Archive of Our Own

In her defense, this is not how this mission was supposed to go.

It was just the killing of a former Red Room beneficiary. In and out, nothing too complicated. That was until the bastard held up a glowing amulet, started speaking Ancient Egyptian, and all of a sudden she was being clawed at by invisible monsters as he fled. Then it all goes to absolute shit.

Yelena slashes at the invisible attackers with her knife as one takes a good chunk out of her arm, which is impressive considering her body armour. It’s also very worrying, because she can’t fucking see them and she has no real strategy. The target escapes past her as she shoots at him, but her aim is off thanks to something biting down and holding onto her arm as she tries to raise it. Claws and teeth rip and tear at her suit, slicing through the fabric. Something smacks at her head, making her comms crackle and buzz. Fuck. She’s so fucked. She sizes up her options. The entrance is too far away. The fire escape she entered through is in the living room, which would be feasible if she weren’t being diced by claws. That just leaves the window to the bedroom.

She doesn’t think. She just goes for it. Her steel-toed boot smashes the glass, just as claw marks appear on the window. Yelena tosses the disc for her rappel cord down, and launches herself out the window. 

The momentum dislodges whatever was attacking her, and she steadily rappels down the building. Her feet make contact with the exterior building twice. Maybe she can still catch up with the target. 

Those dreams die when she looks up just in time to see her rappel cord be severed by an unseen claw. 

Yelena yells ‘fuck’, grabs in vain for any footholds on the modern building, feels her hands slip over the glossy windows, and enters freefall. It’s a twenty story drop. The bastard lived in the penthouse. She knows that it’s a lethal fall, that she’s dropping to her death. All her anger melts away, replaced by fear. She doesn’t want to die. Not like this. Her body flails uselessly, as if any of her training can save her from becoming soup on the pavement. She thinks of Natasha, and it feels bitterly ironic for her to die like this. A headlight flares in her peripheral vision, and she’s just about to hit the ground when—

Fwoosh! One second she’s falling, and the next she’s flying. The night sky blurs as she soars over roofs and roads like a bullet. She sees the city beneath her shrink into pinpricks of life, and can only marvel at it. Is she dead? She must be. There’s no way she survived that fall. She’s being carried off to heaven now, where they’ll figure out their mistake and send her down where she belongs—

“Are you good?” A man asks. She looks up at the man, who’s… carrying her? Yelena may not be up to date on her scripture, but she’s pretty sure that angels have wings, not capes. Also, she’s pretty sure that death is supposed to be painless afterwards, and she definitely feels the sting of where the claws got her. In fact, she’s still bleeding. Some of the blood has gotten on the man’s white suit. Yelena squints at him, then presses a finger to her neck underneath her mask. Yup, that’s a pulse alright. 

“How am I not dead?” She demands, fighting the urge to kick out of his grasp because that would absolutely kill her. 

“I caught you. Listen, I’ll explain everything later—”

“Explain now or I will cut your fingers off.” He gives her as unimpressed a look one can while wearing a mask, which is to say, his annoyance radiates through the mask. Either the suit is magical, or he isn’t human, because the glowing eyes manage to narrow. 

“I thought the fall was an accident. Are you actually trying to kill yourself?”

“Not yet,” She grumbles, glowering down at the city. Somewhere, the target is still alive. She failed her mission. “Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You’re the one flying.”

“Touché. But you’re the one who was attacked by jackals.”

“Jackals?” Yelena twists to face him properly, trying to determine if he’s fucking with her. The mask makes it hard to tell. 

“Sort of… dog things. You can’t see them?”

“You can?”

“Yeah? If you can’t see them, the hell were you doing fighting them?”

“I didn’t mean to! The guy I was fighting did some shit with an amulet, and suddenly invisible monsters were attacking me!” She flails her arms for emphasis, and the man manages to keep his grip on her. “And he got away, so thanks for that.”

“Did you not want me to save you?” He huffs. Yelena rolls her eyes, even though he can’t see them through her mask.

“My life is not as important as the mission.” The man goes silent. His suit flickers a couple times, and they drop somewhat dangerously once. Yelena decides to stay quiet. If stepping on a nerve means she falls to her death, maybe she should be a bit more careful where she steps until they land. 

They touch down at some New York apartment. The man sets her down on the balcony, and she pushes away from him as soon as her feet are on solid ground. She’d punch him, but she does kind of owe him, so she refrains. Her arm feels sticky with blood, and she grimaces. 

“Babe?” A woman’s voice calls from inside. Yelena draws her gun just as the door to the balcony swings open, pointing it at the face of a woman with curly hair and brown skin. Instead of being scared like most people would, the woman just sighs. “Okay, I know he said she wouldn’t trust us, but isn’t this a bit much?”

“When has he ever been clear?” The man replies, as if Yelena’s not even there. “Put the gun down.”

“No. Someone had better explain what the fuck is going on,” Yelena retorts. That suit may be magical, but she’ll find out if it’s bulletproof too. The man reaches over to take her gun, and she reacts. She ducks beneath him, then kicks him down and pins him before he can get up. The woman goes to throw a kick, but Yelena sweeps her feet out and slams her into a desk. It makes her thigh throb as the newly clotted wound opens. They tumble to the floor when the man hops back up and Yelena dodges a blow, maneuvering the woman so she has her foot on her neck while she throws a knife into the man’s shoulder. He just pulls it out. It gives her enough time to get the woman into a pin, but then something whooshes by and nicks her arm. It’s some kind of knife. She pulls it out of the red wallpaper, intending to throw it back, but stops short when she recognizes it. 

Wounds correspond to crescent darts witnesses recall seeing. Identity of hostile unknown. Terminate on sight. 

“Independent hostile,” She gasps, staring at the blade. “Augmented enemy combatant. Threat to Widow program. Analysis of fighting style suggests new wearer.” Yelena claps a bloody hand over her mouth to keep the words from continuing to spill out. “Sorry. You’re Moon Knight.”

“Yeah. Are you going to keep fighting us?” He asks, hand still raised. Yelena regains the awareness that she’s still got the woman in a headlock. She’s not really fighting back, just watching. Yelena releases her. “Good.” He turns to the woman. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. You’re a damn good fighter,” The woman says. Yelena shrugs. She knows.

“Hang on. If you know who I am, how come you didn’t recognize the suit? Also, how do you know who I am?” He asks. Yelena sizes them up, trying to decide how much to say. Does it make sense for her to recognize him from the news? Is Moon Knight a well-known vigilante? She doesn’t know. Before she can come up with a lie, the woman speaks up.

“What was that about the Widow program?” Fuck, she should’ve closed her mouth way earlier. It turns out that ingrained commands are hard to dismantle. “Like, the Black Widow program?”

“What’s going on?” Yelena says, bypassing her questions. “You’re both better than average fighters, and that’s fucking Moon Knight. Why are you here, and why did you save me? And don’t give me that bullshit about just saving people because ‘that’s what heroes do’. You’d be as famous as Spider Boy if you did that.”

“How about we start over?” The woman says, putting up her hands in a sign of goodwill. “I’m Layla.” Yelena stares at her as she stretches out a hand. Should she use a fake name? Yelena Belova doesn’t legally exist, and the only people who would care about finding where she is would also want Moon Knight dead. It’s an ‘if I go down, you go down with me’ situation.

“Yelena,” She replies, taking the hand. They look over at Moon Knight.

“Marc,” He says, after a moment of hesitation. He makes no move to shake hands, and Yelena doesn’t either. They both stare at each other for long enough to be awkward, before Yelena remembers.

“Oh. Right,” She raises a hand in front of her face, grabs onto the fabric, and pulls off the mask. Neither of them react. That’s good. If they were somehow connected to the Red Room, they’d have at least a minute reaction at seeing the person who killed Dreykov. 

Marc hesitantly takes off his own mask. It disappears into the suit, unwrapping to reveal his face. Yelena breathes an internal sigh of relief. She doesn’t recognize him. He has the hardened expression of someone inundated in violence, something dangerous glinting in his eyes. She realizes he’s sizing her up too. She holds his gaze, only breaking it when Layla steps between them. Marc’s eyes lose some of their danger, softening slightly when he sees her. 

“Why don’t we get you patched up, and talk about what’s going on?” Layla suggests. Yelena nods, allowing Layla to steer her towards a small kitchenette. Marc hovers behind them. The flat looks lived in, but the decorations are all the kind you’d expect in a middle-aged woman’s house. There’s even small notches on a wall to indicate height as children grew, so either these two have a kid, or this is someone else’s place. As they enter the kitchen, two suitcases by the door confirm her suspicions. She can’t see the full baggage tags from here, but the first set of bold letters indicates they took off from London. Huh. Neither of them have a British accent, so they must have immigrated there later on. 

“I can take care of myself,” Yelena snaps, as Layla pulls things out of an impressive first aid kit. 

“You’re actively bleeding out. Forgive me for not trusting you to do your own stitches.” Yelena glares at her, but Layla completely ignores her. “Do your sleeves roll up?”

Yelena undoes the top of her suit, pulling it down so her black undershirt bares her arms. She hasn’t actually gotten a good look at her wounds, but they look… bad. None hit her arteries, which is lucky because they’re deep enough that if they had, she’d be fucked. Her left wrist has a bite mark that’s still bleeding, the skin torn around where the teeth went in. It’s a fucked up dog bite alright. One tooth went deep enough that she can definitely see bone. The claws have shredded her skin, not as deep as the bite mark but deep enough to be more than a scratch. She inspects the cuts. Most have punctured the dermis, but only a couple went any deeper. That’s not too bad. They’ll heal well enough.

“Shit,” Layla curses, pursing her lips when she sees the bone. “Okay, I’m gonna have to do stitches.” She rifles through the kit, then curses again. “Marc, we’re out of local anesthetic.”

