Chapter 6.
The moment they stepped inside, the apartment seemed even more cramped and wretched than before. Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff looked slightly out of place against the bare, dirty walls — they seemed to consume what little space there was.
"I'm Steve Rogers," he introduced himself, his voice calm and steady. His eyes moved briefly around the room, but his face stayed neutral, without a trace of judgment.
"And I'm Natalie," the woman said with a light and easy smile. Her eyes made another pass around my apartment. "Cozy. A real bachelor's den."
I understood it was a professional move — a gentle tease, meant to disarm and put me at ease. And it was working.
*This is them. Real and alive. Heroes from the Marvel films. The Russian beauty-spy I'd seen on screen, and the living symbol of America, the hero from the local history books, standing on my dirty floor.*
An awkward silence settled over the room. They waited. I ran a hand through my hair nervously, gathering my thoughts.
Steve, seeing my hesitation, offered a gentle prompt.
"Stark mentioned you wanted to speak with me. About something personal."
Natasha, meanwhile, had shifted her weight against the door in a way that made her figure particularly evident in her clothes. She caught my glance, and that slightly sly smile touched her lips again. She knew exactly how to use what she had.
*All right. Get it together. This is exactly what you wanted.*
I took a slow, deep breath and willed the inner turbulence to quiet down.
"Before I begin," I looked at each of them in turn, "are you certain no one is listening? Not bugs in the walls — I mean remote devices, laser microphones, that sort of thing."
Natasha, still smiling, spoke first, her tone as light and carefree as before.
"You don't need to worry. We weren't followed. You can trust us."
Her manner stung me slightly. She was too confident that she had complete control of the situation. Maybe that was the point — to throw me off balance. Either way, I needed them to take my words seriously.
I let out a slow breath, looked directly at her, and switched to Russian — without my rough accent.
"Natasha Romanoff, also known as the Black Widow. Graduate of the Red Room and one of the finest spies and professional assassins in the world, a double agent of the highest classification. Originally worked for Soviet intelligence, later became an agent of SHIELD. During the Chitauri invasion she joined the Avengers and helped defend New York."
Her smile vanished instantly. A spark lit in her eyes — interest threaded with mild surprise. Steve, who had caught little of the Russian, looked back and forth between us and frowned.
"What did he say?" he asked Natasha, not taking his eyes off me.
"He knows who I am," she answered briefly, her voice stripped of all its earlier playfulness.
"Yes, I do. And I'm asking you to take what I'm about to say seriously. I have no objection to Natasha reporting this conversation to SHIELD Director Nick Fury." I saw them exchange a glance at the mention of the Director. "But what I'm going to say next is information of the highest classification level. And it concerns not only you, Captain Rogers, but you as well, Agent Romanoff."
Natasha stepped away from the door and pulled a small device from the inside pocket of her jacket — it looked like a flash drive. She pressed a button and placed it on the table. A barely audible high-pitched tone filled the air.
"Jammer. Now it's clean," she said in a businesslike tone.
I nodded, but decided to add a layer of my own. I walked to the sink and turned on the tap, letting the water run at full pressure. The sound of it filled the room. I'd seen that move in some spy film.
"Paranoid," Natasha observed without any particular edge, watching me.
"A survivor," I corrected her, coming back. "In my position, they're synonyms."
I looked at them again and gathered myself. The time had come to drop the first bomb.
"All right. I have information concerning the fate of all humanity. And specifically — the fate of you two. I'm saying this now because if either of you is playing for the other team, I want you to understand exactly how high the stakes are."
They both frowned, not following.
"What does that mean?" Steve asked, confused.
"It means," I said, taking a breath, "that in various possible futures and pasts, a great many things have happened. In some of them… Captain America was an agent of HYDRA. In others — Natasha. And in some, you were both working toward interests far removed from SHIELD. So this preamble is for your protection. So that once you have the information, you won't see me as a threat and make any… impulsive decisions. Like a bullet to my forehead."
Steve shook his head.
"You're speaking in riddles. And what does HYDRA have to do with any of this? HYDRA was dismantled more than half a century ago."
I smiled bitterly.
"Oh, Captain. It's not just alive. It's thriving. HYDRA agents have infiltrated SHIELD and occupy positions of leadership there. They are your colleagues, your agents, your analysts. SHIELD is infected with HYDRA the way a body is infected with cancer. And you have no idea how deep it goes."
A dead silence fell over the room, broken only by the sound of the water running from the tap.
"Where are you getting this information?" Natasha asked. Her voice was quiet and taut.
"You've looked at my file, I assume?" I looked at her and delivered the prepared cover story. "An ordinary kid from the street. After the beating I took, something… happened to me. I don't understand how, but it was as if I glimpsed behind the surface of reality. I saw versions of the future and fragments of different worlds. Not everything, and not always clearly. But enough to see the broad picture. Mr. Stark has already satisfied himself that I know things I have no right to know."
I could see them exchange a quick, meaningful look. So Stark had shared what he knew about me.
