in lab coats. A lone gunman stood by the door in another camouflage uniform, this time white and grey.

“We’re going to take that away. Fix it for you.” The man tilted his head to the side. “Would you like that?” Ellie tried to shake her head, no, but it was fixed in place. She whimpered. She didn’t want anything these people were offering. She wanted to die. The man just sighed and wiped a hand over his face.

“Sir?” One of the labcoats asked. “We’re ready to proceed.” He stood next to a metal table with a large computer resting on it’s surface. From where she was trapped, Ellie couldn’t see the screen.

“Fine.” The man in the suit waved the ‘go ahead’. “Wipe her.” He stepped away to the side as another man in a labcoat approached. This man shoved his gloved fingers against the sides of her jaw, and then a rubber guard into her mouth. Ellie tried to move her head to avoid it, but it was impossible.

“No.” She mumbled, muffled by the mouth guard the man held pressed against her teeth. “Please.” A circlet of unrecognisable machinery closed in above her head, attaching itsself to her skull.

“Commencing procedure.” The man at the computer stated, tapping furiously at the keyboard. Ellie heard a scream, and then there was nothing.

-

A man stood in front of her. He wore a grey suit. She realised her arms were tensed against metal cuffs binding her to a chair. What for? She released the tension, flexing her fingers. The man looked at her.

“What is your name?” She opened her mouth. She didn’t know. Her jaw snapped shut with a click. She tried to shake her head, but it wouldn’t move. It was attached to the chair too, strange. “Identify yourself.” The man demanded.

“I don’t…” She trailed off. Her throat felt raw, but the feeling only lasted a second. The man smiled at her. She had done well.

“You will be called number Six.” He said, watching her closely for a reaction. The band around her skull released and she nodded. “You are now part of a project called Silent Winter. You will be trained with other girls your age to become highly competent spies and assassins for our organisation. HYDRA. Do you understand?” Number Six nodded. The man smiled again. “If you do well, complete the training, you will earn a name. But for now, what is your name?”

“Number Six.” She replied.

“Very good.” He turned to a man in a labcoat, who stood next to a computer nearby. “I expect her to recall this conversation next time.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Wipe her again tomorrow with the others, and initiate implantation of the code words.”

A man with a gun, who had been standing by the door approached as the man in the suit walked out. He released her arms and legs from the chair. Number Six remained seated and stared blankly ahead, waiting for command. The man pulled a set of clothes - a long sleeved grey shirt and black sweatpants- from a table somewhere to her left. He threw them down on her lap.

“Get dressed.”

Number Six complied.

-

There were twelve girls in total. Number Six wasn’t sure how much time had passed between her own arrival to the facility and the arrival of number Twelve. She couldn’t remember arriving. Every day the routine was the same. The girls were kept together in a windowless empty room. They were provided with food and water, then taken to the room with the chair to be wiped in numerical order. One of the girls, number Four maybe, died one morning in the chair. The director had shrugged.

“She was weak.” He had said. “Continue with the rest.”

All the girls screamed when it was their turn in the chair. Number Six was sure she did too, though she couldn’t remember. After this, and before they were once again lucid, a ten word code was spoken.

South. Operation. Twenty-five. Delta. Blackmail. Thirteen. Parachute. Functional. Winter.

The last word was always the girls’ allocation. Though number Six never recalled the words being spoken to her, she knew her last word would be Six.

Following this, the girls were expected to train. Fitness, hand-to-hand combat, math, languages, geography. The list grew ever longer. Tutors were rotated in and out based on need, but every day they practiced what the Director called “skills”.

For number Six, this was healing and inflicting injury. She couldn’t remember where or how she had learnt about her skill, but it was instinctive. She was directed at times to heal the other girls of wounds earned through training, at other times her direction was to instead cause pain. Number Six could cause physical pain with or without injury, or heal others, but she had to make skin contact to achieve this. Part of skill training was learning limitations, the Director had said. Number Six could inflict any wound, or the feeling of any wound, she herself had previously sustained. Therefore, at times, injuries were inflicted upon her, to build up her catalogue of weapons. Number Six experienced the pain, but her wounds healed quickly. She had been asked once to sustain the wound on herself, not let it heal, but she was unable. The healing was automatic. While healing her own injuries and inflicting them on others seemed to take no toll, healing others would frequently cause a bone-deep exhaustion depending on the extent of what she was asked to heal. Number Six was often given supplemented meals and high energy drinks following these events.

The girls were not to speak to each other most of the time. She learnt little of the other girls’ skills unless she was directly involved in their training. For example, number Two, a pretty blonde girl a little older than number Six, could tell her what to do. Typically, number Six knew the girls had no authority over each other, but when number Two touches her on the arm and hands her a knife and tells her to stab it into her own gut, the idea sounds so appealing that number Six is unable to resist. It’s different than when she is told what to do by the commanders. Number Six does what the commanders say because she must. When number Two asks her to do things as part of her skill training, number Six does it because she wants to. Or at least, because number Two’s skill is to convince her she wants to.

After their training, the girls would be returned to the windowless room. They would not speak to each other. They would eat the food provided, and then they would sleep.

Chapter Text

December, 2005.
HYDRA Facility - Western Canada.
Age 13.

Training had continued in the same manner for a long time. Number Six learnt a variety of useful skills. Weapons training had begun when the Director seemed to feel confident the girls would no longer malfunction.

It had happened once, that number Six had seen. It was a few months ago, perhaps longer. They had been in the classroom. Their tutor had been familiarising them with the names and faces of other HYDRA operatives they may be expected to work with in the future. A photo of a man had been shown. The tutor identified him as the Winter Soldier, a super soldier based in Siberia. He had medium length dark hair, hanging limply at the side of his face. His eyes were blank and ice blue. Number Six had felt a chill run through her, inexplicably. He looked familiar, but she could not recall having ever seen this man.

Number Six had been snapped from her focus by a whimper from behind her. She turned to see number Twelve had stood from her chair. Her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on the screen. Her lower lip trembled. Her fists had clenched. And then she had started screaming.

Number Twelve had made a run for the door. The guard positioned there (as there was always at least one armed guard present during lessons) had slightly changed his stance, raised his gun, and shot number Twelve once. Directly in the centre of her forehead. None of the other girls, including number Six, had moved from their chairs. The lesson continued as normal. The body of number Twelve remained cooling on the concrete floor of the classroom as it did.

Number Six considered these events as she sat in the very same classroom, months later. They had a different tutor now, and were being tested one by one on a variety of topics ranging from geography to politics, from pop-culture to war tactics. All answers were to be in the language the question was asked in. Number Six recognised it was unusual for them to be tested in this manner, so blatantly assessing each of the girls’ knowledge, but the general unspoken feeling was that something was changing.

The tutor looked to number Six now, pen poised over a notebook that number Six was not quite at the right angle to assess.

“Kakoy tretiy po velichine gorod v Avstralii?” [What is the third largest city in Australia?]

“Brisben.” [Brisbane.]

“Aidhkur asm 'ahad almashahir aladhi qad tanjadhib 'iilayh almar'atu.” [Name a celebrity a woman might be attracted to.]