“Don’t worry. It is just stitches,” Yelena assures her. “I do not require painkillers.” Both of them give her an odd look, and she shrugs. “You will understand once you get to telling me what is going on. Then I will tell you who I am.”

“We’d better get on that then,” Marc grumbles, keeping his eyes off her wounds. Yelena would make fun of him, but Layla gives her a warning look and she yields to the woman with the needle. 

Yelena watches Layla’s face as she stitches her up. Her eyes catch on old scars, the ones too neat to be anything but purposeful, but she doesn’t linger. She purses her lips when she spots the one on Yelena’s wrist. Tough skin made of hundreds of scars layered over each other, forming a ring where she used to be bound to a bed. It pulls her skin unnaturally when Layla twists her arm to better situate it, like her skin is still stuck in place by invisible bindings.

“Do jackals have rabies?” She wonders aloud as the needle pierces her skin. Asking questions gives her something to focus on besides the pain, and distracts Layla from her scars. “Because while I have been given many experimental vaccines, I don’t think rabies was one of them.”

“You’ve been given lots of experimental vaccines?”

“Yup. I’m immune to the black plague.” Not immune to blood loss though, because now that the adrenaline has worn off she feels dizzy and keeps speaking without thinking. Somehow Layla must recognize this, because a glass of orange juice is pushed into her hand. She drinks it quickly, which makes her nauseous since she hasn’t eaten but helps with the lightheadedness. The harsh lights of the kitchen make her head hurt. 

“If they were the supernatural jackals I think you’re talking about, then no, they don’t have rabies,” Layla says. “How did you end up fighting jackals?”

“Some kind of summoning amulet, I think,” Marc says. His voice is tinged with an accent, like he’s been influenced by the Brits he lives with. Maybe that’s just what he sounds like when he’s at home. Yelena’s own accent gets stronger when she’s alone or around other Widows. “The guy she was fighting had it. Activated it and got away, so there’s probably a clause that they won’t attack the wearer.”

“Another Ammit worshipper?” Layla guesses. Yelena has no clue what that is, but they’re both acting like it’s common knowledge, so she keeps quiet. 

“He’d have said so. This is something else.”

Layla hums in acknowledgment, easily threading the needle and beginning to stitch one of the deep claw marks up. Yelena holds back a wince as it goes in. Wrists are so damn sensitive, yet also so often injured. The human body is a prison. 

“Do you know if this guy would’ve stolen an Egyptian artifact?” Layla asks, tying up the sutures. 

“I don’t know, but he had a habit of stealing children,” Yelena huffs. Both of them startle, sharing glances she can’t interpret in her foggy state. “Yeah, that’s right. He stole fucking children, and turned them into assassins. That’s the goddamn Widow program. That’s where I come from. They chew you up and spit you out, nothing but a weapon without thoughts or feelings. That’s what he did.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Yelena uses it to lean forward and analyze them. They’re practiced at hiding their reactions. Layla is a bit better at it, pursing her lips as she visibly swallows back what she wants to say. Marc, on the other hand, is straight up zoning out, his face pale and hands shaky. Good. They’re both surprised to learn of the Red Room. Definitely not government operatives, then. 

“I’m beginning to understand why we were sent here,” Layla breathes, turning to Marc and frowning when she sees the state he’s in. “Babe? Why don’t you sit down?”

“Sit down… yeah that’s… that’s a good idea,” He mumbles, sliding down the wall onto the floor. He pulls his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them as his eyes fog over. Yelena frowns sympathetically.

“Want some orange juice?” She offers. Marc doesn’t even react, too deep in his own head. This is a first. Nobody’s ever had a breakdown from learning about the Red Room, at least not like this. Usually there’s more yelling and arguing, or pitying looks. 

“Yelena, why don’t you go get changed, maybe take a bath?” Layla suggests, not taking her eyes off Marc. “The bedroom’s through there.”

“Is he… okay?”

“He will be.” Layla shrugs. “I’ve got some clothes in the dresser that should fit you. Take whatever.”

Yelena does as she’s told, mostly because she is woefully unprepared to deal with whatever the fuck is happening out there. Part of her wants to press for answers, but a larger part reminds her that that’s likely to make the situation worse. Besides, now she gets to snoop. She’s very good at snooping. Case in point: before even looking at the bath, she rifles through all the belongings they have. Two passports, both of which are convincing fakes. Marc Spector and Layla El-Faouly. A book on hieroglyphs with annotations, including many insulting the author. Another book, this one about amnesia. Yelena flips through it, and makes a mental note to check it out. It actually seems pretty good. Layla has a small box of Egyptian jewelry, which looks more authentic than the Egypt-esque jewelry some people wear. Both their wallets have the standard IDs, normal amounts of cash, and random cards most people have. They both have a photo of the other in their wallet. Love. Gross.

It’s when she’s digging through Marc’s drawer that she finds something out of the ordinary. A simple black journal, nothing strange, but when she opens it up, she finds confusing entries. It’s not a diary, like she’d assumed. At least, not a normal diary. There’s three different kinds of handwriting, only slight differences between them but enough to be odd. More than that, the writing styles are different. One is curt and to the point. Another is flowery and overly descriptive. The other is almost military, like it’s a mission report and not a journal. All three of them talk to each other. Little notes to each other, referring to themselves as ‘we’ instead of ‘I’, adding onto each other’s entries. 

She doesn’t know what the hell she’s looking at. Maybe some sort of shared journal between associates? It’s obviously shared between at least three people, but what’s the point of it? Are there multiple Moon Knights, and this diary is their way of keeping things in order? She’s pretty sure Marc isn’t the first Moon Knight, but she’s not sure if there can be multiple at the same time. Or is it messages from their god? The Red Room had done enough reconnaissance on Moon Knight to know he followed Khonshu, speaking to him and carrying out his will. Is this how he communicates? She doesn’t know enough to be sure.

Yelena forces her mind to shut up with its theories, turning instead to grabbing some clothes and getting in the bath. She’ll just keep her underwear, but change into something less mission-like. She takes some black sweatpants and a red tank top with an Arabic slogan she can’t read. Her knowledge of Arabic is limited to Modern Standard, and even that is somewhat shaky, since the Red Room mostly impacted Arabs by manipulating other governments. Even when she knew it better, it was mostly oral. Maybe if it was spoken aloud she could understand it, but she’s hopeless at reading it. 

The bath is… adequate. She prefers the speed of showers, but she doesn’t have that luxury when she has to keep her stitches dry. Once she undoes her hair, she ducks under the water and scrubs it clean. Her fingers catch on knots caused by wearing the mask. Layla has some sort of fancy soap with dried flowers that doesn’t smell artificial, unlike the soap provided by the tub, so Yelena helps herself. She’s not too grimy. Just some blood and sweat, which is nothing compared to the aftermath of bringing down the Red Room. It took literal hours to scrub the ash and dirt from her skin, and the smell of manure from the farm seemed to linger for days. And that was all using motel shampoo, because body wash was for some reason not provided. Terrible. Her skin was raw for days. 

Baths are always a little weird. She’d never actually had one, unless you count the ones from her childhood that turned out to be a lie, before escaping the Red Room. The Red Room preferred to hose them off in massive shower rooms akin to those in prison, the water always frigid and harsh. The smell of working out for twelve hours a day would be masked by perfumes that never smelled natural, though they did the part for tricking targets into thinking they weren’t covered in sweat and blood. 

The hot water soothes her muscles, and the relaxation makes her squirm. 

Yelena clambers out of the bath, patting herself dry with a white towel that was definitely provided by whoever owns this place. No sensible person owns white towels. Especially not fighters. She herself only owns brown and black towels, because otherwise the bloodstains show. She doesn’t even have a period. Who the fuck owns white towels? 

She redresses slowly, her injuries making it far more difficult. At least her suit mostly protected her torso, so she can bend down and wiggle her way into her underwear. The bra is a whole ordeal. It’s form-fitting and provides lots of support, which is usually great, but right now the lack of give is making it way harder than it needs to be. Yelena manages to get her arms through after an embarrassingly long struggle. The rest is a lot easier. Layla, a woman after Yelena’s heart, goes for function over form, her clothes comfortable and stretchy. The fabric barely even pulls at her stitches. She rebraids her hair with some difficulty, unwilling to leave it down when a fight could break out at any moment. Braids are practical in her line of work.

Before leaving, she checks over her suit. To her dismay, she finds that the comms system has been smashed, bits of metal hanging down in a way that means she can’t fix it herself. She’ll have to replace it when she gets back. Hopefully she can find another way to contact the ex-Widows, because when she misses her rendezvous point tonight they’ll be on high alert. The fabric of the suit has been torn where claws and teeth scratched her, and she’ll need to repair it soon. At least the kevlar has held up, as have the infrared lenses in the mask. Those might come in handy later if it turns out the jackals show up in the infrared. The night vision lenses haven’t fared as well, one of the lenses cracked, but they’re still usable if it comes to it. Overall, the suit is still wearable. Good.

Yelena allows herself to look at her reflection in the mirror for a moment before going out. It’s her. Her reflection moves when she does, has her eyes, follows her every movement. This is real. She’s here. 

Time to figure shit out.

“Hello,” Yelena says, waving her hand as she reenters the room. Layla and Marc have moved to the couch, and they both look up when she speaks. Good. He’s at least alert.

“Was the bath alright?” Layla asks. She’s holding Marc’s hand, and he’s squeezing back tightly. 

“Yes, thank you,” Yelena replies. She takes a seat on the ground, sitting cross-legged and leaning forward, dropping her suit on the ground next to her. Pale streaks of moonlight glow through the curtains, splaying over her knees. The room is illuminated by lamps, the overhead lights remaining off. It’s almost cozy.