"I have information about Bucky, Captain." I shifted my gaze to Steve, and his frown deepened the moment I said it. "And for you, Agent Romanoff — information about your past. About General Dreykov. But I'm not going to give that away for free. In exchange, I need help."
"What kind of help?" Steve asked, his tone becoming formal, professional.
"I can obtain that information through other means," Natasha said softly, but with an undeniable implication in her voice.
"I believe you," I nodded. "Completely. But why complicate things? It's simpler to talk. To be on good terms. Then I'll tell you everything voluntarily. And I won't deceive you. My conditions are simple and achievable: a financial allowance from SHIELD. A roof over my head — a secure one. And training. I want to go through the most rigorous and intensive combat training program available. Several of them, ideally. I need to get stronger, and I need to do it fast."
I stopped and let them absorb that. Steve and Natasha looked at each other again.
"That's… an unusual request," said Natasha, crossing her arms. "And whether it's fulfilled will depend on how valuable your information actually is."
"I also need guarantees of safety. Ideally from both of you and from Director Fury. I also need a mentor — preferably one of you — to help with training. I need to build physical conditioning and acquire survival and combat skills. And it needs to happen as quickly as possible."
"Why such urgency?" Steve asked.
"Because a storm is coming, Captain. And I would prefer not to die in it. And also — possibly — to help you survive it too."
I paused and steadied myself. Time to play the first card.
"James Buchanan Barnes is alive."
Steve went still. His eyes widened, and in them I could read disbelief, hope, and pain all at once.
"But that's… impossible," he said quietly.
"He's alive," I repeated. "I can't give you exact details, but as far as I know, after the train crash he was found by HYDRA agents. Right now he should be somewhere in Russia. From what I know, his mind was wiped and he was put through the Winter Soldier program. He carries out assassination assignments."
I watched Steve's hands close into fists involuntarily as I finished speaking.
"Soon," I continued, "you and Agent Romanoff will have a mission. It's during that mission, on Fury's orders, that you'll copy classified SHIELD data, Natasha. And within that data there will be information about HYDRA. And because neither you nor Fury know enough about it at that point, the Director will unwittingly tip off one of the HYDRA operatives about those files — and as a result, an attempt will be made on Fury's life. A hunt will begin for you as well. In the end, SHIELD agents and HYDRA agents will go up against each other. And because no one knows with certainty who is who, there will be a great many betrayals. And yes — the Winter Soldier will be deployed for that hunt."
I turned my gaze to Natasha.
"The head of the Red Room — General Dreykov — is alive. And your 'sister' Elena is actively being used by him as a graduate of that same program. The Red Room hasn't forgotten about its most accomplished graduate either."
Natasha's face remained completely unreadable. No smirk, no reaction of any kind. A true professional.
"And yes — as I think you already understand, I have no hard evidence for any of this, beyond what will happen. Which means time is currently my primary ally. I've already said more than I planned to. And I can say more. A great deal more. But first — some form of guarantee. Some indication that I haven't wasted this by telling you all of it."
"You understand," said Natasha, "that this volume of information, at this level, does not exactly increase my confidence in you. I'd find it far more plausible that you're some kind of hostile intelligence operative than a man who 'glimpsed behind the surface of reality.'"
"Yes, I understand that perfectly. But I believe this information is important to you, and important right now. From your perspective there's too much of it. From mine, there isn't. As for trust — it is very much in your own interests to keep me under surveillance, so that if I am someone's spy I can't simply run and disappear." I returned her remark with a slight smile.
Steve Rogers looked at me for a long time. I was certain a storm was raging inside his head. Faith in his friend colliding with the sheer absurdity of what he'd heard. But he was a soldier. And he knew how to assess the value of intelligence.
"All right," he said at last, his voice firm again. "Let's say we believe you. Halfway. We can't make any promises on behalf of Fury. But we can vouch for you. We can provide you with temporary shelter and… basic training. The rest will depend on what happens next. If your predictions come true — then we'll talk further."
I nodded slowly. This was more than I'd dared hope to get in a single meeting.
"Agreed."
"Then pack your things," said Natasha, her voice level — but the mockery was gone from it now. "You're coming with us. This place is no longer safe. Especially after everything you've just told us."
I looked around the apartment one last time. The sunken mattress. The old laptop. The dirty floor. Nothing here that held me.
"Just a moment — I need to grab my things, the kettle, and the laptop. And the tea — that's non-negotiable. Everything else… I won't miss."
While I gathered my few meager belongings, I noticed their eyes on me out of the corner of my vision. Steve's gaze was heavy and thoughtful. Natasha's was sharply attentive.
With my things collected, we left the apartment and walked to the car waiting nearby.
*Well. Here I am, in the middle of a much larger game. The only thing that matters now is not tripping at the start.*
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Steve and Natasha stood in the shade, watching the dusty obstacle course spread out beneath the blazing sun. The air shimmered with the heat. And in the middle of that particular hell, under the supervision of old hand Sly Marbo — a veteran with a wall's worth of commendations and decorations, personally vetted by Fury — Alexei was performing his latest act of insanity.