“Leonardo DiCaprio. Aushtuhir bi'aflam mithl titanic (1997) warumyu juliet (1996).” [Leonardo DiCaprio. He is best known for films such as Titanic (1997) and Romeo and Juliet (1996).]

“Do you like these films?” The tutor looked up, tilting her head. Number Six blinked. She had never watched a film. “That is a question someone might ask you.”

“I enjoyed the Titanic. I was…” She hesitated, quickly attempting to piece together her knowledge of the event and therefore deduce what might have occurred in the film. “Sad. When the ship sank.” The tutor pursed her lips and made a mark in her notebook.

“That was unconvincing. A person would be more saddened by a character’s death in a film than the sinking of a ship.” Number Six gave a single nod, filing this information in her mind for later. “Décrivez une opération sous faux drapeau.” [Describe a false flag operation.] Without looking up from her notes, the woman seemed to consider this question for a moment, before adding, “Et donnez un exemple.” [And give an example.]

“Opérations sous faux drapeau — Mise en scène d’un événement ou d’une opération pour faire croire qu’une autre entité en est responsable, manipulant ainsi les perceptions et les actions.” [False flag operations — the staging of an event or operation to make it appear that another entity is responsible, thereby manipulating perceptions and actions.] Number Six paused briefly, considering the options for examples. “Le Bombardement de Mainila en 1939 impliqua des tirs d'artillerie finlandais sur les troupes soviétiques, causant des pertes, et fut utilisé par l'Union soviétique comme prétexte pour l'invasion soviétique de la Finlande, qui déclencha la guerre d'Hiver.” [The Shelling of Mainila in 1939 involved Finnish artillery fire on soviet troops, causing casualties, and was used by the soviet union as a pretext for the soviet invasion of Finland, which began the winter war.]

The tutor nodded, and shifted her gaze to number Seven.

-

Following the testing in the classroom, the ten girls were led to the combat training room. The space looked as it always did, with a large empty circle painted in red in the centre of the concrete room, and a weapons rack set at the far end filled with a variety of relevant tools. Their current combat tutor stood relaxed near the weapons rack. He was dressed in the same manner as the girls, in a grey long sleeved shirt and black sweatpants. The only difference today was the presence of the Project Director, clad in his typical grey suit.

Number Six stood at rest in line with the other girls to the side of the room opposite the weapons rack, with the combat circle between them. She stood, awaiting command, with her legs slightly apart and hands clasped at her back. She watched as the tutor approached the Project Director and briefly spoke to him in a low voice. The Director nodded, but did not take his eyes off the line of girls, assessing them one by one. Number Six met his gaze cooly on her turn.

She considered this change, and assessed it against the testing they had just completed. It seemed likely their combat training today would be of a similar nature. A test of sorts. Number Six recalled a conversation she had overheard approximately a week ago between two of the labcoats as the girls had been wiped that day.

“There’s still ten of them.” The darker haired man had muttered, “Nagel said he’s ready for stage two, but he can only synthesise five doses…”

“That’s not your concern, Brookes.” A labcoat with brown hair answered. Brookes shrugged.

“It’s not like we can just let the others go.” Brookes was shot a glare. “What? All this effort put into controlling ‘em training ‘em just to only use five?”

“It’s not your concern, Brookes. The Director will have a plan for the rest.”

Five doses of something ready, ten girls. Whatever it was, this was what number Six had been trained for.

“Today, you will each be paired.” The Director had clasped his hands behind his back before adressing the group. “You will fight hand-to-hand, no weapons, until one of you is incapable of doing so. You may use your skills. No permanent injuries.” This was new. Number Six had no idea of most of the skills the girls in the group possessed. She knew they were potentially aware of her healing, as that was difficult to hide and she’d healed a majority of them at some point, but most did not know of her other combat options. Perhaps number Six had previously learnt some of her opponents skills, or vice versa, but she was aware any knowledge the Director deemed classified was wiped from her memories as well as from the girls around her. It made it troublesome to determine what the others did or didn’t know, especially when they were all trained to not react openly unless it was beneficial to a mission or command.

“Number One. Number Two.” The Director called. The two girls at the end of the line stepped forward into the arena.

This match did not last long. Number One was fast, inhumanly so, and had number Two in a tight arm bar within seconds. Number Six watched as number Two grasped the ankle of the other girl with her free hand and muttered something through gritted teeth. Number One’s hold immediately slackened and number Two flipped on top of her, pressing a forearm to One’s throat. Two’s face was shrouded by her blonde hair, but number Six heard another quiet sentence and One’s eyes closed.

“Enough.” The Director barked. “Wake her.” Number Two stood, delivering a sharp slap to One’s cheek as she did so. One was on her feet in an instant, moving so quickly that number Six saw only a blur. Upon recognising Two exiting the circle, and catching the Directors sharp glare, One appeared to still before both girls reassumed their positions in the line.

“Number Three. Number Five.”

An even shorter match. Number Six wasn’t even able to ascertain Three’s skill before Five had her immobilised by what appeared to be a bolt of electricity shot directly into Three’s chest. The Director only nodded, as if confirming the expected outcome.

“Number Six. Number Seven.”

Number Six approached the circle, assessing Seven as she did so. In their uniforms, number Seven had skin exposed on her bare feet, hands, neck and face. She had no knowledge of Seven’s skill, so recognised she would have to adapt and change tactics if need be throughout the fight. Her primary target would likely be number Seven’s hands. If number Six managed to touch bare skin, she could inflict enough physical pain, without actual injury, to render Seven unconscious near instantly.

The pair stood facing each other before the Director’s short command of “fight” sent them both springing into action. Number Seven dove away from Six’s initial attack and rolled, flinging an arm out to the side as she did so. A knife from the weapons rack freed itself and spun to nestle the handle into Seven’s open palm. Seven stood and spun again, flinging the knife at Six. Expecting this, Six ducked under the knife’s path and swung a leg out, knocking Seven’s feet from under her. Seven hit the floor with a soft rush of breath, but raised her arm once more toward Six. Six grabbed Seven’s outstretched hand with her own and twisted it at the wrist, simultaneously sending as much pain as she could muster into the other girl. Seven screamed in rage and fear and then went silent at the same time as a jolt of pain echoed in Six’s back, just under her right shoulder blade. She grunted. Seven was out cold, as she had anticipated. Six dropped her hand and reached behind herself, yanking the knife from it’s place embedded in her back. Seven must have called back the knife prior to passing out. Six stood straight and looked at the Director who gave her a single nod.

“Wake her.”

The other fights continued in the same manner, with one girl clearly dominant over the other in terms of skill. Like Three, number Eight hadn’t even been able to use her skill before being rendered incapable of continuing. She had been reduced to a screaming, writhing, mess on the floor as number Nine gazed impassively down at her. Nine hadn’t even touched the other girl.

“Stop.” The Director had commanded Nine, and number Six supposed she did so, as she returned to stand in the line. But whatever damage had been done appeared irreversable as Eight continued to whimper and cry on the floor in the centre of the circle. The Director had looked torn between displeasure and satisfaction. He turned to the guard stood solemnly by the door, as was protocol. “Take her to be wiped. If it doesn’t fix her, then terminate her.”

The guard did as ordered, dragging Eight by the arm out of the training room.

