Hope you like the second chapter! Please comment feedback back and theories on what will happen next! Thanks! TW!: Violence, bullets and blood mentioned.
Ch 2 ____ Natasha’s POV (black widow) I check that all my weapons are securely attached to my belt or back, fiddling repeatedly to try and calm my nerves. It’s not that I’m scared for the mission; I’ve been on so many that it doesn’t even bother me now. It’s just that these HYDRA facilities always remind me of the red room. It is a relief, however, to know that there aren’t any test subjects (enhanced) at this one. Seeing these broken and tortured children always give me flashbacks. They get taken at the age of five, like I was. I take a deep breath. “Landing now, get ready.” Just hearing Clint’s voice calms me, as he is my oldest friend. I compose myself, trying not to let my anxiety show. Not that I’m worried that this will interfere with the mission; once I get out there adrenaline takes over. As we make contact with the ground the door of the quinjet swings open. Already I can see guards racing towards us. How kind of them to provide a welcome party. Without skipping a beat I launch out of the door, legs wrapping round the closest guards neck, bringing him to the ground. I roll into a crouch, swinging my leg round and bringing two more men down. “Nat, Wanda, get inside the building, we’ll handle it here,” Steve’s voice says over comms. “On it,” I reply, racing off towards the facility. My muscles in my legs pump as I dodge, duck and leap over guards, loving the adrenaline rush. Wanda blasts open the door from behind me and I continue on inside. We split up, Wanda going left, me right. I enter what seems to be a central room, computers and wires everywhere. I plug a hard drive stick into what I assume to be the main device, downloading all the data. Wanda’s voice rings in my ear piece. “Nat I could use a hand searching these rooms if you’re done there.” I sigh, hating the idea of seeing more of this facility. “Heading your way, I have the plans we need,” I reply, pocketing the drive and racing in the direction Wanda went. The first corridor I check is just some empty rooms, the occasional abandoned desk, nothing more. Then I make my way through a metal corridor, and encounter about 10 guards. I take them all out with ease, but I immediately am filled with dread; why were they all stood by that one door? I approach tentatively and peer through the gridded glass. My heart lodges in my throat. “Cap, I thought you said there were no people except guards here,” I rasp through comms. “There aren’t.” “Why?” “What have you found?” “Are you okay?” “Nat?” Come the chorus of responses from the rest of the team. I break down the door, scooping up the broken form of a teenager, 14 or 15 years of age, skinny, with bones pressing against her skin. Blood trickles from many places and bruises cover her body. She is strapped in a straight jacket, and what looks like a shock collar is attached to her neck. “Nat, you’re the only one not on the ship. Get back now, that place is about to blow!” I race out of the room, girl in my arms, pelting out of the building. Bullets rain down on us, and I dodge as best as I can, shielding her body with mine. Pain flashes through me, as at least 5 bullets hit my back. I stumble into the jet, still clutching the kid. Someone pulls her from me and I stand watching. Voices directed at me sound distant, as if spoken through glass. “Nat?” My vision fogs. “Nat?” I feel myself hit the floor. “Natasha!”