"Twenty-eighth lap," Steve said quietly, his eyes on the tired but still-moving figure.
He wasn't simply running. He was scaling a wall, climbing a rope, crawling under wire, running along a beam. His movements were precise, if slowed by exhaustion. The muscles across his back and shoulders were clearly defined. He was still lean, but in that leanness there was a concealed strength.
"Twenty-ninth," Natasha corrected, arms folded across her chest. "And this is after his morning strength session and a sparring round with me."
Over the past three months, ordinary kid Lyokha had transformed from a scarecrow into… a very determined, rapidly progressing trainee. Steve, as a military man, understood what these conditions represented: a purpose-built training facility, professional coaches, specialized nutrition, recovery compounds, medical monitoring. But even he was struck by what the kid had done with his opportunity. He wasn't training — he was waging war on himself. Every day. Without rest days.
"His numbers have jumped significantly, Steve," Natasha said it calmly, but Rogers still caught a faint note of satisfaction in her voice. "Strength, endurance, coordination. He breaks down techniques and absorbs them as though he has a natural gift for it. Shooting — well, with a pistol he's no marksman, not even close, but with a rifle he's already putting up consistently above-average results. And his English — the accent is still there, but it's barely noticeable anymore."
"I've never seen anything like it, even among the most driven recruits," Steve shook his head. "He's like he's… possessed."
"'Possessed' is putting it mildly," Natasha confirmed. "In the very first week he tore a ligament in his leg trying to break the recruit record for the sprint course. Didn't make it, of course. But two weeks after that — he broke it. Yesterday in sparring he took a body shot to the liver and threw up directly on the mat. And you know what he said when he'd recovered? 'Thank you. Understood the mistake. One more round?'"
Steve watched as Alexei, barely able to lift his feet anymore, hauled himself up the rope with a final surge of effort, dropped from it and nearly fell, but found somewhere in himself the strength to take a few lurching, stumbling steps toward the next obstacle.
"Maybe that's enough." Steve moved forward. "He's going to drop any second."
Natasha put a hand on his shoulder.
"Easy, Steve. I reacted the same way the first time. And the second. Then I accepted it. He doesn't stop until he goes out. Literally. That's his… method."
"That's not normal."
"It's Russian," she said, without unkindness. "Stubbornness that borders on self-destruction. I've started calling him 'Hardcore.' I even had to push Fury to get some stimulants and regenerative compounds out of the science division. Otherwise he'd have simply dismantled himself piece by piece. So don't worry — his body is being monitored. His mind is a more complicated question, but we're watching that too."
At that moment, Alexei approached the water pit that finished the course, preparing to jump — and suddenly stopped at the edge. His legs buckled. He didn't fall so much as slowly crumple, sinking to his knees, and then toppling onto his side, face in the dust. He stopped moving.
Steve lurched forward, but Natasha stopped him again.
"That's it. Done. Training concluded for today. Sly will carry him in and administer the compounds. Everything's protocol."
They watched as the old veteran walked over to the unconscious figure without any particular fuss, rolled him onto his back, checked his pulse and breathing, hoisted him over his shoulder, and carried him at an unhurried walk toward the shelter.
"His will is inhuman, Steve," Natasha said, thoughtfully, as Sly disappeared inside the hangar. "No complaints. No asking 'why are we doing this?' Only 'understood' and 'I'll do it.' As though he's preparing for a war."
"Isn't he?" Steve looked at her. "After everything he's told us… after what happened with Stark…"
They both knew about the recent events with Stark. The Aldrich Killian situation, the attack on Tony's house, his disappearance and return — all of it had played out exactly as described, and Alexei's grim forecasts about "great trouble that will strike those who matter" and the "obsession with the suits" had proven disturbingly precise. Pepper had survived by a narrow margin. And Tony — Tony was different now. He had been practically besieging Fury and the two of them, demanding access to "the Russian oracle," as he'd taken to calling him. But Fury had been immovable: "The asset is in full quarantine. No outside contact. His security is the priority."
"Yes," Natasha agreed quietly. "He was right about Tony. Which means… he may be right about the rest. SHIELD. HYDRA. Bucky."
She fell silent, a current of difficult thoughts running through her head.
"You know what frightens me most, Steve?" She looked again toward the hangar where Sly had taken Alexei. "Not his knowledge. The ferocity with which he forces himself. He doesn't just want to be ready. He knows that what's coming is something for which his current effort — and possibly ours — will still not be enough. And whatever that something is… it must be monstrous enough that even training like this, if we can call it that, feels to him like the only possible answer. That's what's truly frightening."
Steve nodded without speaking. He was thinking the same thing. That blind and desperate determination was something he recognized. He had seen it in mirrors long ago — in a skinny kid from Brooklyn who had tried every angle he could think of to get into the war and protect what he cared about.
"Come on," said Natasha, turning toward the hangar. "It's your turn to lecture him today, Captain — and don't even think about getting out of it."
She tried to make it a joke, but the smile didn't quite come. They walked toward the hangar where their strangest and possibly most valuable asset lay — a man who had seen the future, and was tearing himself apart to change it.