Most powerful Hunter in Marvel Universe - Chapter 14

Chapter 14: The Silent Prison

The safehouse was a relic from the Cold War—a forgotten bunker beneath an abandoned industrial complex on Moscow’s outskirts. Natasha had known about it for years, one of dozens of hidden locations she’d mapped during her time with the Red Room. The organization had so many safehouses, scattered across so many countries, that losing track of a few was inevitable.

This one had been off the books for at least a decade. Perfect.

They’d transported the unconscious Widows in three trips using a stolen delivery truck. Eleven women total—ten regular Widows plus Taskmaster—all still knocked out from Veer’s precise nerve strikes. Moving them had been surreal. Like relocating mannequins, except these mannequins were trained killers who could wake up at any moment.

The bunker’s holding cells were small, concrete boxes with reinforced steel doors and observation windows. Soviet engineering at its most utilitarian. Veer had checked each cell personally, testing the locks, examining the ventilation, making sure nothing could be used as a weapon or escape tool.

They’d placed each Widow in a separate cell. Standard isolation protocol—prevents coordination, reduces escape attempts, makes interrogation easier. Taskmaster got her own cell in the bunker’s deepest section, still wearing the advanced armor. They’d removed the helmet to check vitals, revealing a woman in her late twenties with short dark hair and a burn scar across her left cheek.

“Should we restrain them?” Veer had asked while positioning the last Widow—a blonde teenager who couldn’t have been more than seventeen.

“No.” Natasha’s voice had been soft, almost gentle. “They’re not criminals. They’re victims.”

Now, six hours later, the Widows were waking up.

Veer stood in the bunker’s monitoring room, watching the security feeds. Eleven screens showed eleven cells. One by one, the women were regaining consciousness—shifting, groaning, slowly sitting up and taking in their surroundings.

The first to fully wake was one of the twins. She sat up sharply, combat instincts immediately assessing the situation. Her eyes scanned the cell: concrete walls, steel door, single light fixture, observation window. No weapons. No obvious exits. She stood, tested the door—locked—then moved to the observation window and stared directly at the camera.

Her expression was completely blank.

The second twin woke moments later. Same assessment. Same blank expression. She didn’t call out to her sister, didn’t show any emotion, just stood and waited.

One by one, the others woke. The young sniper from the underground parking garage. The veteran from the water tower. The brunette Natasha had fought first in the park. Each one went through the same pattern: wake, assess, stand, wait.

Silent. Completely silent.

Natasha stood beside Veer, arms wrapped around herself, watching her sisters wake up with an expression that broke his heart. She’d been hoping for something—recognition, confusion, anger, fear. Anything human. Anything that proved they were still in there.

Instead, she got nothing. Just eleven women standing in eleven cells, staring at nothing, responding to nothing.

“This isn’t right,” Natasha whispered. “They should be trying to escape. Asking questions. Something.”

Veer activated the intercom for one of the cells—the older veteran he’d taken from the water tower. “Can you hear me?”

The woman didn’t react. Didn’t even blink.

He tried another cell. Same result. And another. The blonde teenager’s feed showed her standing perfectly still, breathing normally, eyes open but unseeing.

“It’s like they’re dead,” Natasha said. “Like someone turned off their souls.”

Veer deactivated the intercom, turned to face her. “Not dead. Controlled.”

“What?”

“This is a command.” Veer gestured at the screens. “From whoever runs the Red Room. The Widows have been conditioned to enter this state if captured. Complete shutdown. No communication, no cooperation, no escape attempts. Just… waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Either rescue or death. Probably death.” Veer’s expression was grim. “If they stay like this, they’ll starve within a week. Two weeks maximum. The Red Room would rather lose the assets than risk them talking.”

Natasha stared at the screens, at her sister Widows standing like statues in their cells. Her hands clenched into fists. “There has to be a way to break through. Some kind of trigger phrase, or—”

“It’s not psychological conditioning. It’s chemical.” Veer pointed at one of the screens showing the young blonde. “Look at her pupils. Dilated but not responding to light changes. And her breathing—too regular, too controlled. This isn’t training. This is biological override.”

“The chemicals,” Natasha breathed. “The ones I told you about. The compounds they use to suppress free will.”

“Exactly. These women aren’t choosing to be silent. They literally can’t choose anything right now. The chemicals have activated some kind of failsafe protocol that shuts down higher cognitive function.”

Natasha turned away from the monitors, paced the small room. “Then we need the antidote. The formula. Something to counteract the chemicals.”

“Do you know anyone who has access to that information?”