“Sorry about that,” Marc says, his accent tinged with British like it was earlier. Yelena wonders if that’s him being at home, or a nervous tic. “Just got a bit… overwhelmed.”

“We should explain to you who we are, and why we’re here,” Layla says, and Yelena thinks finally. It’s taken them long enough. “We’re both Avatars of Egyptian gods, carrying out their will here on Earth. I’m the Scarlet Scarab, the Avatar of Taweret, the goddess of women and children.”

“And I’m Moon Knight. Avatar of Khonshu, god of the Moon and protector of travellers of the night.”

Yelena hums in acknowledgment. Her knowledge of Egyptian mythology is slim to say the least, as it is with most religions. It does make sense though. Nobody in the Red Room ever explained why Moon Knight had his powers, nor did they seem to understand them. Serving the god of the moon explains why he only seemed to operate at night, and why his worst bloodbaths often correlated with the full moon. It also explains why he was a threat to the Red Room. They posed a danger to so-called ‘travellers of the night’, so no wonder he attacked them and their associates. Although, she’s pretty sure his file went back a lot further than Marc’s age, unless the Avatar thing stops aging.

“When did you become Moon Knight?” She asks, trying to fill in the blanks. Unless she’s misremembering, which is very possible, there were records of a Moon Knight all the way back in the 1940’s.

“About… ten years ago?” Marc says, tilting his head. The British accent keeps going in and out. “Why?”

“There were others before you.”

“Oh, yeah. I only know about the guy right before me, but the mantle’s been passed down through a bunch of people. Did you know one of them?”

“I knew of them,” She admits. “The Red Room, the Widow program, they did not like Moon Knight. Their records of him go back decades. I think… five Widows died to him throughout the years? Many associates did. Widows were never directly targeted, but they were casualties if their mission got in his way.”

“I’m sorry,” Marc says. “I didn’t know.” Yelena waves him off.

“The last Widow to die was before my generation. You did not kill her. Most deaths caused by Moon Knight were deserved. As for the Widows, many have died on many missions. Their deaths are on their handlers.” That brings the mood down even further, but her backstory isn’t exactly conducive to bringing the mood up, so there’s not much she can do. She holds back the rest of the Red Room’s information on Moon Knight: puncture wounds on victims from the crescent darts, a target beaten black and bloody, bodies shown to Widows to demonstrate his threat level. He’s not the first, but he is one of few that wasn’t part of an equally shitty organization. She gives them a couple moments to digest the information before asking her next question. 

“Why are you here?” Yelena asks. “Some divine mission? Because if so, I regret to inform you that I am not a noble traveller of the night.”

“I did get that, yeah,” Marc snorts, his accent changing again to something she can’t parse out. Not British, but not entirely his Chicago accent either. “We aren’t exactly noble either.”

“The gods didn’t exactly tell us what we were doing here,” Layla elaborates.

“Do they ever?”

“Hush. They just said there was an imbalance, and that we had to take care of it. We didn’t know we’d be meeting you.”

“That was until Khonshu told me to go there right before you fell. Just told me to ‘save the spider to learn the way’. He likes to be vague,” Marc says. She doesn’t know how she feels about being called a spider, but her thoughts are interrupted when a gust of wind rips through the room, and Marc and Layla turn to an unseen presence. “Yeah, I’m talking about you. You couldn’t have been a bit clearer?” A beat. Yelena feels a bit like an intruder, which is odd because for once she’s not an actual intruder. “How is that— And he’s gone.” The wind quells, the curtains righting themselves. “Never easy, is it?”

“Seeker of power yet finder of none,” Layla mutters, massaging her temples. “Yelena, does that mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Where could he have gotten that amulet?”

“Anubis, Wepwawet, and Duamutef are the most commonly associated with jackals,” Marc says, the British accent strengthening. Probably a nervous tic, then. “Though, I don’t know that any of them would give such a powerful amulet to a man like that.”

“And any of Ammit’s followers would’ve judged him.”

“So he stole it?” Yelena interjects. She doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but she’s here for the ride. 

“I don’t even know where he would’ve gotten it,” Layla sighs, continuing to rub her temples. “You need either a god’s blessing or power over that god to make one, and if he had that, we’d have bigger problems than an amulet. Then there’s tomb raiding, but I can’t think of anyone who would be affiliated with the Red Room and Egyptology.”

Oh, but Yelena can. She can think of one organization in particular that had ties to the Red Room and tomb raiding. An organization that would’ve definitely been interested in an ancient amulet, and would’ve kept it a secret. 

“Hypothetically,” Yelena begins, propping her elbows on her knees, “if the Red Room had ties to a certain organization that did quite well for itself for a few short years in the 1940’s and had an obsession with finding Egyptian artifacts to prove why a certain race was better, how likely is it that one of their excavations would’ve produced such an amulet?”

She’s met with blank stares. Then…

“Maldición, you’re saying he got it from fucking Nazis?” Marc exclaims. “How does it keep getting worse?”

“You don’t even know the half of it,” She replies dryly. “And not just Nazis. HYDRA.”

“Oh, what the fuck.”

“Nazis did have some excavations in Egypt that we don’t know much about,” Layla says, staring into the distance. “And the Egyptian government recruited some afterwards.” She says something in Arabic that sounds like a curse, but Yelena can’t quite make it out. The curtains rustle again, and this time Marc and Layla just nod along until it calms again. Yelena wonders which god it is. They both have plenty of reasons to be pissed. 

“Him getting it from Nazis seems the most likely,” Layla decides after a moment. “Hopefully it’s the only one they have.”

Yelena, who has heard the speculation by SHIELD and the Red Room alike on what artifacts the remnants of HYDRA might have, privately decides not to share the theories about the even worse shit they might still have access to. 

“Hang on, the program you come from had ties to the Nazis?” Marc points out. Yelena straightens up. The look on his face is one of distrust and anger. 

“Yes. Along with the KGB, the CIA, SHIELD, STRIKE, Leviathan, and many more. We were forced to do their bidding,” Yelena says firmly. He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, forced. Sure.”

“Don’t—” Layla cuts in, but Yelena talks over her. 

“First it was psychological conditioning. They take you as a child, and torture you until you do what they want. They take your name, your family, and twist you into a Widow. They kill the ones who fail in front of you. MK Ultra wishes it was as efficient as they were.” She takes a breath to avoid choking on her words. The memories of the psychological conditioning are too hard to think of, all pain and burning and torment. But they need to understand that she had no choice. “Then, it was chemical subjugation. They synthesized a drug that could place you under their complete control, aided by orders sent through a computer that artificially stimulated the nerves and chemicals in the body to obey. The person within is gone. There is no possible escape from that, no choice, without the antidote.” She reaches into the pocket of her suit, producing a red vial she carries with her at all times. “We were forced. We had no choice. I am sorry for the pain we caused, but our minds were so twisted that we couldn’t escape it.”

“I believe you,” Layla says, but she’s looking at Marc in a way that implies she’s telling him to believe her. Yelena bites her lip. The amount of times she’s wondered if she could’ve escaped haunts her. It’s hard to accept that she didn’t have a choice, not when she committed so many atrocities. 

“The Red Room split from HYDRA… a decade ago? A little earlier, I think. The timeline is fuzzy. He must’ve gotten his hands on it before that, because he remained with the Red Room afterwards, so he wasn’t part of HYDRA,” Yelena elaborates, sensing Marc won’t reply. “The Widow program was created as an extension of the Russian government, but they became too powerful and began serving their own interests. They allied with HYDRA some time in the sixties, I believe, to infiltrate SHIELD.”

“Wouldn’t this kind of thing have happened before though, if they had these artifacts all the way back then?”

“Those are far less covert than what was necessary for them. And by the time they were no longer acting undercover, the suits with access to high power artifacts fled. He was not at the Red Room when it collapsed, and those who were had no time to retrieve anything. We made sure of that.”

“We?” Marc asks. Yelena nods.

“Me, my mom, my dad, and my sister. Not really, of course, our family was a fabrication to infiltrate the United States government. But I was too young to know that. To me, they’re my family.” She’s never had anyone else. And what is family, if not the people beside you in your darkest hour?

“How old were you?” Layla asks. Yelena barely even has to think about it. The last birthday she celebrated was in Ohio.

“Three when the mission began. Five when I was taken to the Red Room.” Layla sucks in a breath. Marc looks defeated. 

“God. I’m sorry,” Layla breathes, her voice wet. The room suddenly gets warmer, and something within her relaxes. Marc and Layla turn to look at the unseen presence, and Yelena tries to follow their eyes. It’s hard to focus on the spot where they’re looking. Her eyes keep glossing over it, like it doesn’t exist. “Taweret offers her apologies. She was unable to prevent them from taking and harming young girls.” There’s a pause, and the warm feeling seems to grow. “As a condolence and in recognition of your work, she would like to offer her blessings. That just means she’ll help protect you.”

Yelena has to take a moment to consider it. Sure, it would be nice to have a blessing, but she’s not the only one who needs it. She’s good enough at protecting herself. Why should she get this blessing? It’s the ones who can’t protect themselves who need it, not her with her bloodstained hands and violent heart. 

“I don’t want a blessing. I want people like him to not be able to hurt anyone else. I can protect myself,” She replies. Layla nods, and Marc stifles a smile. 

“She says— Actually, you know what? I’m feeling alright, do you want to just talk to her directly?”