The Director held his hand out to the tutor, who had remained present for the combat testing. She wordlessly handed him the notebook she had written in during their previous assessment. He took a moment to flick through several pages before looking up.

“Two, Three, Six, Nine, and Eleven.” Five numbers. He handed the notebook back to the tutor and gave her a singular nod before exiting the room. The tutor looked them over.

“Follow me.” She stated without inflection. Instinctively, only the girls whose numbers had been called stepped forward.

Chapter Text

December, 2005.
HYDRA Facility - Siberia.
Age 13.

Five girls exited the helicarrier in Siberia. Number Six recognised the facility from their lessons in what she now knew was the HYDRA facility based in Western Canada. It was for the same reasons she recognised the man positioned to welcome them as Vasily Karpov. Karpov, she had learnt, was a former member of the Soviet Armed Forces, and was now tasked with running the Winter Solider programme.

The wind combined with the helicarriers slowing rotors whipped snow and flakes of ice off the harsh stone onto the small group. None of the girls reacted. The Director approached Karpov first and grasped his hand. Both the Director and Karpov wore thick furred jackets to fend off the sub-zero temperatures of the Northern wilderness. The girls remained, standing at attention, in only their usual training attire.

“Karpov, it is good to see you again, my friend.” The Director grinned as he clapped Karpov on the shoulder. It was the most emotion number Six had ever seen him express. “I have brought the trainees who are ready for the programme.”

“And I thank you for that.” Karpov grinned back. “Come inside, out of this weather. Nagel has everything prepared.”

As they entered the facility, Karpov and the Director both removed their thick coats and they were handed to an attendant next to the door. Underneath, the Director wore his usual suit and Karpov was clad in a green camouflage army uniform. The attendant exchanged Karpov’s jacket for a red beret that he immediately fitted onto his head. Something about his appearance sparked a brief feeling of familiarity in number Six.

They were guided into a room with several more people wearing labcoats. There was an array of machinery scattered around the dome-like space, and something that number Six recognised as perhaps a variation on the mind-wiping chair.

“Ah.” The director said, approaching once of the men in a labcoat to shake his hand. “You must be Nagel. It is good to finally meet you.” The man looked simultaneously nervous and brimming with a wild excitement.

“Thank you, Director.” The man, Nagel, rubbed his hands together. “As Karpov will have told you, I have five doses of the serum prepared for your soldiers.”

“Soldiers.” The Director hummed with a glint in his dark eyes. “They will be much more than that I hope, Nagel.”

“O- Of course, Sir.” Nagel stuttered out. “The serum I have synthesised. There will be no physical indication of its use, unlike its predecessor. The subjects will remain visually the same, and future growth, I suspect, will not be affected. But,” Nagel’s eyes lit up with barely restrained glee, “they will be stronger. Faster. Better. They will match the soldiers we have already created and complement them perfectly.”

“Good, good.” The Director nodded. “Are we ready to proceed?”

“Yes, yes.” Nagel began walking toward a table. Next to it, a plethora of medical equipment was set up. Number Six eyed the metal restraints on the table with wariness. “We will start with your least valuable asset, yes? Not that I expect anything to go wrong, I just-”

“Yes. Start with number Eleven.” The Director cut Nagel off. Number Eleven showed no visible reaction to being named the least valuable. The group was all taught their role as being a part of something greater than themselves as individuals. A piece in the machine that was HYDRA. She stepped forward toward the table without hesitation, and complied fully as her arms, legs, and head were strapped down to the metal.

Nagel approached the table with an IV bag of what must have been the Serum. It glowed faintly blue under the dim fluorescent lights. He rolled up the sleeve of Eleven’s uniform shirt and worked quickly to insert and IV catheter into her arm, just at the crook of her elbow. Once connected, Six could see the liquid begin to flow from the bag. Initially, Eleven didn’t appear to react, but as time passed her face slowly morphed into a grimace and her breathing became quicker and increasingly erratic. Seemingly against her will, a scream was ripped from Elevens throat. Six had heard the other girl scream before, during training and skill practice, but this was something else entirely. She felt herself wince, near imperceptibly. Malfunction. Eleven didn’t scream for long, appearing to succumb to the reprieve of passing out.

“Take her to be wiped. Implant the new name.” The Director ordered one of the assistant labcoats. Number Six didn’t watch as this was carried out. Her vision was narrowed on the four remaining bags of the blue Serum that remained visible behind Nagel. One of those would soon run through her own veins.

-

“Six.” The Director called. She was second to last to receive the Serum. Only number Two remained still standing, watching the others scream and battle against the restrictions of the table.

She stepped forward. She would follow orders. She was numb to the screaming, now.

The metal of the table still held a hint of warmth from number Nine’s body before her. The metal restraints, as they were closed around her wrists and ankles, were slightly warped. Number Six stared up into the fluorescent lights. She felt her sleeve being rolled up, and the sharp poke of the needle.

The feeling started as an itching at the site of the IV catheter, which then spread throughout her body. The palms of her hands felt the worst of it, and Six clenched her fists to dispel the feeling. Once. Twice.

The light above her started to warp, like it was melting. She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, the fire started. Six gasped. It was as if she was aflame from the inside, the very centre of her burning out through her bones and muscles and skin. Stop. She couldn’t breathe. Stop it. Please. Her bones were lava now, sending searing angry signals that bounced around inside her with no place else to go. Everything was simulateously too loud and too quiet, too bright and too dark. The manacles were too tight. The table was burning her too. The light was dripping into her eyes, blinding her with droplets of prickling embers. She was hearing and seeing and feeling everything, and then there was nothing at all.

-

South. Operation. Twenty-five. Delta. Blackmail. Thirteen. Parachute. Functional. Winter. Six.

Her eyes opened.

She was leaning back in a chair. Her hands were cuffed to the arms of it, and her ankles were cuffed to plates on the legs. The chair moved, sitting her upright. A hand reached out to remove a rubber guard from her mouth. She tasted metal.

“Your name is the Echo.” A voice. The Echo couldn’t see who was speaking. “You are part of a project called Silent Winter. You are one of HYDRA’s assets.”

“Ready to comply.”

Chapter Text

Part II - The Cage

May, 2006.
The Red Room Academy - Location Unknown, Russia
Age 14.

The transfer to the Red Room was expected. The Director had been frustrated by the subjects lack of socialisation and robotic natures secondary to the near daily mind-wipings they had been receiving. He wanted them to appear “normal”. To have the ability to integrate flawlessly into society if a mission depended on it. The girls were initially instructed to socialise amongst each other, and the mind-wipes reduced in frequency. They had been shown movies and popular television shows, but the Echo and the others recognised they had little in common with the vapid, gossiping girls their approximate age. Conversations between the assets in the dormitory room at night were stunted, and largely revolved around sharing training techniques and discussing their skills.

The Echo learnt that the Siren could influence others through words and touch. Due to the reduction in mind-wiping, she could recall flickering memories of their training together as well. The Storm manipulated electricity, in lightning-like bolts, the Cage could inflict hallucinations based on her victims’ fears, and the Void had the ability to become intangible allowing her to phase through solid objects. The Echo shared her own healing skill as well as her ability to inflict pain and injury on others.