“I…” Natasha stopped pacing, thinking. “There was a scientist. When I was young, when they placed me and Yelena in that fake family as part of a long-term operation. Our ‘mother’ was a scientist named Melina Vostokoff. She worked for the Red Room, helped develop their chemical conditioning programs.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. After the operation ended, after they took us back, I never saw her again.” Natasha’s voice cracked slightly. “She probably doesn’t even remember us. We were just another assignment.”

Veer watched her carefully. “But she’d have the formula. The antidote.”

“Maybe. If she’s still alive. If she’s still working for them. If she kept records.” Natasha laughed bitterly. “That’s a lot of ifs.”

“It’s the only lead we have.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the monitors casting flickering light across their faces. On the screens, the Widows continued their vigil—standing, waiting, slowly dying from the inside out.

“We could contact SHIELD,” Veer offered. “They have resources. Intelligence networks. They could help locate Vostokoff.”

“And then what?” Natasha’s tone was sharp. “SHIELD finds her, gets the formula, and then what do you think they do with eleven brainwashed Russian assassins? They study them. Experiment on them. Try to reverse-engineer the conditioning for their own use.”

“That’s cynical.”

“That’s realistic.” Natasha met his eyes. “I’ve worked for SHIELD for years, Veer. I know how they think. Hell, I know how every intelligence agency thinks. They see assets, not people. Tools to be used, not victims to be saved.”

“The US government—”

“Is no better than the Russian government, which is no better than the Chinese government, which is no better than any other government.” Natasha’s voice rose slightly. “It’s not about countries. It’s not about democracy versus authoritarianism. It’s about power. And people with power will always use those without it.”

Veer considered this. She wasn’t wrong. He’d seen enough in both his lives—his original life and this one—to know that cruelty wasn’t limited by borders or ideologies. Humans were capable of terrible things regardless of what flag they saluted.

“So we handle it ourselves,” he said.

“How? We can’t exactly walk up to Vostokoff and ask nicely. Even if we find her, she’s either still working for the Red Room or she’s in hiding. Either way, she won’t help us.”

“Then we make her help us.”

Natasha walked back to the monitors, staring at one screen in particular. The cell holding the young blonde—Yelena. Her sister. Veer had guessed it earlier from the way Natasha’s gaze kept returning to that specific feed, the way her expression softened when looking at it.

Yelena Belova stood in her cell like all the others, blonde hair disheveled, blue eyes staring at nothing. She looked so young. Too young. A teenager who should have been worrying about schoolwork and friends, not standing catatonic in a bunker because her brain chemistry had been hijacked.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Veer asked quietly. “Your sister.”

Natasha nodded, unable to speak. Tears streamed down her face silently.

“I’ll save her,” Natasha finally managed to say. “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care if I have to burn the entire Red Room to the ground. I’ll save her.”

“We’ll save her,” Veer corrected. “That’s what friends do, remember?”

Natasha wiped her eyes, but more tears came. She’d been holding this in for hours—the relief of finding Yelena, the horror of seeing her like this, the guilt of leaving her behind all those years ago. It poured out now in silent sobs that shook her shoulders.

Veer moved closer, put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I just did.”

They stood together in the monitoring room, watching the screens, both thinking about the impossible task ahead. Eleven Widows to save. One scientist to find. A shadowy organization to fight. And a clock ticking down as the women in those cells slowly shut down completely.

Natasha took several deep breaths, forcing herself back under control. The tears stopped. The professional mask slid back into place. But her eyes remained on Yelena’s screen.

“I just remembered something,” she said after a long moment. “About finding Vostokoff.”

“What?”

“Our fake father. Alexei Shostakov. He was part of the same operation, the fake family. If anyone knows where Melina Vostokoff is now, it would be him.”

“Can you contact him?”

“Not exactly.” Natasha’s smile was humorless. “He’s in prison. Has been for years. One of Russia’s highest-security facilities.”

“What’s he in for?”

“Being the Red Guardian.”

Veer blinked. “The who?”

“Red Guardian. Russia’s answer to Captain America. Super soldier program, enhanced strength, absolutely loyal to the motherland. Or he was, until he wasn’t.” Natasha pulled out her phone, searched for something, then showed Veer a grainy photograph.

A massive man in a red and white costume, hammer and sickle emblazoned on his chest. Probably in his fifties, built like a bear, with a thick beard and the kind of face that had seen too many fights.

“Alexei Shostakov,” Natasha explained. “Former hero of the Soviet Union. Former fake father to me and Yelena. Currently imprisoned for reasons that are probably classified at the highest levels.”

“And you think he knows where to find Vostokoff?”

“They were married. Or pretend married. Or maybe actually married, I could never tell with them.” Natasha pocketed her phone. “The point is, they were close. If anyone knows where she is, it’s him.”