“Sure.” Yelena shrugs. She’s expecting the god to appear, but instead, Layla sags and shudders. It looks like she’s having a seizure, but Marc barely reacts, so Yelena stays put and watches. Layla twitches, then takes a deep breath, then—

“Oh, hello!” That’s Layla’s body, but her voice is completely different. “I’m Taweret! Now, I can’t keep this up for very long, so I’ll try to be quick. First of all, you look wonderful! Secondly, I am very sorry I was unable to aid you before. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had an Avatar, you see, and there are rules about that sort of thing! I would’ve only made a bigger mess of things!” She gesticulates wildly, and Yelena has many questions about what is going on. “Now, it is completely within your right to refuse a blessing, however I must inform you that we can tweak the meaning of protection to fit your needs.” 

“Tweak— how?”

“Negotiating the terms! Very good of you! Well, there’s a couple different ways to interpret protection. In your case, I presume the one you’d be most interested in is a blessing on your protection. That is to say, a blessing on the protection you provide to others, particularly women and children as that is my domain.”

“What does that look like?” She imagines some sort of divine shield, and thinks that this god must not have any clue who she’s talking to if she thinks that Yelena is any kind of protector.

“Oh, don’t think like that! You’ve protected plenty of people!” Fantastic. She can read her mind. “Yes, I can, but I try not to pry!” Marc scoffs. “Anyways, it’s not like what you’re thinking. The blessing would simply… heighten the protection you extend to them. Miraculously evading a few bullets, that sort of thing. Of course, it comes with a cost.”

Even better. She has to pay for a blessing. Hasn’t she spilt enough blood in service of others? If Taweret wants a blood sacrifice, she’ll simply point her in the direction of Oksana’s unmarked grave. She has no offspring to offer, either present or future, and her material resources are almost entirely stolen goods. Do gods even care about material possessions? She’s pretty sure gold coins are used by some gods, but that’s the extent of her knowledge. 

“No, no, nothing like that,” Layla/Taweret says, waving her hands. “I don’t do strings attached. Too much to keep track of! What I mean is that in exchange for their protection, the immediate dangers they face would be turned on you. You would face the ire of those who seek to harm them, in exchange for them having heightened protection. Oh, I’m ever so sorry, but this vessel is getting tired, and I don’t want my Avatar to be out of commission! Layla will take back over. She’s lovely, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” Yelena replies dutifully, and it’s not even that untrue. Marc nods like she’s answered the question correctly. Layla shudders again, body trembling until she sags and gasps. Marc pats her knee, and she straightens back up. For someone who’s just been possessed, she looks remarkably fine. 

“Are you good?” Marc asks. Layla flashes him a thumbs up, shaking out her hands. 

“Yeah, just a little headache. I’m fine, I’ll just sleep it off. It was worth it. I think she wanted to talk to you directly,” Layla says, nodding to Yelena. “So. Do you want her blessing?”

“You can think about it. I mean, it’ll put you in danger,” Marc adds. Yelena shrugs. It’s a small price to pay for their safety. 

Yelena Belova has known for a long time that she would die fighting. 

“You can confirm there’s no strings attached?” She says to Layla. Layla nods.

“Taweret will abide by the terms set. She said no strings attached, so there won’t be any. You can trust her,” Layla confirms. 

“Good. If I find out either of you were lying, I will kill the both of you. Even the goddess. I will find a way, believe me.”

“Understood. Does that mean—”

“I will accept her blessing, yes.” As soon as she says that, both Layla and Marc jump. “What?”

“Nothing! Taweret just squealed… really loudly.”

“How do you stand it?” Marc hisses to Layla, and oh yeah, these are her people. Shit-talking a god right in front of them. 

“Please, like Khonshu isn’t worse.”

“Fair.”

“He is the one that does the windy, right?” Yelena says, waving her hand in the air to demonstrate. Marc sighs.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Hm. Between the two, this is preferable.”

“Eh, you get used to it.”

“Okay guys,” Layla interrupts, getting their attention. “Taweret is going to bless Yelena now. You might feel a bit weird for a moment, but don’t worry about it. It’ll pass.”

Before she can even ask what to expect, she’s overcome with a multitude of strange sensations. A phantom hand on her knee, a familiar whistle, the engine of a plane, then an all-consuming warmth like she’s being hugged. It all flits by faster than she can grab onto it, a flurry of memories and feelings. Fear, adrenaline, hurt, desperation. Love. Her chest is like a balloon filling up with love, only growing and never bursting. It’s too much, but she doesn’t want to let go of it. 

Then it’s over, dissipating as quickly as it came. Yelena feels something press against her forehead, but when she reaches up to touch it she finds there’s nothing there. 

“It can be a bit much the first time, especially when it’s so direct,” Layla says softly, holding out a box of tissues. Yelena realizes to her dismay that she’s crying. She snatches a tissue quickly, wiping her burning cheeks and averting their eyes. Fuck, she hates crying. It’s not— it wasn’t allowed, a sign of weakness that needed to be trained out of them. She hasn’t cried in ages. It feels like a betrayal for her body to start crying in front of these two strangers, especially after one of them already saved her life. Yelena mutters a curse in Russian as she tosses the tissue across the room into the bin. 

“Tomorrow night’s almost the full moon. If we go after him after sundown, I’ll be able to take the jackals if he summons them pretty easily,” Marc suggests, thankfully taking their attention off her. Yelena sucks in a breath, settling herself. 

“He will have gone by now. Poof, into the wind. I may be able to track him down again, but it will take longer than one day,” Yelena informs them. She was only able to find this residence through a lucky break of him using a former Red Room alias to purchase it. Now that he knows she’s on his tail, he won’t make the same mistake again. She’ll probably have to hack more government files and reach out to marksmen that might know where he is, and even that’s unlikely to be fruitful. 

“Maybe, but he’s on Khonshu’s radar now. Gods can track humans a little easier.” Marc tilts his head as a light breeze rushes through the room. “And he’s not that far gone. He’s in Brooklyn, at some fancy hotel. Khonshu says he’ll be leaving through the sewers tomorrow night. We can cut him off there.”

“How does he know all that?” Yelena asks. She’s suspicious, to say the least. That’s not just tracking, that’s knowing the future.

“He can sense that sort of thing.” Before Yelena can ask more, she catches Layla twitching out of the corner of her eye in a way that suggests she’s falling asleep. If they’re going to go after the target tomorrow, she needs them all well-rested. 

“Maybe we should go to bed,” Layla says, taking the words right out of Yelena’s mouth. “There isn’t another bed, sorry. We didn’t know you’d be staying. But you can take the couch if you want.”

“Okay. Do you have a computer I can use?” Yelena asks. “I must contact some associates to let them know I am alive.”

“Do we want to know who these associates are?” Marc mutters. 

“More reformed child assassins.”

“That was rhetorical.”

“I’ve got a laptop with some pretty good firewalls and security, does that work?” Layla offers. Yelena nods. The security doesn’t really matter that much anyways, because the system she uses for contacting ex-Widows deletes the local data of the message almost immediately and then deletes the message itself from all servers once it’s been seen. “Great. I’ll go get it. Oh, and feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”

Yelena sends out the message just an hour before she’s supposed to go to her rendezvous point. It’s curt and to the point. Target deployed supernatural weapon. Retreat deemed necessary and executed successfully. Asset in a safe location. Mission will continue. Do not engage. Will rdvs at base. She closes the laptop and hands it back to Layla, then sets about going to bed. 

First on the roster is the matter of food. She needs pure sustenance after that mission, so she goes for food with high calories and carbohydrates rather than focusing on taste. As she’s hunting for food, she checks out all the little nooks and crannies for anything the owner may have left behind. She doesn’t find much, just some receipts with the name ‘Beverly Willis’, presumably the owner. There’s also a map of the subway system on the fridge. The circled stations and directions for guests confirm that she’s in Queens, which means she flew from Manhattan to here. There’s a loaf of bread and a bag of potatoes in the pantry, a carton of eggs in the fridge, and a bottle of vodka in the cupboard, which might not provide nutrients but will definitely help her sleep. Too exhausted to cook and not in the mood to figure out the kitchen, she just eats everything as-is. Two slices of bread, a whole raw potato, and a couple swigs from the bottle. Marc walks by as she’s cracking a raw egg into her mouth, and just stops to stare at her.

“What?” Yelena asks, somewhat gargling the egg. She washes it down with a sip of vodka. Marc gapes at her. 

“You know we have a kitchen, right?” He says, pointing at it. She shrugs, cracking another egg into her mouth. “That’s disgusting. Are you sure you’re human?”

“My digestive system is unaltered.”

“Oh, what the fuck,” Layla deadpans, walking in next to Marc. “You’re going to be sick and hungover.”

“Only the weak get hangovers. I have only had…” She checks the bottle, “three shots of vodka. I will not have more than five.”

“Take it from someone who’s been there; if you can eyeball how many shots you’ve had by looking at the bottle, you’re not doing well,” Marc says. Yelena sticks her tongue out at him.

“Where did you even find vodka?” Layla asks. Yelena takes another sip before answering.

“Beverly stored it in the cupboard above the fridge. You did not think to look there?”

“We didn’t exactly case the joint, no. And how do you know her name?” Instead of responding, Yelena just makes direct eye contact while swallowing another egg. It seems to disgust Layla enough that she just leaves, turning on her heel and throwing up her hands. Marc lingers. 

“You have something to say?” Yelena prompts him, moving to toss her eggshells in the trash. He tilts his head back and forth, like he’s really trying to think through what he wants to say. 

“Are you, like, doing okay? It’s just that, the last time I saw someone drink vodka before bed was when I was having a pretty bad time,” He says, nodding towards the bottle. Yelena averts his gaze. She didn’t come here to be called out like this, thank you very much. 

“I was a Widow. Considering that, I think I’m doing fine,” She informs him curtly, shutting the bin with perhaps more force than necessary. Marc holds up his hands placatingly.

“Okay, I get it. I’m just saying, maybe you should consider that your idea of fine isn’t actually fine.”