Together, the five had deduced that the potency of their skills, mostly, had not increased due to the serum, though their endurance regarding use had. They did not tire as easily, thanks to the serum. The Echo’s healing had appeared to compound. Her innate healing ability was augmented by the serum’s healing boost to result in near instantaneous healing.

Regardless, the intention of the transfer to the Red Room was to make the girls more human. An odd concept, considering the previous attention to detail placed on stripping them of all humanity to leave behind only hollow-shelled soldiers.

But, the Director had said they were to be better than their predecessors.

The Red Room Academy was not so different from the Siberian HYDRA Facility, at first glance. Physically, it looked very different, but the sterile utilitarian nature of the facilities was familiar. Comforting almost.

The Director had presented the girls to the supervisor of the Red Room, Madame B. The Director had informed his assets prior to arrival that they were not to utilise their skills while training at the Red Room, but revealing their serum enhanced strength and speed was necessary. The Echo could use this to explain away her inhuman healing ability.

“I want my girls to train with those of your Widows closest to graduation.” The Director had said to Madame B. He had a hand on the Siren’s shoulder as he spoke. It was possessive. Madame B. had scoffed.

“And what makes you think your girls are ready to face my Widows?”

That was how the group had found themselves in a dark combat training room underneath one of the small array of buildings making up the Red Room Academy. The girls stood at rest across from a group of eight Widows. The Widows eyed them with a wariness, likely because outsiders did not typically visit the Red Room. The Echo watched the Widow directly across from her. She looked about eighteen. She was taller than the Echo, with fair skin, green eyes, and wavy bright red hair pulled back into a braid. In contrast, the Echo’s hair was a darker red, worn loose and pin straight, and a smattering of freckles covered her cheeks.

“Present your best.” Madame B. demanded of the Director, with a venomous smirk.

“Gladly.” The Director replied. “Echo.” The Echo stepped forward, hands still clasped behind her back.

“Romanoff.” Madame B. looked toward the Widows. The red haired Widow that the Echo had been watching stepped forward. “They will spar. If you are victorious, your girls may train with the Widows.” The Echo looked toward the Director. He gave her a sharp nod.

The Echo assumed a defensive stance at the same time the Widow did. The observers in the room had stepped back, to give the combatants space. They circled each other briefly. The Echo observed the lithe way the other girl moved. Like a dancer. Light on her feet and sure of her movement. The Echo dropped to the mat and swung a leg out to knock Romanoff’s legs from under her. The move connected, but as quickly as the Widow fell, she had rolled out of the movement and was crouched ready to pounce. She lunged toward the Echo and a blow aimed for the Echo’s face was blocked with a swift twist and a raised arm.

Despite the age and size discrepancy, the pair seemed fairly equally matched. While the Echo was stronger and faster, Romanoff clearly had more training. Without being able to inflict pain on the Widow, the Echo felt like she was fighting with one hand tied behind her back. They exchanged and avoided a variety of attacks and techniques between them. A unfamiliar tingle ran down the Echo’s arms, she blinked as she realised she was having fun, testing herself against the trained assassin. She vaguely recalled experiencing something of the sort prior to now, but no specific memories surfaced.

The Widow’s brows raised in a mild display of shock as the Echo half-landed a deflected punch to the other girls sternum sending her sprawling backwards several feet. For someone likely trained to show no emotion in a fight, it was as good an opening as the Echo had. She took advantage of the Widow’s surprise and took a running leap forward, pinning Romanoff to the mat in a choke hold. The Widow tapped out after a brief struggle, recognising her strength was not even close to breaking the Echo’s grip.

The Echo released the hold instantly and stood, striding back to her place in formation. Her bones still vibrated with the rush of excitement at the fight, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. The Widow had to take a moment to catch her breath before returning to the line of Widows. Her look back at the Echo was narrow-eyed and calculating.

“Very well.” Madame B’s voice was cold. “Your girls may train with my Widows.” She also watched the Echo and the others with an assessing gaze. “I think it will benefit us both.”

-

The Echo and the others took dinner later with the Widows, though, they sat at a table alone. Still outsiders. It was a quiet affair. Romanoff, the Widow that the Echo had sparred against, had come in late with a freshly split lip and the beginnings of a bruise on her cheekbone. The group ate in silence. They had been provided with four times the amount of food that the Widows had received due to their increased metabolism. Although she didn’t give them the satisfaction of looking, the Echo could feel eyes on the group throughout the meal.

Romanoff was the first to approach them as they were near finished.

“How old are you?” She asked the Echo, forgoing a greeting. Her look remained calculating. The Echo blinked. She attempted to recall any mention of her age, but came up blank.

“I don’t know.” The Widow’s brows furrowed.

“You are American?” Romanoff’s accent sounded Russian. Again, no memories confirming nor denying this assumption surfaced.

“I don’t know.” The Echo looked up at the Widow, perplexed. Why did it matter?

“What are you here for?” Finally, something she did know.

“We are to learn how to integrate into society. Learn social cues and constructs. Learn to present as civilians.” Romanoff took a brief look around the small group in front of her. The Echo could sense the others watching them both. The Widow had no more questions. She only nodded once, with narrowed eyes, and walked away.

The Echo considered this interaction over the evening, as she lay on the floor of the dormitory, preparing to sleep. They had been provided with beds, but the unfamiliar texture under the Echo’s back had quickly had her moving to the floor. She took a blanket. This was also unfamiliar, but the extra warmth it provided was a luxury. The Widows, that the Echo could see in the darkened dormitory, had all been handcuffed to the bed-frames.

The Echo had never wondered how old she was, or where she might have been from. Not that she could recall, at least. It stirred a curiosity in her. These feelings were new. Since the daily mind-wipes had decreased in frequency, it had been happening more often. Was she malfunctioning? The Director had instructed them to learn human emotion, hadn’t he? The Echo was torn. Another new feeling to label. She wanted to know how old she was. Where she was from. But what value did that hold? She dispelled these thoughts. They held no value. No relevance. If she was asked these questions on a mission, she knew how to lie. A cover would be provided to her, if need be.

-

Over the six months the HYDRA soldiers spent at the Red Room Academy, these feelings only increased. Curiosity. Conflict. Confusion. The Echo and the other girls had spoken to a fair few of the Widows, as instructed. They all appeared to know their age and where they were from. They were able to describe memories, from their time before the Red Room. No matter how deep the Echo dove into her mind, she only knew Siberia. And perhaps somewhere before that, a different HYDRA facility. It felt like there were walls in her mind. Impenetrable barriers between her and the answers she was seeking. It hurt sometimes. Not the physical pain that the Echo was accustomed to, from bruises and cuts earned while sparring. No, she found if she pushed too hard against these walls, her head would ache for hours after. And the walls never yielded any secrets.

The Echo knew that the Storm at least felt the same. They had spoken one morning in hushed tones as they practiced shooting targets at the range. The Storm was distracted, her aim was off.

“They’re keeping things from us.” She had whispered. The Echo hadn’t replied, just looked at the Storm who appeared to be seeking something in her eyes. Surely if that was so, it was for their own safety. The benefit of the mission. “I’m going to ask him. The Director.” The Storm had said, after a moments deliberation. Her mouth was set in a stubborn line. The pair returned silently to their shooting after that.

The Storm hadn’t returned to the dormitory that night. The Echo did not ask about her.

