Natasha needs to be taught a lesson, but why should I, Herman, pay the price?
Herman understood Russian perfectly well. He spoke most languages on Earth. Precisely because of that, he was stunned by what the red-robed old woman spat out.
Old hag!
Care to think about what you're saying!?
Staring down the barrel aimed at him, Herman's face was pure bewilderment. He figured these old fools had no idea what basic logic meant.
If they wanted to kill him for the usual reasons—you know too much, you shouldn't be here, tough luck—he could accept that.
But making him pay for Natasha's shortcomings? That told Herman these red-robed crones had a serious screw loose.
"Are you sure you want to make a move on me?" Herman took a slow breath and sighed at the leading red-robed crone. He was just a bystander. Why force him into a massacre?
He'd just killed a few gods, including a mythical supreme deity. Was a break really so hard? Herman shook his head, a little annoyed.
The guns in these veteran Soviet agents' hands might be deadly to ordinary people, but to Herman they were like squirt guns—mere toys.
His physical strength dwarfed the Green Hulk's many times over. World War II weapons meant nothing. Even future nuclear arms would be pointless against him.
From Herman's perspective, their choice to use him as a "show of force" was suicidal—about as smart as volunteering for a hopeless war.
"He actually speaks our language?"
The red-robed matriarch leading them was slightly surprised to hear Herman speak Russian. In this era, an Asian fluent in Russian was a rarity.
Maybe a diplomat from Asia assigned to liaise with the Soviet Union? she guessed. To her, that seemed most likely.
Even so.
The red-robed matriarch had no intention of letting Herman go.
Just a low-level diplomat from some backwater country. If he died, so what? Bad luck, that's all.
The Red Room did not need permission from anyone. Even if this got out, she doubted that backward land would dare complain.
They might look like allies, but the USSR was the real boss. The other Asian countries were just pawns used to wear down hostile forces.
"An Asian, huh? Think of it as an honor—dying by our hands puts you in the same league as plenty of important people."
Her chin lifted in haughty contempt, the same kind of arrogance that would define superpowers in the years to come.
The other red-robed women watched Herman with mocking amusement. As executioners, they loved the feeling of controlling someone's fate.
It was one of the few pleasures they knew.
"Old hag, I don't think you're making a wise choice." Herman arched a brow, his expression complicated, his frustration clear.
It seemed he would have to add a few more low-quality souls to the [Realm of the Dead].
Sigh.
Herman's sigh only made the red-robed crones think he was faking calm.
"Unwise? Heh. The Red Room doesn't make mistakes. Maybe you're someone important back home, but this is the Soviet Union, the most powerful nation on Earth. Your status is worthless here. You'll vanish and become an unsolved case."
The lead woman smirked, as if she'd already arranged Herman's fate. The gun in her hand tapped in a steady rhythm.
It was a technique to increase pressure and fear. She wanted to see panic on Herman's face.
She relished that scene... How to put it, the other red-robed women were the same, watching him with playful malice.
To become veteran agents, they had endured countless tortures and danced with death. Older agents inevitably carried psychological scars.
The human trials and extreme danger they faced far exceeded those of regular soldiers, making their minds more prone to cracking. Look at ordinary people who fought in wars—almost all of them suffered mental illness in their later years.
Agents are certainly no exception.
And if male agents are like this, then women who become veteran agents are even more so.
It's not discrimination. It's that women's minds… break and run wild more easily than men's. When they crack, the results can be far more terrifying.
That is especially true of the Red Room's female operatives. After years of relentless work, each one's psyche hovers on the edge of something Cthulhu-like. Even serial killers would shudder at them.
Their minds were more twisted than any royal court schemer's. Even the worst war criminals would've found kindred spirits among them.
For research into killing techniques, the Red Room's human experiments rivaled Japan's Unit 731—at least within the Marvel universe.
"Your attitude is highly unsatisfactory."
The red-robed matriarch watched Herman's reaction with focused eyes. She was deeply disappointed. There was no trace of the fear or panic she wanted to see on his face. He had called her "old hag." He hadn't bowed or begged. He hadn't offered the spectacle of pleading on his knees. The matriarch's displeasure flared. She decided Herman would suffer more pain and torment.
"Oh? You want me to act terrified? If that's what you want, say it out loud… How can I play along if you don't tell me?"
Herman chuckled softly.
It sounded like he was discussing acting technique on a film set.
His strange calm made the red-robed women frown.
"Playing dumb won't buy you time."
The leader's gaze turned cold. She was about to squeeze the trigger and precisely blast Herman's skull apart, to savor his screams, when—
"You can't kill him! He's innocent! And from another country! You'll cause a diplomatic incident!"
Natasha, who had been kneeling quietly, somehow found the courage to rush forward. She spread her two frail arms in front of Herman.
She used her thin body to shield Herman. Her heart hammered like never before. Her pulse had soared close to two hundred beats per minute. Herman could hear it clearly.
Seeing Natasha pressed before him felt strange. He had never expected to be shielded by an ordinary minor. Had young Natasha always had this sense of justice?
You can't do this. I'll go back with you and do better next time. Innocent people shouldn't pay for my mistakes.
"And… given the current state of the war, even you would be punished if you provoked a diplomatic incident, right?"
Natasha's gaze locked on the red-robed matriarch. Inside, she was panicking; outside, she forced steady resolve. She was gambling. She bet on her own value to stop the leader from firing and on the threat of diplomatic backlash to make the matriarch hesitate.
Despite the roughness of her tactics, Natasha was showing some of the mental toughness expected of a top operative in a crisis.
The lead red-robed woman was surprised by Natasha's sudden courage. Her surprise flickered off and her expression hardened again.
"You think I won't shoot you?"
A veteran operative could read Natasha's move at a glance. Contempt flickered through the leader's eyes. Her tone dripped with mockery for Natasha's crude gambit.
"Thirteen… your assumption couldn't be more wrong."
...
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