It’s not that bad of a thing to say. In fact, she’s heard that multiple times. But the stress of the day coupled with this man trying to act like he gives a shit is too much, boiling over until she sees red. The crimson walls close in around her, her vision tunneling. She doesn’t even think. One second she’s by the bin and the next she’s kneeing him in the stomach, watching him stumble back without any of the fighting prowess he’d had just hours ago. Wisps of hair that escaped from her braid fly into her face, getting stuck to her bared teeth. Part of her wants to kick him until he can’t talk anymore, and another part wants to flee far away from here, which leaves her frozen in indecision and a swirling pool of emotions. It must be long enough for Layla to notice something’s wrong, because she comes sliding out of the next room to shove them apart. Yelena recovers enough to spit at Marc, and Layla shoots her a glare. 

“Can we please not fight!? God, we’re on the same side!” Layla exclaims, holding her arms up between them. Yelena snarls. “What the hell even happened?”

The rage is fading quickly, and Yelena finds herself trying to remember what set her off. The words escape her. She looks to Marc, expecting him to explain, but he’s sharing looks she can’t read with Layla. Honestly, he looks confused. Yelena wonders if even he knows what set her off. 

“Okay,” Layla sighs, likely sensing she won’t get a response. “You don’t need to tell me. Why don’t we all just go to bed?”

“That sounds great,” Marc says, stretching his back slightly. Layla turns to Yelena expectantly.

“Yelena?”

“I’ll go to bed. Sorry for fighting your husband.”

“You could apologize to me, you know,” Marc says. Yelena rolls her eyes.

“Fine. I am sorry.”

“Great. Can we go to bed now?” Layla asks. They both nod, Marc retreating to the bedroom with Layla. Yelena avoids both of their eyes as she walks back over to the couch. That sucked, but it’s best to forget about it and complete the mission. 

She puts the vodka bottle back in the cupboard. 

Halfway through her repairs of her suit (Beverly keeps a sewing kit in the drawer), she’s startled by a quiet whimper from the bedroom. She checks the clock on the wall. It’s nearing sunrise, so they shouldn’t be awake yet. Yelena sets her suit down and creeps towards the door. It might be an invasion of privacy, but Yelena’s never cared much for that, not after never having privacy growing up and making secrets her business. 

There’s some more whimpering, then Layla’s sleepy voice slurring something. The whimpering must be Marc, then. He sounds genuinely distressed. She hears Layla murmur something else, then there’s a loud gasp and the sound of sheets rustling. 

“Habibi, are you back with me?” That’s Layla, speaking quietly and calmly. Marc is breathing heavily. 

“Not… exactly,” He pants, still gasping for air. “I don’t know what the fuck that was.” His voice almost sounds like that of a New York native. Is he from here? Is the Chicago accent put on, or acquired later? Yelena certainly reverts to Russian when she’s just waking up, or at least heavily accented English. Who the hell has three different accents at the same time, unless they’re a spy or much more foreign than Marc seems? 

She retreats from the door, mentally going through the list of organizations that could produce someone with Chicago, New York, and British accents, or at least the whispers of them. HYDRA had a couple attempts at American programs, but they were primarily led by Germans. A couple British citizens have been kidnapped into spy programs, but that was mostly during World War 2 and directly after, discounting the Widow program. Besides, any good spy would be able to control their accent slipping in and out. 

Maybe he’s just supremely well-traveled, and has picked up some vocal affectations on the way. Or maybe he’s from a program that even she doesn’t know about. 

Fuck, she’s much too tired for this. She shouldn’t be obsessing over an accent, of all things. He’s a good fighter, but not as good as any trained assassin would be. He didn’t even know what the Widow program really was. Yelena tries to focus on the facts, which disprove him being a spy. If he’s part of any secret program, she’s a better fighter than him. She’s one of the best. If his accents turn out to be a clue, she’ll take him down. It’s that simple. 

Yelena doesn’t really mean to fall asleep when she does, but one minute she’s sketching out a battle plan and the next she’s waking up to voices nearby. She springs up, reaching for a gun she doesn’t have, before realizing where she is. The unfamiliar surroundings and red walls refocus into the living room of a rented apartment, the voices becoming those of the two strangers she’s working with. Daylight is streaming in through the windows. The gun she usually has next to her while sleeping is on the floor next to her suit, along with her other weapons. Her sketch has fallen to the floor, and a lone pencil is stuck to her shirt. A quick glance at the clock confirms it’s four in the afternoon. Huh. She slept for eight hours and didn’t have a single nightmare. She stretches automatically, and winces as it pulls at her wounds. At least she didn’t tear her stitches. 

“Hey, you’re finally awake,” Marc says, poking his head into the living room. “Layla, she’s up!”

“Yes, I heard you,” Layla replies, coming around the corner. She somehow still looks put together, even in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Yelena’s pretty sure she’s one of those people who looks good no matter what. “Did you sleep alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” Yelena says. “The couch was quite comfortable. I know that sounds sarcastic, but I am being serious.”

“Good. We made some breakfast. I know it’s almost dinnertime, but with sleep schedules like ours, that doesn’t mean much.”

“Agreed.” Yelena plucks the pencil out of her shirt, where the lead has gone through the fibers. “What have you made?”

The answer is, apparently, a banquet. There’s some kind of bread that Layla calls ‘baladi flatbread’, which they eat with raspberry jam and honey. A bowl of fruit salad is also laid out, which they quickly devour along with the bread. Yelena piles deliciously warm cheesy scrambled eggs on her plate. They absolutely gorge themselves, eating until they’re stuffed. Yelena barely stops to breathe. Layla and Marc chat idly, but Yelena is too focused on eating to even consider talking. She clears her plate three times, and has to stop because her stomach hurts. 

They take the time to properly clean up after the meal before getting into the plan for the day. Marc and Layla are like a well-oiled machine, with her washing the dishes and him drying them. Yelena ends up putting things away, though she’s not sure how well she does. Big plates can be stacked on top of small ones, right? At the end of the day, they’re all plates, so it shouldn’t matter. 

“So, what is the plan?” Yelena asks, once everything has been put away. 

“Here,” Layla says, spreading out a map on the cleared table as Yelena looks over her shoulder. It’s a map of the sewers. “The closest entrance into the stormwater sewers to his hotel is here, so he’ll likely follow this path to get to an exit on the outskirts of the city.” She runs her finger over the map as she talks, tracing the path. “If we come in from this entrance here, we’ll be able to cut him off.”

“Why not this one here?”

“That leads into a pipe full of water,” Marc says. “Swimming will slow us down, and make us easier to find if we’re sopping wet.” Layla shoots him a look Yelena’s too tired to read. Dreykov really should’ve paid her overtime (or paid her at all) for taking the time to read people’s expressions, because that shit is exhausting. Even now, it’s still not second nature like most of her Widow skills. She refocuses on the map, committing it to memory. Exits, entrances, little paths, everything. It wouldn’t do to get stuck because she didn’t memorize the location. 

“I’ll take point,” Yelena informs them, tracing the path with her fingers as she memorizes it. 

“Excuse me?” Marc asks, sounding affronted. She rolls her eyes. 

“I am better than you.”

“Uh, remind me again which one of us got thrown through a window less than 24 hours ago?”

“Remind me again which one of us has been doing this for thirty years?” She parrots back at him. Marc doesn’t seem to have a comeback, just crossing his arms and shaking his head. “Exactly. He is my target. Do not get in the way.”

“We’re supposed to be working as a team,” Layla reminds them. 

“Of course,” Yelena acquiesces. In Russian, she adds, “The spider and the two idiots who got tangled in her web.” Neither of them react to it, mostly because she keeps her tone gentle, and she smiles to herself. She doesn’t actually think they’re idiots, although that’s more so an appraisal of Layla rather than Marc, but it’s close enough. Smart people don’t get involved in the business of Black Widows. 

The sun is just starting to go down when they leave. New York glimmers in the sunset, frost decorating the edges of windows as a warning of the winter to come. It’s cold enough to bite at her exposed skin, but unlike Marc and Layla, who hunch in on themselves and shiver, Yelena soldiers on. Her skin is weathered from years spent freezing, whether it was in the Red Room or on missions. She still has the scars from getting frostbite a decade ago. The cold is like an old friend, familiar in its pain. Her feet crunch on the frosty ground, and it sounds like home. 

They catch a bus down to Brooklyn, standing with people who don’t bat an eye at Yelena’s bulky overcoat or Marc’s barely concealed crowbar. Thank God for New Yorkers. 

Layla, in a red knit sweater with her hair artfully pinned up, leads them off the bus and towards the sewer entrance. It’s easy to let her lead them, what with her confident gait and responsible aura. Yelena has half a mind to ask her for fashion advice. The overcoat she’s wearing belongs to Layla, with brightly beaded lapels that stand out on the black fabric. Compared to Yelena, in obviously-hiding-a-supersuit chic, and Marc, who looks like he just rolled out of bed, Layla looks the most ready for a night on the town. Though, perhaps that makes her the odd one out. It is New York. 

There’s a locked maintenance entrance a couple blocks from their stop. Security cameras with red lights loom above them like birds of prey, until Yelena takes out a signal jammer that makes their lights go dead. It also kills any alarms, since the jammer temporarily stops devices in a nearby radius from receiving signals. Layla gives her an appraising nod.

“You’ve got to get me one of those,” Layla says, gesturing to the jammer. “It’s hard to find ones that work that well.” That’s very true. This jammer was designed by Melina and created by other ex-Widows, based on jammers used by the Red Room from technology developed in secret. Highly illegal, but very effective.

“If this mission goes well, I will put in a word for you,” Yelena promises. Honestly, she’ll probably put in a word for Layla regardless. The Avatar of a goddess of women and children, who doesn’t take shit and has badass fighting skills? Yeah, that’s right up their alley. If Layla’s not careful, she’ll end up adopted by some very traumatized ex-Widows. 