-

The four remaining assets were tested not long after the conversation between the Echo and the Storm.

The girls had been provided with false identification documents, dropped off in different cities, and directed to infiltrate a nightclub. They were instructed to identify a target, lure them to a predetermined location, and drug them. There were to be no witnesses to, or evidence of their mission. It was low stakes for their first time out in the open world.

The Echo was dropped on the outskirts of Moscow, with directions to a safe house located near the designated nightclub. It was not difficult to navigate through the city, and she had arrived at the safe house before nightfall. It was an unremarkable apartment in a large block. The key to the apartment had been hidden within a wall sconce in the ground floor hallway, easily accessible on the way to the staircase.

The safe house was small and largely empty, but had been set up with a variety of suitable clothing to choose from, with it belonging to the Widows. The first test. The Echo recalled women often wore revealing and impractical clothing to nightclubs. This would also be useful in attracting the attention of a target. More likely they would be male, but a female target was not necessarily out of the question. Using that logic, she had selected a short, form-fitting black dress with thin straps. The back of the dress dipped low, exposing the majority of her spine - uncomfortable, but it would assist in distracting witnesses from looking too closely at her face. She paired the dress with black high heels and a simple black handbag with a chain strap. This, at least, could double as a garrotte.

Next, the Echo completed her makeup. This, she had practiced in the Red Room. The instructor had highlighted its importance in slightly altering the facial features of the user, and increasing physical appeal. She matched a foundation and concealer with her skin tone to mask her freckles. Otherwise, the Echo stuck with a simple black eyeliner, blended carefully around her eyes, and a blood red lipstick. Simple makeup had two benefits - she would be less likely to stand out, and less likely to do it wrong. Her eyes were already an unremarkable brown, so the Echo felt comfortable forgoing coloured contact lenses.

Hairstyle, the Echo noted, was also important. Helpfully, the safe house contained a choice of pre-styled wigs. She elected to wear one with dark brown curls that framed her face and tumbled enticingly down her back.

The Echo tilted her head as she assessed herself in the mirror. It was unusual to be wearing something other than her uniform. She felt exposed, particularly with her back bare. But she also felt ready to prove herself. Complete the mission.

The nightclub was not far from the apartment and she made quick work of the trip. With the Echo’s serum enhanced balance, walking in the unfamiliar high heels was no trouble. As she neared the right street, she could already feel the vibration of the bass.

A neon sign indicated the entrance to the club. The Echo assessed the surrounding street for cameras and noted none. The area was largely empty except for a small line of people waiting to get inside. A woman stood across the street, a lit cigarette between her lips.

The Echo waited in the line. The night was cool and she hugged her bare arms around her torso, feigning a chill. She handed the bouncer her identification with a brief smile. She was Sofia Petrov tonight. The bouncer had barely glanced at it before handing the card back to her and indicating she could enter.

The club was dark, lit only by brief flashes of moving lights that shone in time with the beat of the music. Sofia moved swiftly through the crowd of undulating bodies toward the direction of the bar. The feeling of being in such a large space packed with so many occupants was overwhelming and sent a shiver of exhilaration through the Echo. It was so foreign. She requested a vodka soda from the barman and paid in cash.

From her position leant against the bar, she observed the partygoers with keen, half-lidded eyes. the Echo spotted a camera facing part of the dance floor and made a note to avoid that area. She sipped her drink and flicked a lock of hair over one shoulder. The majority of the club’s patrons appeared to be organised into pairs or small groups, dancing or talking together. She spotted the woman from outside, who had been smoking the cigarette. A man at the opposite end of the bar captured Sofia’s attention. He was looking her up and down appreciatively. She caught his gaze as it travelled over her face and looked down, letting a coy smile cross her lips.  An invitation. The man approached her, as predicted.

The Red Room Academy’s curriculum had included a thorough course on seduction and allurement, supplemented by instructional films and examples from the media. Mimicking this was a dance. A call and response. The Echo had to alter herself to her targets preferences. The theory was straightforward, but in practice it was delicate work.

“Ya tebya ran'she ne videl.” [I’ve not seen you around before.] The man spoke close to her ear, to be heard over the thrum of the music. A frequent club-goer.

“Ya ne chasto vykhozhu na ulitsu.” [I don’t get out much.] Sofia demurred, stirring her part-finished drink with the straw. Half truths were more believable.

“Akh, khoroshaya devochka.” [Ah, a good girl.] The man grinned. “Menya zovut Andrey.” [I’m Andrey.]

“Sofia.” She looked up at him through her lashes and took a sip of her drink. The man was fairly young, with a sharp jawline accented by dark stubble. The Echo noted his eyes were slightly glazed by the effects of alcohol.

“Sofia,” he tasted her name, “Vy zdes' s druz'yami?” [Are you here with friends?] Sofia shook her head, no.

“Ya novichok v gorode.” [I’m new to the city.] Andrey’s grin widened, clearly picking her for an easy target.

“Potantsuy so mnoy.” [Dance with me.] Andrey held out an arm. Sofia bit her lip and looked away, playing at hesitation. “Poydem, ya ugoshchu tebya vypivkoy.” [C’mon, I’ll buy you a drink.]

“Togda ya vyp'yu yeshche vodki s sodovoy.” [I’ll have another vodka soda, then.] Sofia shook her now near-empty glass at him, the rattle of the ice was drowned in the noise of their surroundings. Andrey’s demeanour changed to triumphant.

-

Several drinks later, interspersed by dancing and talking, the Echo began to feign intoxication. She was aware she could not truly feel the effects of the alcohol due to the serum’s hold on her body. She giggled prettily when Andrey told terrible jokes and leant against him for support when she was jostled by other dancers. He’d consumed a few drinks himself, but this had slowed significantly over the past while. He had continued to ply Sofia with alcohol as soon as her glass ran dry, until she’d stumbled into him, appearing overcome by its effects.

“Mozhet, uydem otsyuda?” [Shall we get out of here?] Andrey eventually asked. Sofia shot him a bashful smile.

“Ya znayu mesto nepodaloku.” [I know a place nearby.] She reached a hand out for Andrey to take and spun around, beelining for the exit. He followed her lead with a laugh.

Sofia bumped into the same woman from outside on her way to the door. The woman was unexceptional, as she quickly apologised and moved out of the way. The Echo was being watched.

The woman was likely a Widow, though not one the Echo had seen before. If she was, she would be privy to the location that the Echo was to take the target and it would be impossible to lose her. If she wasn’t, the Echo had to lose her.

Once out of the woman’s earshot, Sofia turned back to Andrey and grimaced.

“Mne nuzhno v tualet.” [I need to use the bathroom.] Andrey shrugged, nonchalantly.

“Vstretimsya snaruzhi?” [I’ll meet you outside?] Sofia grinned appreciatively at him and nodded.

She dodged back through the crowd and cut a wide loop, careful to avoid the cameras. She spotted her tail making her own way through the crowd, following the Echo’s path. The woman looked around and the Echo ducked behind a passing man, using him as cover to make it to the exit undetected.

Once outside, she quickly located Andrey. He’d lit a cigarette and was distracted by re-pocketing his lighter. She approached quickly and took his hand, dragging him into a playful jog with a grin and a clumsy twirl. He seemed delighted by her enthusiasm.

