NIGHTMARE ▹ Natasha Romanoff

seventeen.

"Kill me now," digging the bottoms of her palms into her eyes, elbows on the table and head hung, Natasha muttered under her breath, the drone of the man at the head of the table getting on her nerves. Swinging her feet up onto the table and leaning back, (once again) cuffed hands resting in her lap, Svetlana muttered something of assent. The man was clearly riled, with a pale peaked face and was short enough to have to look up a little to speak with Fury. This, as one could imagine, was quite amusing. The accusations the man was making however, were not. Fury listened, stoic and unmoved.

"... a violation of our agreement in at least ten ways, sending a captive out on the field, irresponsible discharge of weapons... to no avail in the end, the amount of paperwork... going to need protection, get some goddamn lawyers in here..." His voice filtered past in snippets; it was sharp and quick, with a slight nasally quality. It sounded grating and, frankly, Svetlana was getting tired of it.

Seconds later, Barton pulled up to the table, dragging around a chair to Natasha's side then perching on it in the way that implied he was desperate to move again. In his hands were a thin tablet, which he passed to Natasha with a murmur. Svetlana watched the interaction out of the corner of her eye, body angled towards Fury instead. After a minute more of secret conferring, the tablet was finally placed on the table and slid towards her. Svetlana resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow; any more today and she might become predictable. Natasha nodded to the tablet, then at the strange short man.

"Apparently, we just trampled all over an ongoing CIA investigation." She tapped the tablet to life, and the screen flashed with scans of a file, "They've been watching him since he dropped off your grid. Caused some trouble underground here, seems like, and now he's got a whole task force on him. This was their first real lead in a while, it would seem." Svetlana picked up the tablet, making sure to make a show of getting past her cuffs, and flicked through the pages, eyes scanning quickly.

"Jesus," she muttered, "so the CIA isn't as dumb as we hoped." Barton snorted. Svetlana flipped through a few more pages; their details were a little different from the files back on Ivanov back home, but major events and dates matched. Natasha tapped a few things on the screen, and a separate file pulled up, with members of the task force listed and all known previous locations Ivanov was found in listed. Svetlana stopped.

"Calais." She murmured, tapping on the file separately made for the excavation. Memories stirred. "How many houses did you find there?" She asked, looking up and meeting Natasha's piercing green eyes. The woman frowned in thought. She asked, "Houses?" Svetlana blinked in realization.

"Right, safe houses." She amended, "What was the outcome? What did you find?" She pressed further. Calais had caught her attention for two reasons; first, one of the most recent peaks in weapons activity she remembered reading about in the monthly reports back at home. She recalled something about bombs, too. And, one of those little things Dima had told her years ago; something that had stuck with her, as most things he had said did. He'd had that effect, twisting his words, spinning them in ways that would make you question everything. He'd talk about the meaning of one's life the way someone might discuss the weather, leaving you quite literally questioning the meaning of, well, everything. He was cryptic, coy, smart and twisted in ways that left you either in awe or with hatred.

Svetlana remembered it clear enough, the haze of time a soft blur over the memory of the crisp evening, knuckles busted and cut after a day of rigorous training; Svetlana had been dripping with sweat and covered in bruises, but Dima had picked her up after each spar, brushed her off, and by the end of the day he'd looked at her with a pride that made it worth it. They were drinking crappy vodka on the balcony of the break room, lights dim and the building practically hollowed out, the buzz of traffic below humming a backdrop to their conversation. Dima had told her of another life that night; what he'd been before the job, before he'd sold his soul to give himself all to this.

He'd spoken of a house in Calais, overlooking a small town by the coast, rolling hills stretched across the back, the glittering sea sprawled in front, and Svetlana couldn't think of anything else the rest of the night. Dima often made cryptic comments; but that night he talked about that place like it was somewhere from another life, something he could never go back to. It had confused Svetlana. Why not go back, she'd asked, if it was so wonderful. Dima had watched her curiously then, as if what she had said was strange. I wouldn't leave you, could I? He'd said. Svetlana only realized too late that was a lie.

"Just one. Somewhere by the coast." Natasha said. Svetlana smiled.

By the coast.