Marc forces the door open with his crowbar. It opens with a pop, leaving scratches and indents on the side. Yelena ducks under his arm, tosses her overcoat behind her, and raises her gun. With one hand, she pulls her mask down. She doesn’t bother trying to use her broken night vision lenses. Her eyes have adjusted to the darkness enough to spot movement, so she won’t try to see through cracked lenses unless she really needs to. Layla slides in next to her, pulling the overcoat on. The door swings closed with a bang, and Marc joins them.

Wind kicks up impossibly in the tunnel, and Yelena turns to Marc expectantly.

“He’s here,” Marc reports. “To the north, making his way down here. He has the amulet.”

Yelena nods in acknowledgment, and takes a step forward. Then another. Her feet tap the ground silently, following the gun in her hands. Marc and Layla fade out of her awareness into little blips on her radar, the space where non-threats sit. Not a concern, but still a presence behind her. She checks her corners. Rats skitter past, jumping through cracks and holes as they approach. Fucking rats. The old Red Room had plenty of them, to the point that they would practice torture methods on them. She can’t remember when they made the jump from rats to people. 

The sewers are dank and smelly, but she’s had worse. They creep through damp tunnels, waiting for movement. It doesn’t take long to find him. 

Footsteps echo up ahead, sloshing through water as he walks. She can see his silhouette in the darkness, walking at a steady pace down the tunnel. The arrogant bastard isn’t even trying to hide. Yelena jerks her head in his direction, and both Marc and Layla nod in acknowledgment. No more waiting. Time to kill the fucker. 

In the blink of an eye, Yelena’s on him, narrowly missing him with a bullet as he swings down another tunnel. The gunshot echoes as another form shoots down the tunnel in a burst of light, pouncing on him. Layla’s golden wings deflect the bullets he shoots at her. Yelena barely has time to marvel at her costume before Marc flies over, white suit gleaming supernaturally in the dim light. He throws a dart at the man, piercing his arm, then barely misses his neck with the next one. Yelena uses the chaos to slide between Marc and Layla, tackling the man to the ground. 

The man raises the amulet and shouts. Two things happen at once. Invisible attackers, or jackals, burst forward with slashing claws and piercing teeth. Marc and Layla try to yell out a warning, but it’s too late. Layla gets overrun, only able to focus on throwing attackers off of her as their claws echo off her wings. At the same time, Yelena gets punched in the gut by what must be a head, and is thrown backwards by the force of it into Marc. They go tumbling back, and Yelena barely manages to grab the edge of a platform as she hears Marc fall into the water below. 

Teeth bite at her hand, and she falls.

For the second time in 24 hours, Yelena falls into the unknown. She casts out a hand to grab for anything to break her fall, but before she can stop it, she’s plunged into darkness. 

Cold water presses against her body. It soaks into her suit, making her sink like a rock. The cold is a shock to her system, and she has to force herself to move. After all the hypothermia training, it’s easy. Yelena brings her arms in front of her and swims. 

With a splash, her head breaks the surface of the water, and she yanks off her mask to gasp in a breath. Somehow, it doesn’t stink. The water is actually relatively clean. While she may be immune to most diseases (thanks to the aforementioned dubious experimentation), she still doesn’t fancy swimming in raw sewage. She treads water as she tries to get her bearings, letting her breathing settle. 

Just as she’s about to swim to a nearby platform, she hears someone struggling, and remembers that she’s not alone.

The Moon Knight suit is glowing in the darkness. It keeps flickering: first the bandaged suit she’s used to, then a white tuxedo, then a suit with a black body and white cape. Every time it changes, Marc goes back under the water, then struggles to the surface. He’s gasping for air. His arms are pinwheeling all over the place, barely keeping him above the water. Fucking hell, he’s going to drown. Panic is a killer. It’s why the Red Room made them dive into freezing water as training; if you panic underwater, you’re dead. 

Yelena swims over to him, using the flickering of his suit as a guiding light. She’s well aware that people will pull others under while drowning, but she can’t just leave him here. He keeps churning the water, oblivious to her presence. At least he seems to be tiring himself out. She wraps her arms under his armpits and around his chest, then tries to swim to the platform she spotted earlier. Marc flails as soon as she touches him. It seems to be making him panic more, but Yelena can’t exactly let go now. With strong kicks, she fights the waves he’s making and swims them over to the platform. 

Swimming with a fully grown man fighting her the whole way is hard, but she manages it. She lugs him onto the concrete, then backs away as he flails a few more times. Finally, he goes still, and the only sound is the water and his gasping breaths. The suit settles on the white tuxedo. 

“Are you alright?” Yelena asks, then mentally berates herself because he obviously isn’t. “I mean, are you drowning?” It’s hard to tell with his panicked breathing, and dry drowning is still a concern, especially with his mask. Does magic armour prevent waterboarding? She tries to lift the mask over his mouth, but he rolls away clumsily. 

“Oh, where the hell am I?” It comes from Marc, but he sounds extremely British. Not a slight affectation from living there. No, he sounds like he’s actually British. Is he concussed? “Layla? Marc, what’s going on?”

As soon as Marc says his own name like he’s someone else, a lot of things click into place very quickly.

She’s been around enough ex-Widows to recognize the signs, and feels a little dumb for not putting it together sooner. It’s dissociative identity disorder, probably, or another dissociative disorder. Marc isn’t her first run-in with a… system? That’s the word Karolina uses, anyways, and she has the disorder. He’s doing the same thing some of the systems she knows do. Writing in a journal to communicate between selves, zoning out when emotions rise… fuck, she hopes he’s not in a fugue right now. That’ll make getting out of here a lot harder, especially if this is someone who has no clue what the fuck is happening. She was once on a mission where another Widow switched to an alter (is that the word?) who didn’t know why they were there, and proceeded to run ten blocks away before anyone found them. 

A small part of her wonders what exactly happened to Marc Spector to cause him this disorder. For him to have something in common with the mental state of Widows, it can’t have been good. The Widow program was practically a dissociative disorder factory. They’ve all got dissociative amnesia, and it’s not a far leap from that to alters when dissociating is actively encouraged and forced. She’s honestly an anomaly for not having one, considering the percentage who do. So what the hell happened to him?

“Hello,” She says, sitting down next to them hesitantly. The sounds of fighting are gone, so it’s not like she needs to get back up right now. Besides, if Marc(?) can’t fly right now, they’re kind of stuck until Layla comes and gets them. 

Whoever’s in the Moon Knight suit startles, then staggers back into the wall. The suit's eyes go wide. Yelena sits there in silence, waiting for them to speak.

“Er— Sorry, it’s Yelena, right?” Moon Knight asks. She nods. “Good, good. Um, sorry, this is a bit awkward. What exactly is going on?”

“We tracked the target to the sewers. When we engaged him, he released jackals, and both of us fell in here. You were almost drowning until I pulled you over here.”

“Ah, okay. Well, thanks for that.” They stammer a bit, and she waits for them to find the words. They still seem a bit out of it. “Sorry, this probably doesn’t make sense—”

“You are a system, yes?” She interrupts. They freeze.

“What— how?”

“I was a Widow. I am trained to observe people,” Yelena reminds them. “Also, the Red Room caused prolonged childhood trauma. You are far from the first I’ve met.”

“Right, yeah. That makes sense. Sorry you had to go through that.” Yelena waves them off, shaking her head. This is really not the time. 

“What is your name? That is, if you have one,” She asks.

“Steven. With a V. He/him pronouns,” He replies, his voice losing its shakiness a bit. Yelena nods, then rolls up onto her toes. The concrete is too cold to sit on comfortably. “You seem remarkably alright with this.”

“Like I said. You’re not the first.” 

They sit in silence for a bit, waiting for Steven to calm down from the panic of drowning. Yelena keeps an ear out for the sounds of fighting, but it remains quiet up there. 

“Where’s Layla?” Steven asks, once his breathing is almost normal. 

“Somewhere above us. I believe the fighting has stopped, but I do not know if she is aware of where we are,” Yelena replies. Steven nods, rolling his shoulders. 

“Just give me a sec. I’ll get Marc out here, he can get us out.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” She looks at him pointedly, how he’s still shaking a bit from panic. Steven hunches in on himself. “I do not mind waiting.”

“Thanks.” He huffs out a breath, staring at the ground with glowing eyes.

“Also, I must inform you, I have already seen your face. If you would like to remove your mask, feel free.”

“Oh, good.” The mask pulls back into the suit, like he’s taking off a hood without touching it. Steven sucks in a breath. His hair doesn’t seem wet, so luckily the suit must have waterproofing. She listens to his breathing, which sounds normal, albeit slightly too fast. Good. He doesn’t have water in his lungs. 

“How much do you know about what we are doing?” Yelena asks. If she’s right, the brief lapses into a British accent earlier were Steven slipping through, but she hasn’t heard them since. Hopefully Steven has a vague idea of what’s going on, because she’s really not the person to break the news that he has a superhero job serving a god. 

“The memories are a bit fuzzy right now. Sorry,” Steven apologizes, gesturing at his head. “Er, we had a mission? Khonshu sent us to help you.” Good, he knows about that. “Marc took over when it turned into a killing people mission. I’ve been sort of… asleep since then. Not a big fan of that, me. Not that I disapprove of your choices!” He adds hastily, as if Yelena would be offended that he doesn’t like violence. “Just, it’s not for me. I really didn’t mean to switch in. Sorry about that. And sorry for not telling you.”

“There is no need to apologize,” Yelena assures him. “How could you have known? Besides, I am well aware that people react poorly to those with dissociative disorders.” She thinks of all the Widows who keep it hidden, because they know it will only make people more afraid. 