It wasn’t far to the designated location she was to leave the target. An alleyway a few blocks north. The Echo dodged the view of cameras by dragging Andrey through a veritable maze of directional changes. He hadn’t seemed to mind, distracted by a flash of Sofia’s leg or a flick of her hair.

At the entrance to the alleyway, the Echo reached down to her purse with her free hand and palmed a syringe. There was no sign of anyone else present. She pushed Andrey up against one of the brick walls surrounding them and wrapped her arms behind his neck. He quickly swapped their positions and lifted Sofia to straddle his waist, with coaxing hands at the back of her thighs. She sighed and tilted her head back to rest against the wall as he leant in to kiss her neck. Sofia tangled the hand not holding the syringe in Andrey’s hair, digging her nails into his scalp to distract from the needle she had uncapped with a flick of her finger and drove deep into his neck. He hissed at the feeling, but his attention did not waiver from his endeavour. It wasn’t long before his roaming hands became clumsier and he was no longer able to hold Sofia up against the wall. He took a step back, rubbing his face and apologising for his sudden exhaustion. The Echo watched from her position against the wall with empty eyes as Andrey stumbled and dropped to his knees.

Movement at the entrance of the alleyway drew the Echo’s attention away from her target. The woman from the club stood there, watching as Andrey dissolved into unconsciousness. A Widow then. She gave the Echo a sharp nod and tilted her head, indicating the Echo was to follow her. The Echo stepped over Andrey’s sprawled form and did so.

-

The Siren, the Cage, and the Void were also successful in their missions, the Echo had learnt upon her return to the Red Room. They’d stood before the Director once they had all returned, and provided him with their mission reports. Their success was corroborated by a representative of the Widows. He was pleased by his assets progress. The group had returned to the Siberia facility the morning following this. The girls, one by one, had their minds wiped.

Chapter Text

November, 2011.
HYDRA Facility - Siberia.
Age 19.

In the years following the Red Room Academy, the Echo spent more time outside of the Siberia Facility than in it. The assets were often directed on various missions, at times together, but largely separate. The Director was not as often present throughout these years. Instead supplying information to Karpov, who released the assets on missions.

The Siren was typically gone for the longest periods, engaging in infiltration and espionage. The Echo was next, being sent predominantly on assassination missions. The Void was less frequently sent out, and largely engaged in larceny and destruction of pertinent information on HYDRA’s behalf. The Cage was rarely sent on missions. She was kept in Siberia to facilitate hallucination-based questioning and torture of captives when required.

In 2008, the Echo had received surgical augmentation to compliment her skills. One of the scientists had expressed concern about the Echo being killed by a well aimed shot or explosive force to her major organs, resulting in her death before her healing could catch up to the damage. She was too valuable an asset by now to risk this. The scientists devised a plan to swap her skull, ribcage, and spine with an adamantium endoskeleton, piece by piece. It would prevent damage to her vital organs and therefore her potential death, with the trade-off that she would be unlikely to be able to swim due to her increased density. There had been other ideas discussed, but the endoskeleton would not change the Echo’s physical appearance. This held priority.

The Echo had been unable to be sedated for the procedure that had lasted the majority of a day. Her serum enhanced metabolism would have burnt too quickly through the sedation and it was considered a waste of resources. She was instead heavily restrained, and commanded not to move. Some movement was involuntary, as her nerves and blood vessels were spliced to make way for the new skeleton. When her old bones were chipped away by saw blades and hammers. She floated somewhere between worlds. But the Echo catalogued these feelings, to add to the arsenal of her skill.

The recovery was quick, thanks to her healing ability. The Echo felt heavier, but this was quickly adapted to.

-

In the present, the Echo prepared for another mission. The Siren had been sent to infiltrate a S.H.I.E.L.D. operation in Guatemala. The Echo wasn’t privy to any of the details of the Siren’s directive, but the Siren had not made contact with base in over a week. The Echo was to locate her and contact HYDRA for further instruction.

Following the Siren’s initial trail proved easy. She had ingratiated herself into a private security firm as a vapid receptionist, Ana Ramirez, with a history of working for high security organisations. The Echo had applied for her newly-vacated role to obtain this information. She made a few intentional errors in her interview to ensure she would be over-looked for the position and forgotten. The Echo had asked curiously why their previous receptionist had left - an unremarkable question for a potential employee to ask. Her interviewer’s brow had furrowed and he’d explained Ana Ramirez had just stopped showing up one day, and he hoped she was okay. He’d known she had been having some family troubles.

The interview was nearly entirely unhelpful, except to allow the Echo time to survey the building and decide how she was going to break in later to view Ana Ramirez’s file.

Ana’s file contained an address for an apartment nearby, different from the empty HYDRA safe house the Siren was supposed to use. The Echo had already visited the safehouse with no success in finding anything useful. The apartment proved a different story. The Siren had clearly left in a hurry, leaving behind several clues. The Echo deduced she was likely only a few days behind the Siren in this chase.

The trail led her north to Guadalajara in Mexico. It would have been difficult to follow the Siren’s path, except the same techniques and skills she had used to disappear had been carved into the Echo just as deep.

Guadalajara was beautiful this time of year, the days were warm and the nights cool during the dry season. The streets were alive with colour and activity. The Echo, now a few weeks out since her last mind-wipe, could see the appeal. It was so different from Siberia.

She had narrowed her search down to a few blocks in the densest part of the city, and spent her days observing for any sign of the Siren from cafes and rooftops. It was early morning on a Wednesday when the Echo had spotted her ducking into a market from her position on the rooftop of a restaurant. The Siren had kept her long blonde hair (sloppy, as far as the Echo was concerned) and she stood out against the waves of darker-haired inhabitants of the city.

The Echo mirrored the Siren’s movements from above the streets. The blonde girl had seemed to sense she was being followed, even though she hadn’t spotted the redhead on the rooftops, and altered her route to include a variety of back alleys and turns. It made no difference. The Siren led the Echo to an apartment block she had already acknowledged as the most likely option for the Siren to have used as her hideout.

The Echo watched the building for the remainder of the evening from a window in the building next door, attempting to assess which apartment the Siren was located in. Conveniently, the building next door was a largely unoccupied construction site. The Siren had not left the building, and the Echo had narrowed the options down to a few rooms on the south side of the block. Once night fell, the Echo chose the most likely room - the one she would have chosen for herself.

The Echo shimmied out of the glassless window of the construction site and scaled the side of the building. The brick and plaster provided plenty of appropriate hand holds for her bare fingers. She used an upper ledge to launch herself across the gap between buildings and landed near-soundlessly on a slightly lower balcony. The occupant of the room, an older man, had not even looked away from the television. The balcony of the apartment the Echo suspected belonged to the Siren was only a few storeys up to the right, and she made quick work of the ascent.

The blinds were drawn and the door to the balcony was locked. Even with the Echo’s enhanced hearing, there were no sounds from inside. She stood and took a breath before putting her fist through the glass of the door.

The Echo quickly flicked the lock and entered the apartment. The Siren stood next to a compact wooden dining table with a laptop resting on it’s surface. The rest of the apartment was unfurnished, but gave the impression of somewhere well loved. The Siren was dressed casually in jeans and a worn t-shirt. She didn’t appear at all surprised by the intrusion, and shot the Echo a sad smile.