Veer looked at the photo Natasha had shown him, then back at the monitors showing eleven catatonic assassins. “So we need to break a Russian super soldier out of a maximum-security prison to find a scientist who might have the cure for chemical brainwashing.”

“That’s the plan.”

“That’s a terrible plan.”

“You have a better one?”

Veer thought about it. Ran through the alternatives. Contact SHIELD—no, Natasha was right about them exploiting the situation. Try to find Vostokoff independently—possible but time-consuming, and they didn’t have time. Wait and hope the Widows recovered naturally—definitely not happening.

Breaking out the Red Guardian was insane. But it was the best insane option they had.

“Which prison?” Veer asked.

“Seventh Circle. About three hundred kilometers east of Moscow. Built into the side of a mountain, half underground, designed to hold enhanced individuals.” Natasha pulled up more information on her phone. “Guards are ex-military, armed with high-tech weapons. Security is layered—perimeter defenses, internal checkpoints, biometric scanners everywhere. Cameras cover every square meter.”

“Sounds challenging.”

“Sounds impossible.” Natasha looked at him seriously. “Veer, I’m not joking about this. Seventh Circle isn’t some corrupt facility we can bribe our way into. It’s legitimate, well-run, and specifically designed to prevent exactly what we’re trying to do.”

“I’ve done impossible before. Killed three hundred fifty-one terrorists in a single night, remember?”

“This is different. Those were normal people. The guards at Seventh Circle are trained to handle enhanced threats. They’ll have contingency plans, weapons designed to stop people like Shostakov. And if we’re detected—when we’re detected—every intelligence agency in Russia will be hunting us.”

“Then we’ll need to be quick.” Veer walked back to the monitors, studied the Widows one more time. “How long can they survive in this state?”

“A week, maybe. Two if we’re lucky.” Natasha’s voice was hollow. “After that, their bodies will start shutting down from lack of food and water. Even if we break the conditioning later, the physical damage might be irreversible.”

“Then we have a week to break out a super soldier, find a scientist, get the antidote, and save eleven women.” Veer turned to face her, smiled despite the impossible odds. “Easy.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably. But I’m also very good at what I do.” He gestured toward the exit. “Come on. If we’re going to break into a maximum-security prison, we need to plan. And planning requires coffee. Lots of coffee.”

Natasha took one last look at the monitors. At Yelena standing silent in her cell. At the other Widows, each one someone’s sister or daughter or friend. Each one deserving rescue.

“I’m going to save you,” she whispered to the screen. “I promise.”

They left the bunker, sealing it behind them with electronic locks and failsafes. The Widows would be safe here, at least for a few days. Climate controlled, ventilated, secure. A prison, yes, but a protective one.

The sun was setting as they emerged from the industrial complex, painting Moscow’s sky in shades of orange and purple. Beautiful and terrible at the same time, like so many things in this city.

“Tell me about Shostakov,” Veer said as they walked to their car. “What kind of person is he?”

Natasha considered the question. “He’s… complicated. Larger than life. Loves to tell stories about his glory days fighting Captain America, though I’m not sure any of them are actually true. He was a good fake father, in his way. Played the role convincingly. Made us laugh.”

“You care about him.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to tell what was real and what was performance.” Natasha unlocked the car, slid into the driver’s seat. “But he loved Melina. That much I’m certain of. Might still love her, even after all these years.”

“Love is a good motivator.”

“Sometimes. Other times it makes people do stupid things.” Natasha started the engine. “Breaking him out of prison probably qualifies as stupid.”

“Probably,” Veer agreed. “But we’re doing it anyway.”

They drove back toward the city center, planning their impossible prison break, knowing that every hour they delayed was another hour those eleven women spent trapped in their own minds. Another hour Yelena stood silent and unseeing.

Time was running out.

But Natasha Romanoff had learned long ago that impossible just meant you had to be creative. And Veer—with his inhuman strength, his assassin skills, his calm certainty that problems were just puzzles waiting to be solved—well, he made the impossible seem almost reasonable.

“Seventh Circle,” Natasha said as they merged into traffic. “Tomorrow morning. We scout the location, identify weaknesses, plan our approach.”

“And then?”

“Then we go get my fake father and make him tell us where to find my fake mother so we can save my real sister.” Natasha laughed bitterly. “My life is absolutely insane.”

“At least it’s never boring.”

“There is that.”

They drove through Moscow as night fell, two people against an organization, racing against time to save victims who couldn’t save themselves. The odds were terrible. The stakes were life and death. The plan was borderline suicidal.

But they’d faced worse.

Probably.

Maybe.

Okay, probably not. But they were doing it anyway.

Because that’s what friends did.