“You’ve got that right,” Steven huffs dryly. “People that know treat me like I’m some poor baby with an evil man in my head, as if Marc hasn’t protected me more times than I can count!”

Suddenly, there’s a light from above, where they fell through. Yelena draws her gun, covering Steven as she waits for the source. A figure soars through, and she nearly shoots before recognizing who it is.

Layla.

“Over here!” Yelena calls, lowering her gun. Layla, surrounded by a slight warm glow, flies over to their platform. Her golden wings are bloody, her hair askew and face tired. She still looks ethereal. Gold boots touch down on the concrete, and the wings retract into the suit. 

“Sorry it took me so long,” Layla says, as the glow fades. She turns to Steven, taking in the suit and obvious remnants of distress on his face. “Shit.”

“Hi Layla,” Steven greets her. Layla glances between him and Yelena nervously. 

“I know,” Yelena informs her. She sighs in relief, then crouches down next to Steven. 

“Hi Steven,” Layla replies, squinting at him. “Are you alright? I tried to go after you both, but there were too many jackals and the target was going to get away.”

“It’s alright. Yelena kept me company. Saved me from drowning, in fact.” He gestures up at her, and Layla turns to face her. 

“Thank you,” Layla breathes, pulling her into a hug. Yelena stiffens, then slowly returns the hug. It feels safe, strong arms holding her with no intent to harm. It feels like hugging Natasha. 

“Where is the target?” Yelena asks, before her emotions can get out of hand. Now is not the time. 

“Dead,” Layla says firmly. “Sorry if you wanted to kill him yourself.”

“Well, I did, but I think him being killed by the protector of women and children is even more fitting than being killed by a former Widow.” Layla grins. 

“Good. Let’s get out of here then, huh?”

It turns out that Layla can only carry one person at a time, so Yelena waits as Steven is ferried up before Layla comes back to collect her. Now that the target is dead, she feels lighter. Knowing that it was Layla who killed him helps. For all that she wanted to kill him herself, it’s oddly comforting to know that the Avatar of a god that protects women and children was the one to do it. The Red Room always told them that nobody else cared about them, and Yelena stopped praying for salvation long ago. Now, she knows her prayers were answered. The target died knowing that someone far more powerful than him was on the side of the Widows. He stole an amulet that gave him power, but he didn’t earn the favour of the gods. His victims did. 

They leave the body in the sewers. It’s where he belongs, after all, in a tunnel full of shit and waste. His wounds are clearly the work of the Scarlet Scarab, and he’ll be chalked up as another one of her victims. Yelena hopes the rest of the Red Room beneficiaries find out. She wants them scared, just like she was. She wants them to know that their prayers will go unanswered. She wants them to know that a goddess is after them. 

Layla and Steven morph out of their suits, and Yelena picks up her discarded overcoat from the entrance. Luckily, the sewers are full of DNA, so none of them worry about leaving evidence behind. Besides, Yelena doesn’t even technically exist. The only people who have her DNA on file are people she wants dead. 

Nobody on the bus back to the flat comments on their appearance, which is good because Yelena doesn’t have magic armour. Her knuckles are bruised from both fights she’s had, her hand is cut up from the bite, and she must have knocked her head on something, since she’s got an impressive bruise forming on her forehead. At least she doesn’t seem concussed. Yelena’s well-versed in concussions, and so far she seems okay. 

When they get back to the flat, the three of them take turns in the bath, scrubbing off the stench of the sewers that lingers on their skin. Yelena’s never been so thankful for soap. By the time they’re all done, Layla’s fancy soap has been reduced to a small ball, the bathtub is stained brown with dried blood and muck, and they all smell like roses. 

Yelena walks out of the bathroom, wearing Layla’s clothes once again. The scene she’s met with is oddly domestic. Steven has his head on Layla’s lap, and she’s playing with his damp curls while reading the book about hieroglyphs that was in their bedroom. A couple candles have been lit, making the room feel warm and inviting. She lingers in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt. 

“How was the bath?” Layla asks, without even looking up. Steven twists around to look at her. 

“It was good,” Yelena replies, sitting down in an armchair next to the couch. She’s too sore to sit on the ground. “However, your fancy soap is almost gone, and the tub is very dirty.”

“That’s fine. We’ll clean it before we leave.” Layla closes her book, setting it down on the coffee table. “Is your hand okay?”

“It does not require stitches, but a bandage would not go amiss.” She flexes her hand, wincing at the stiffness of the scabs. Layla gets up, and Steven sits upright. He stretches a bit, yawning as he does so. 

“Hey Yelena,” He says. “It’s still Steven, but the others are awake now. They’re still a bit tired though.”

“The others? Plural?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, I’m still a bit tired myself.” He smiles bashfully. She shrugs, ignoring the ache of her muscles.

“It’s alright. I didn’t want to assume, but I did notice your accents switch earlier. At least two different ones, British and something else. Not by much, but I’ve spent too much time hunting foreign spies not to notice.”

“Really? Darn, I didn’t realize.” Yelena laughs at the absurdity of Steven, a grown man, saying darn. 

“Here’s the bandages,” Layla calls, reentering the room with a roll of bandages and some disinfectant. Yelena takes them from her, and begins treating her hand. The teeth tore through the thin skin of the back of her hand, leaving a jagged wound that pulls at her skin. She applies the disinfectant, ignoring the burning pain easily. This is far from the first hand wound she’s had. Compared to the time she was shot through her palm, this is nothing. Honestly, all the scar tissue she has probably prevented them from biting deeper. 

“Are you two friends, or…” Yelena trails off, gesturing at how close they are. She’s the last person to assume that people are romantically involved, but considering Marc and Layla’s relationship, she can’t help but ask. Most Widows don’t have steady relationships, so she doesn’t have a baseline for how the disorder works with that sort of thing. Is sharing common? After all, they share a body. How separate are their lives? Much like everything to do with romance, it seems complicated. 

“We’re dating,” Layla clarifies. “Marc knows, so don’t worry about that.”

“I sort of got grandfathered into their marriage,” Steven adds, and Layla rolls her eyes. “Not that that goes for the whole system, mind! Just Marc and I.”

“Understood,” Yelena says, returning to her hand. She tears off the bandage, tucking the ends in. Her hair falls into her face as she leans down to do it. With a sigh, she tries to braid it, only to find that her hand is too stiff with the bandages. 

“Do you want some help?” Layla asks, after a moment of struggling. Yelena groans, then nods. Layla moves to stand behind her, which makes her uncomfortable for a second until she can force herself to relax. Deft fingers begin to work through her hair, braiding it back tightly and working through knots. She’s good at this. It reminds her of Natasha, way back in Ohio. On the first day of school, her sister had braided her hair after she pleaded for her to do it. A French braid, which made her feel fancy. The braid had stayed in place all day. At the time, she hadn’t thought to ask where Natasha had learnt. 

Steven watches them with a dopey smile on his face. The shakiness he’d had in the sewers and on the way back is gone, replaced with exhaustion and relaxation. It’s a pleasant change from earlier. Yelena doesn’t know if it was the fight, the water, or something else, but whatever it was shook him up pretty bad. 

Layla pats her shoulder, and Yelena reaches back to feel her hair. It’s a French braid, which almost makes her cry. 

“How long have you been doing the Avatar-ing?” Yelena asks, determined not to cry over her braid. Steven and Layla share a glance. 

“It’s been almost two years for me,” Layla replies. “Long story short, these guys died, and I needed to stop the guy who killed them from resurrecting a goddess who would’ve killed a bunch of people. I didn’t let Khonshu have me as an Avatar, but Taweret made a much better offer that didn’t involve essentially taking their job right after they died.” A gust of wind blows through the room, but neither of them pay it a second glance. 

“As for me, well… it’s a bit complicated,” Steven says, tilting his head. “Marc was Moon Knight for ten years before I found out, but it’s been two years since I made that discovery and became a Moon Knight myself. So I suppose that the body has been doing it for twelve years, but I’ve only been doing it for two. Does that make sense?” Yelena nods. It’s not the same, of course, but she counts the years under chemical subjugation as part of her time as a Widow, even if it wasn’t technically her. Everything gets complicated when you’re not the one in control of your body. 

“How long have you been doing the whole superhero schtick?” Steven asks. Yelena tenses, the question echoing in her mind. Layla must notice, because her brow creases and a worried expression crosses her face. 

“I’m not a superhero,” Yelena replies. Both of them look like they’re going to correct her, and she waves a hand to stop them. “No, I’m not. Superheroes go protect people, all I do is kill people. My sister was a superhero. I’m just… an assassin with a moral code.”

“I mean, that could be said of all superheroes. Wait, are you saying your sister is a superhero in a ‘she’s my hero’ kind of way, or is she actually a superhero?” Steven asks, sitting up with a look of interest. Yelena looks away.

“Was. She was a superhero.” She pauses, wondering if she should tell them. They’ll recognize the name. Natasha is someone she knew personally, but she was also a public figure. It feels dangerously close to vulnerability, and yet, she can’t let anyone forget her sister.

Her sister was a hero. She deserves to be remembered. 

“Natasha Romanoff.” The Americanized name feels odd in her mouth, soft syllables that don’t come out naturally. “She was my sister. When the Avengers sought to defeat Thanos, she sacrificed herself for an Infinity Stone. She was brave, and selfless, and everything a hero should be.” Yelena remembers falling through the sky and being saved by a hero, but not one with magical powers. “She saved me, and so many others.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Layla says, placing a gentle hand on her knee. Yelena resists the urge to recoil. 

“Same,” Steven adds. His eyes glaze over momentarily, and then he shakes his head. “I’m being told it’s okay to tell you that we lost our brother too. Marc’s brother really, since I didn’t know about him until recently, but we get it.”