“I had wondered when you’d come by.”

The Echo reached down into the pocket of her combat uniform. The black leather of it yielded to her seeking hand. She pulled a communication device out.

“Please, Echo.” The Siren raised her hands, palms out. She looked panicked now, in contrast to her previous calm. “I can’t go back there.” The Echo hesitated, but kept the device visible. “They’re lying to us. They’re using us.”

The Echo was thrown back violently into her previously walled off memories as the Storm’s voice surfaced. She was in the Red Room.

”They’re keeping things from us.”

“She knew. Storm.” The Siren continued, the words rushing out now. As if she was reading the Echo’s mind. Her blue eyes were blown wide. “That’s why she’s gone.”

“No.” The Echo shook her head, trying to shake the Siren’s words out. That didn’t make sense. The Echo knew what she need to know, things weren’t being kept from her. Were they?

“I’m remembering, Echo. Without that fucking chair taking everything from me.” She approached as she spoke, palms still raised, pleading for the Echo’s understanding. “My name was Cassandra.” A tear rolled down the Siren’s cheek. “Cassie.” She whispered.

“No.” The Echo raised the communication device again. Just as quickly, the Siren had unholstered a pistol from the back of her denims and taken a step back, pointing it at the Echo. She was breathing heavily.

“I don’t- I don’t remember everything, but-“ The Siren was shaking her head now, her hands trembled as she held the gun aloft. “I’m not going back, Echo.” The Echo recognised the threat in the Siren’s voice. Her finger moved to the trigger.

The Echo dropped to the floor to avoid the shot, and launched herself at the Siren. The tackle knocked the Siren back and the gun clattered onto the wooden floor. They both scrambled for it at the same time, but the Echo was faster. She had the gun palmed and the Siren pinned underneath her within a second. An arm to the other girl’s throat, not quite cutting off her air supply completely. In her hand, the Echo still held the communication device in a white-knuckled grip.

“I’m not going back, Echo. I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault.” The Siren gave her a soft smile and pressed an open palm gently to the Echo’s cheek. “Kill me.” She closed her eyes.

No. This wasn’t her mission. She recalled the Siren’s skill in a rush. She hadn’t remembered. The knowledge had been taken from her. It was too late. The Echo pressed the barrel of the gun to the Siren’s temple and loosed the shot.

The Echo sat for a long time on that wooden floor in Guatalajara, watching blankly as the blood drained from the Siren’s lifeless face and her body cooled. She looked over at the discarded communication device. The Echo reached for it and pressed the control.

“Gotovo k izvlecheniyu.” [Ready for extraction.]

Her return to Siberia was a blur of confusion and fear and grief. She had failed. The Siren had been wrong and she had died for it. The Echo’s mind was a maelstrom.Her hands trembled as she stood in front of the Director.

“Mission report.” His mouth was tight with displeasure, his eyes narrowed.

“I located the Siren in Guatalajara.” The Echo’s voice was devoid of emotion, despite the war playing out in her chest. “She would not return.” (”Please, Echo. I can’t go back there.”) She swallowed. “We fought. I killed her.” The Director slammed his fist on the table between them. The Echo did not flinch.

“I told you to make contact when you located her.” He hissed from between a clenched jaw. Echo looked down. She had failed. “Wipe her.” The Director’s voice was cold.

The Echo walked herself to the chair. (“I’m remembering, Echo. Without that fucking chair taking everything from me.”). She settled into the seat and leant back as the restraints were clamped around her wrists and ankles by faceless labcoats. She opened her mouth for insertion of the rubber guard. The Echo stared ahead as the machinery whirred around her, and the panels closed in around her temples.

South. Operation. Twenty-five. Delta. Blackmail. Thirteen. Parachute. Functional. Winter.

Six.

Chapter Text

April, 2014.
HYDRA Facility - Siberia.
Age 22.

“Your Soldier failed, Karpov. Fury’s still out there.” The Director’s voice rang out from the communication device held in the man’s hand. The Echo had not long returned from a mission. The assassination of a prominent politician had been simpler than expected. She had been called to give a mission report to Karpov, in the Directors absence.

“My apologies, Director.” Karpov replied. His grip on the device was white-knuckled. “He is not long out of cryo. He is rusty.”

“Call back the Echo from Sudan. This takes priority.” Karpov eyed the Echo.

“Sudan is finished.” The Echo gave a sharp nod at Karpov in response to the implied question. “The Echo is here.”

“Then send her.” The Director demanded. “I need Fury dead.”

“Yes, Director.”

-

The Echo was on a jet within the hour. Her equipment still packed from Sudan. She had been briefed on her target and was to work with Karpov’s man - the Winter Soldier. The Echo was aware of him. He was thawed only for top-priority missions. She had no knowledge of having previously worked together. The assassination of a single man typically did not warrant this level of force, but as the Echo had learnt, Nicholas Joseph Fury was not a typical target. As the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. he had plenty of knowledge and support at his disposal.

They touched down at a HYDRA base in rural Virginia just before nightfall. The Echo was directed to catch up with the Winter Soldier and she was gone before the engines of the jet had cooled.

The Soldier was in D.C., near Georgetown. He had tracked Fury to a small radius of apartment buildings in this neighbourhood. An impressive feat, considering Fury’s wiliness.

“Status.” The Echo had asked over the earpiece she had been provided once she was in range. The Soldier had been informed of her imminent arrival to assist.

“Locating target.” The Soldier’s reply was cold and direct. “East building.” The Echo had spotted him on a rooftop opposite her location, though he was well hidden from civillian eyes. From her vantage point, she could watch the South and West sides of the building, while the Soldier covered the North and East.

She watched as a man got off the bike. He was solidly built and moved efficiently. Well trained. The man entered the building and it was not long until he had exited again onto a fire escape on the sixth floor. He was near-silent, even with his bulk.

“Movement on the West wall.” The Echo advised her partner. “Likely a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.” She watched as the man moved swiftly around the fire escape and entered the building again via a window. “He’s inside. I’m moving in.” The only response from the Winter Soldier was a low noise of assent.

The Echo moved quickly. She leapt from her rooftop to the slightly lower one of the apartment building, tucking her body into a roll to dispell momentum and noise. She turned back and jogged to the edge of the roof, slipping her body over the side. The Echo used the building’s molding and brickwork to make her way down to the sixth storey.

Through the open window, the Echo picked up two voices. She was pressed to the side of the wall and had to strain to hear them over the sound of a record player. It was definately intentional, to prevent their conversation being overheard. Whoever was inside was careful.

“I don’t remember giving you a key.” The closer voice said. It was likely the man from the motorcycle. There was a grunt of pain from further inside.

“You really think I’d need one?” This voice was deeper, another male. “My wife kicked me out.”

“I didn’t know you were married.”

“A lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“I know, Nick. That’s the problem.” Nick. The Echo’s eyes narrowed. She looked back at the rooftop behind her. The Winter Soldier had taken up her previous position and was watching her. She gave him a nod and held up two fingers. Target acquired. Two in the apartment. There was quiet from inside for a moment, except for the music still playing. A light flicked on, then off.

