BLACK WIDOW

verisimilitude

verisimilitude
(n.)
the appearance of being true or real

•••

"This day lead to the hardest hours of my life. Hours that still send chills down my spine when I reminisce."

•••

The room was dark. It was an office of sorts. The window that held the view to the bustling, snow covered Capital of Russia was blocked by heavy, burgundy curtains. The majority of the room and it's contents were crafted from expensive wood. The kind you would see in the office of a King.

And that was precisely what it was. The cold, angry leader of the cold, angry country, sat arms crossed and an angry, expectant expression shown in his thick moustache. He was looking upon four people, two of which were trembling in their shoes.

"How did this happen?" was all the leader asked, standing up, so he could look down upon the men and single woman in front of him.

"We believe," she stopped, refraining from lashing out in anger. "We believe they are under the delusion that the Red Room," she said pointing to herself, "Hydra," she motioned to the man next to her: Arnim Zola, "and Russia," she then gestured to the leader himself, "are somehow damaging themselves and others."

"So, the two most dangerous assassins in the world have escaped together? Why would the Asset do that? Isn't he programmed against that? He is the most socially seclusive people I have ever observed," the premier said. He was truly a scary man. He did not say anything that would normally be considered harsh or evil, but somehow, everything he said seemed as so.

"We believe, sir, that they may have been growing close behind our backs. Their skills are far too great. I think there is no controlling them," Madame B told him.

He shook his head in a way that sent chills down the visitors' spines. "We absolutely must control them. They can just disappear like they are trying. Their abilities won't allow them that. Weapons like that in someone else's hands. With their knowledge of the workings of this government. With the knowledge of the whereabouts of America's golden boy. It could be detrimental. They must be found and the must be contained. I have called the four of you here today to find out how that is possible."

"Sir," one of them stepped in. It was Colonel Luchov. "If they don't want to be brought back in, we most likely will not be able to do so with our best man. They are our best men. Their sole rival is Captain America. And even even he is trained the way they are."

Dr. Zola was awkwardly trying to find a moment to interject himself into the conversation, but failed one try after another.

"Well, can I try and take them out? As in sniping?" asked the other man who had been called in. He was a tall, built military officer.

"We can't kill them," the premier said. "They are the last breed of Super Soldier. We need them, or we won't at all be more powerful than America. Let alone on the same level."

"Maybe we shouldn't have sterilized Romanova," Luchov said. "Their genes are mutated. We could have bred them and created an entire squad of enhanced individuals."

"Besides that," Madame B said, waving him off, "They can't be killed," she reminded. "They are highly train super assassins. They'd smell a sniper rifle within a hundred miles. They would feel the crosshairs like a prick on their backs."