“Thank you. I am sorry for your loss as well,” Yelena says. Part of her wants to ask when and how, but the Moon Knights have already been through enough today without reflecting on past traumas. Steven gives her a small smile, which would feel pitying if she didn’t see the recognition of shared grief in his eyes. 

“Oh, I’m tired,” Steven murmurs around a yawn, raising a hand to his mouth to stifle it. Layla pats him on the shoulder. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t realize how draining everything earlier was.”

“It’s almost morning. Since our sleeping schedules are nonexistent, you may as well go to bed now if you want,” Layla says. Steven nods sleepily. 

“That’s probably a good idea. G’night,” He calls, as he stumbles into the bedroom. “Oh, and it was nice to meet you, Yelena!”

“Likewise,” Yelena calls back. The door to the bedroom closes, leaving just her and Layla in the living room. Now that the mission is over, she doesn’t know what to do. Should she leave? Her contact to get her out of here won’t be able to come until the afternoon, since they have to abide by a specific company’s cargo schedule to blend in, so she’ll have to find somewhere to hide out. She doesn’t know this part of New York well enough to know which building to squat in, so she’ll have to guess. Maybe she could stay at one of the Avengers safehouses they don’t know she knows about. Their security is good, but she’s better. So long as she’s careful, they’ll never find out.

“The couch is still open, if you want to take it,” Layla offers. Yelena tilts her head. Ideal mission parameters indicate that an asset should leave as soon as the job is complete, so as to avoid danger to their partners or handlers. Of course, she’s not an asset anymore, but she’s still a dangerous person to be around. 

“Why?” Yelena asks. Layla’s face falls briefly, before she schools it back into a casual expression. 

“Well, you did save my husband. A bed, or rather a couch, is nothing compared to that.”

“Your husband saved me, and you killed the target. We’re already even,” Yelena points out. Layla sighs, a longsuffering sound that Yelena usually only hears from therapists and psychologists who have been dealing with Widows for years. 

“Fine. You really want to know why?” Yelena nods. “Because I care about you, and I don’t want you to go without a bed when I have a couch you can sleep on. This isn’t transactional, it’s just basic human decency.”

Yelena stares at her, trying to make the words fit in her mind. She understands all of them, but their meaning when put together doesn’t make sense. Everything up until now, that makes sense. They were ordered to help her by their gods. That’s why they let her stay last night, patching her up and feeding her so she was in the best condition to complete the mission. When she was unable to complete the mission herself, Layla completed it for her, killing a man who went against the values of her goddess. They returned here to debrief. Now, their mission is over. So why is Layla offering a bed? She said it wasn’t transactional, and Yelena doesn’t know what to do with that. Her whole life has been transactional. A child playing a role to ensure the espionage mission succeeded, then a Widow earning her life by completing missions, then a mindless asset to be pawned off on missions or as a bargaining chip, then a liberated Widow making up for past wrongs and seeking revenge. 

“I don’t believe you,” Yelena mutters, even though she wants to. Layla hasn’t done anything to make her think she has ill intent, but she just can’t believe that she’s telling the truth. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Layla sighs, leaning back a bit. “You know, when Marc and I first started dating, he refused to believe that I actually loved him with no strings attached. He kept trying to earn my love with gifts and things like that, and he would beg me not to leave whenever he forgot to do something. It took years for him to trust that I loved him.”

“If you are implying something about me, you should just speak plainly,” Yelena advises. Layla raises her eyebrows.

“Sure. You clearly have a lot of baggage that makes it hard for you to trust people, so instead of thinking that maybe some people do care about you, you assume that they have some ulterior motive. You think you have to earn that care, probably because there was a time when you did.” Layla pauses, gauging Yelena’s reaction. “Shall I go on?”

“You are very good at reading people. Are you sure you aren’t a spy?” She asks, which makes Layla laugh. 

“I suppose it depends on who you ask.”

“I knew it. All the best people partake in illegal espionage.” Layla laughs again, easy and relaxed in a way that makes Yelena smile. “You know, I’ve never done this.”

“Done what?”

“Hung out after a mission,” Yelena says, waving lazily between them. “It was always ‘locate the target, retrieve or terminate, return to base for next mission.’ No time for talking, not that they would’ve allowed us to speak about matters unrelated to the mission.” She remembers an early mission, where they were sent to kill the headmaster of a boarding school. It was a small group of five young Widows. Yelena was around twelve, and the oldest was thirteen. They blended in as students, and eliminated the target easily in his sleep. Afterwards, the helicopter that was supposed to take them back was delayed by a storm, so they had to camp out in an abandoned building for the night. Two of the girls started talking while the rest of them slept. They had been seven and eight when the Red Room took them and ten at the time of the mission, old enough to remember their lives and only a few years into the Red Room conditioning. Yelena remembers one of them talking about her pet dog, and the other one talking about some sort of cartoon with a dog in it.

Neither of them knew that their comms were still active.

Once they were retrieved and transported back to the Red Room, all five of them were separated for questioning. Yelena was beaten until she told them who had been talking, even though her interrogators surely already knew. She heard two gunshots as she stumbled down the hall after being released. The following day, the two girls were gone. It sent a clear message. They were assets, not people. Exhibiting personhood meant a death sentence, for they were not useful if they were individuals. 

“I’ll take your couch,” Yelena decides, shaking off the memories with practiced avoidance. 

“Good. We technically have this booked for another day and a half, since we didn’t know how long we’d be staying, but we’ll be leaving tomorrow night— or tonight, I guess,” Layla says, heaving herself up off the couch. “Do you need us to drop you off somewhere before we leave? I can fly you as far as Washington.”

“No, I have a way out. I will leave tomorrow afternoon. Do not worry if you wake up and I am gone.”

“Got it. Well, goodnight,” Layla says, waving at her as she heads into the bedroom. Yelena waves back, watching the door click shut behind her. 

The following afternoon, Yelena slips out the window and scales down the wall. The sunlight makes her eyes burn. It’s easy to find a shady shop, where she buys a burner phone with a credit card under a fake name and sends a message to her contact. The program she downloads onto the phone, which is part of the same system they use to communicate amongst all the Widows, hides the number and scrubs the messages so she won’t get caught. She meanders around New York, blending in with the tourists as she waits, then catches a bus to the airport. Her contact, a drug runner who also sometimes carries people, meets her on the runway. She climbs into the aircraft and slumps against a box of something definitely illegal, securing herself in with a thick rope attached to the wall. 

As she waits for the plane to take off, she tinkers with her suit, trying to complete the more complex repairs with the sewing kit she stole before leaving. This is familiar. Widows were taught how to sew early on, to practice for sutures and to learn how to repair their suits. The Red Room didn’t want to do that manual labour themselves, not when they could hand a needle and thread to their assets and have it done for them. Her needle punctures the ripped edges, stitching them back together neatly even as the plane jerks to life. 

Yelena takes a moment to marvel at the events of the past couple days. She should be dead. If it weren’t for Marc, she would be blood splatter on the pavement by now. If it weren’t for Layla, the jackals surely would’ve killed her in the sewers. 

Instead, she’s flying over New York, alive and blessed by a god. 

She doesn’t feel any different, yet so much has changed. How odd, to think that at least two gods are her allies. Yelena isn’t religious, but she’d long since given up on any sort of divine favour. No god had ever helped her. She had too much blood on her hands, too much hate in her heart, and too much darkness in her soul to be worthy. 

Or so she thought. 

The Red Room must have known that the Egyptian gods were real, considering their dealings in Egyptian artifacts and their knowledge of divine entities, but they never shared that with the Widows. Khonshu was spoken of the same way as any handler, just a footnote in the Moon Knight file. Nobody was stronger than the Red Room. They were a god themselves, worshipped by the rich and powerful and anointed in blood and lies. Now, she thinks they were scared. The gods were, and are, after them. With the core of their power gone, the Red Room is splintered into easy prey. 

Yelena wants them to be afraid. She wants them to run, just like she did. This time, she’ll be the hunter. She won’t fall to hubris like they did. The gods are on her side, and the Red Room will fall to her divinely ordained shield. 

And if she falls, there are still two Avatars on her side. 

As New York fades into the distance, Yelena sets down her suit and pulls out her burner phone. She hesitates, staring at the screen. This isn’t something she’s done before. The mission is over, and that means her contact with Layla and the Moon Knights should be over too. 

Still, something is nagging at her.

Yelena bites her lip, and types in the digits she memorized from breaking into Layla’s phone last night. Her fingers hover over a typed message. Before she can overthink it, she presses send.

Contact: White Widow

She puts the phone down. The message is sent, and she can’t take it back. Strangely enough, she doesn’t want to. There’s an odd feeling in her gut, an absence of fear or anxiety when she thinks about Layla and the Moon Knights. Yelena can’t recall feeling that way about anyone, except Natasha and maybe Kate. It feels like safety, like she can relax around them. It’s foreign, but it doesn’t feel bad. 

The phone screen lights up, and she checks the notification. 

I suppose I should’ve expected you to get into my phone.

Contact: Nix

Contact: Lilioceris

I’m sure you can figure out which is which. 

Yelena smiles at the names, even as the program she installed on the phone changes them to encoded numbers. The contacts get added to the database, and she disables permission for anyone but her to see them for now. No need for them to be interrogated by former Widows before Yelena can explain the whole thing.

Fuck, there’s going to be so much paperwork after this. The invisible jackals alone would be enough. But no, now she has to tell everyone that the two people in glowing suits talking to thin air are their allies, and that their gods are on their side too. Yelena, with her proximity to Natasha, isn’t as thrown by the whole god thing as the others will be. She groans. It’s going to be great when she has to warn everyone about invisible jackals, gods, and whatever other artifacts their enemies may have. 

Nothing’s ever easy.