“I’m sorry to have to do this, but I had no place else to crash.”

“Who else knows about your wife?” The men spoke slowly, as if a seperate silent conversation was taking place.

“Just… my friends.” The voice that likely belonged to Fury had moved, now. Closer to the window. Echo closed her eyes and attempted to pinpoint a location through the brick.

“Is that what we are?”

“That’s up to you.” She slid to her left along the wall, away from the window, and tapped a spot on the wall with her index finger. The Soldier already had his sniper prepped and aimed. He fired three rounds, circling the site the Echo had indicated. She dropped away from the wall as she heard a yell, landing lithely on a fire escape to avoid the shrapnel from the blown brick.

The music had cut out now, and the Echo could hear movement from inside. Someone being dragged. They grunted in pain.

“Don’t. Trust. Anyone.” The voice came out laboured. Hurt. The kill still needed to be confirmed. There was a bang from inside, as the door was kicked in.

“Captain Rogers?” A woman’s voice now. “Captain. I’m Agent Thirteen of S.H.I.E.L.D. Special Service.”

“Kate?” The man from the motorcycle was breathless.

“I’m assigned to protect you.”

“On whose orders?” Rogers asked.

“His.” A pause. More movement from inside. The whine of a radio. “Foxtrot is down, he’s unresponsive. I need EMTs.” Not dead. The Echo let out a low growl of frustration from between gritted teeth. They would be surrounded by S.H.I.E.L.D. agents within minutes. Fury was injured. Severely, by the sound of it. If they were lucky, he’d die before help arrived. If not, Echo and the Soldier had to get out of here in order to make another attempt.

“Do we have a 20 on the shooter?” The radio crackled in response to Agent Thirteen.

“Tell him I’m in pursuit.” Came Rogers’ voice, before he propelled himself through the window above her and into the building containing the Soldier. He was enhanced. And he’d clearly spotted the Soldier.

The Echo took a few steps back on the fire escape, and then made a running leap for the same building. She grabbed hold of a ledge, and swung herself feet first through a window, shattering the glass with her boots. She was a floor below Rogers. She could hear him battering his way through the office building above her. The Echo mirrored his path from below, keeping her pursuit as silent as she could. She would only engage if the Soldier needed backup.

There was a metallic clang, and then silence from above. The Echo turned. She could hear the sirens swell as the apartment building behind her was surrounded.

“Clear.” Came the low voice of the Soldier through her earpiece. “Returning to base.”

In her black combat gear and hood, she couldn’t very well pretend she was a just young go-getter spending a late night at the office. The Echo couldn’t tell where Rogers was now. She made her way toward the stairwell and looked up, assessing her options.

The Echo’s dark eyes met blue ones a floor above, marked by a furrowed brow. Rogers. She launched herself over the stairwell railing and dropped through the centre column. The impact of landing from several storeys up sent a jolt of pain through the Echo that quickly abated. She took off at a run out of the stairwell and toward the fire exit door at the back of the office block. She heard a thud as Rogers landed in the stairwell in pursuit. Her steps were light and silent in comparison to his thundering gait.

The Echo slipped through the exit door and closed it carefully behind her. From inside, she could hear Rogers sprinting in the opposite direction.

“Clear.” She breathed. “Returning to base.”

-

Through the glass window Natasha Romanoff could see Nick Fury layed out on the operating table. Steve had called her shortly after the second attempt on Fury’s life. It looked like an awfully successful attempt, from where she was standing. She took a breath.

“Is he going to make it?” Steve didn’t have to look, to recognise Nat’s voice. Neither of them had taken their eyes of Fury.

“I don’t know.” Steve admitted.

“Tell me about the shooter.” Natasha was no surgeon, and was no use to Fury now except to follow any leads. Steve loosed a sigh and ran a hand over his face before answering her.

“There were two of them. They’re Fast. Strong. One of them had a metal arm.” The steady beeping of Fury’s heart rate monitor and quiet discussion between the surgical team was the only pucture in the silence. She didn’t look away as Maria Hill appeared to her left.

“Ballistics?” She asked the dark-haired woman.

“Three slugs, no rifling. Completely untraceable.” Nat closed her eyes as her suspicions were confirmed.

“Soviet-made.” She didn’t need affirmation.

“Yeah.”

Natasha felt a surge of helplessness. The trio could only watch in quiet horror as Fury’s heart rate became more erratic. The medical team rushed to stabilise him. Don’t do this to me, Nick. Natasha couldn’t tell if her thoughts had escaped her mouth. The defib wasn’t doing shit, Fury was flat-lining. She knew the outcome before it was pronounced. Steve had turned away.

“Time of death, 01:03 a.m.”

-

Natasha suspected Steve would return to the hospital, after he was declared a fugitive. She’d spotted the USB in the vending machine as soon as he’d left following Fury’s death. He wouldn’t make a very good spy, but his efforts were a little endearing. She had done some digging, the previous evening, to confirm her theories regarding Fury’s shooter. Or shooters.

On schedule, Steve had arrived. Nat approached and observed him in the reflection of the vending machine’s glass. She could admit, she was toying with him a little. He had turned and shoved her backwards into an empty assessment room.

“Where is it?” He demanded of her. Nat’s amusement quickly ticked over into annoyance.

“Safe.”

“Do better.” His eyes were hard.

“Where did you get it?” She asked, avoiding his press for information.

“Why would I tell you?”

“Fury gave it to you.” The thinning of Steve’s lips as he pressed them was all the confirmation Nat needed. “Why?”

“What’s on it?”

“I don’t know.” Natasha had only secured the information on that USB from the pirate-captured ship and handed it over to Fury. She hadn’t asked questions. Though now, she desperately wished she had. Fury had died for whatever she had found that night.

“Stop lying.” Steve gave her a shake, knocking her shoulder blades into the doorframe behind her. This was getting old, quick.

“I only act like I know everything, Rogers.”

“I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn’t you.” She hadn’t know. She blustered, attempting to cover her surprise.

“Well, it makes sense. The ship was dirty. Fury needed a way in, so do you.”

“I’m not going to ask you again.” Steve spat through a clenched jaw, giving her another harsh shake. His sheer strength, when turned on her, was intimidating.

“I know who killed Fury.” Steve’s eyes widened at this, and his grip loosened ever so slightly. “Most of the intelligence community doesn’t believe he exists. The ones that do call him the Winter Soldier. He’s credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last 50 years.” Steve’s eyes narrowed once more at her.

“So he’s a ghost story. Who was with him?”

“Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran.” Steve looked skeptical, but she continued recounting the story. “Somebody shot out my tyres near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But the Winter Soldier was there. I was covering my engineer so he shot him.” Nat lifted her shirt to display the scar on her abdomen. “Straight through me.” She dropped her shirt. “Soviet slug. No rifling. Bye-bye, bikinis.”

“Yeah, I bet you look terrible in ‘em now.” Nat pursed her lips. That was not the point she was trying to make.

“I don’t know who was with him.” She admitted. “As far as I know, he works alone. But going after him is a dead end. I know, I’ve tried. Like you said, he’s a ghost story.” She held the USB up between them, a peace offering. Steve took it. As good a confirmation as any that they were together on this.

“Well then, we find out what the ghost wants. Or we find his friend.”