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….
Finding Natasha wasn't hard, she was already on the payroll of Stark Industries' legal department, meaning her documents, including her "registration" and actual residential address, were in the company's HR database.
After that, it was just a matter of technique and Tony's admin account.
The "super-spy" resided in a rented apartment in one of Los Angeles' residential districts.
Penetrating her apartment was just as easy as entering Stark's, although I must give credit to Miss Romanoff and S.H.I.E.L.D. in general, they managed to stuff the place with all sorts of spy equipment.
Sensors, cameras, bugs, and other tech to monitor uninvited guests and provide them with the proper level of hospitality.
The girl herself was sleeping peacefully, like a completely innocent lamb. Or a completely shameless scoundrel, as a shameless scoundrel myself, I assert!
What can I say about her, observing without the embellishment of makeup and doe eyes? A young Scarlett Johansson is a young Scarlett Johansson.
Compared to the absolute majority of locals, truly a beauty, though I wouldn't say she's my type.
To "clear my conscience," I decided to check her memory just in case.
What if we have an embedded double agent here?
I wanted to believe that people weren't recruited into the Soviet super-soldier program through classified ads; logically, the question of loyalty should have stood even higher than the candidate's health and initial training.
In other words, I wouldn't want to accidentally compost a sincere patriot and ideological follower of Stirlitz.
Such people impressed me greatly, but… alas, the truth turned out to be much uglier and more prosaic.
Corrupt scum is a state of mind.
Belonging to "The Office" was honorable; it gave huge social status, as well as guarantees of a well-fed future.
And dirty work in intelligence didn't spoil this picture at all, rather the opposite: trips abroad, elite parties, gorgeous dresses, expensive drinks, rich and powerful men whom she could twist as she pleased…
Everything was fine for her until a series of accidents and failures followed, culminating in a generous offer from the enemy: a bigger pack of cookies and a sweeter jar of jam.
She didn't hesitate too long and sold herself out with great pleasure.
Conscience… didn't torment her. Being a good actress and performer, Natasha knew how to sincerely believe in every role she played.
And here the role was very convenient and comfortable from the point of view of self-justification: all failures, problems, accidents turned out to be (were quickly declared) deliberate machinations of the "inhuman regime."
A rich imagination added color to the new legend, and now the selfish traitor and scum turns in her own eyes into a victim unfairly offended by the "bad state," who had the right to act as she did.
Just innocent self-hypnosis to relieve stress, and no fraud, so to speak.
True, the lady didn't take into account that the "new employers" aren't the familiar "bloody KGB," for some reason looking for volunteers and patriots for their projects, and she isn't Captain America.
In general, they gave her cookies and jam, of course, but she had to smell the whip too.
Informing former colleagues about the joy with which she sold herself, strict control over activities including constant surveillance, and classic binding by blood, and not just any blood, but that of former comrades.
In short, they worked gloriously.
So a bunch of tracking equipment was stuck everywhere not only to track guests but also to keep an eye on Natasha herself.
Well, girl, I gave you a chance.
A short pulse of Power, and the spy's brains turn into chopped mush, magical telekinesis isn't a molecular atomizer like Jean Grey's in the third movie, of course, but it's good for something too.
Another couple of minutes of work, and all that fancy machinery goes into a loop, stopping recording and rebroadcasting the same thing, a peacefully sleeping Romanoff.
And then I carefully and thoroughly collected all the spy's personal belongings, made the bed, and placed a small "desktop" Soviet flag on it, so to speak, as a small gift for Fury and his team.
Let him run around now, worry, spend S.H.I.E.L.D. resources searching for unknown Red saboteurs; maybe he won't have time for Stark.
As for the body… finding a Path of Shadows in the city wasn't difficult. Walking along it with a load was a bit harder, but not as exhausting as the first experience. In short, I doubt anyone will ever find it on the dark, lifeless fields of Svartalfheim…
….
The next day, closer to noon.
The trouble with Natasha and the subsequent transportation of the body to the shadow path and beyond took up the rest of the night and part of the daylight hours.
I managed quickly, considering that in normal space it's about five hundred light-years from Midgard to Svartalfheim.
And yet, by the time I returned to the Stark mansion, Tony didn't look too cheerful.
In the sense that the genius engineer had already opened his eyes, but his entire appearance literally screamed of a severe hangover, to which the greenish slop in the glass he was grimly choking down added a lot of color.
Even though I tried to conduct the memory reading session as gently as possible, my interference still proved noticeable for his worn-out organism.
I saw no special point in postponing our conversation.
No, I could have waited another day, two, a week, until the man was thoroughly backed into a corner, and Comrade Vanko added his two cents to Tony's cup of problems, but why torment a good man in vain?
Stark had already fully realized the complexity of his situation, and driving him to final despair to gain more attention made no sense; I'm not some Fury, after all.
Besides, an inventor driven to the edge might start pulling stunts he himself would be ashamed of later, and that's an indicator.
The unbuttoned shirt didn't hide the famous reactor in his chest, around which one could already notice swollen and blackened veins with the naked eye, a side effect of radiation and his other ailments.
By the way, that new element he sort of discovered in the future of this cinematic universe… I doubt it could become a "harmless analogue of palladium," since nuclear fusion remains nuclear fusion with all the consequences.
But a reactor on a new core could well provide a wider puncture into the dimension of Living Light.
I actually already had a couple of ideas about what exactly this core should be. I'll need to experiment with neutronium, or as they call it in Asgard, "star core," as well as Uru metal mined on Nidavellir, I even have the latter with me, my armor consists of it.
Anyway, those are details. Time to take the stage.
"Looks like it's started…" the man spoke into the void, examining the blood analyzer showing 51% toxicity.
"I wouldn't be so categorical," I dropped the illusion, already seated on a comfortable sofa right behind Stark.
Or rather, I dropped one illusion and applied another, I wouldn't want to leave traces for security systems that S.H.I.E.L.D. might hack.
To his credit, he didn't flinch, jump, or turn sharply toward the voice, although he tensed up considerably, look how his back straightened and turned to stone.
"What?" Tony turned around slowly. "Who are you?"
….
Bonus Chapter on every 500 power stones;
If you want to read ahead by 20+ chapters from here you can visit my Patre-on.
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[email protected]/Yggdrasil_Loki