Chasing Ghosts (Open)

Participants: Natasha Romanoff /Open
Open/Closed: Open
Location(s): Siberian tundra
Time of Day: Mid-afternoon
Weather: Unbearably cold
Summary: Natasha continues her hunt to rid the world of the remnants of HYDRA and the Red Room.

Crouched in the shadow of a factory, she huddled into her thick, wet-work print jacket, raising her shoulders against the chill of the late evening wind. Her red hair was plastered to her face, crimson locks dyed an off brown; the ice rain having soaked her through long ago. Were it not for the heating pads contained in the inner pockets of the coat she wore over her sneaking suit, she was sure she’d be shivering – close to becoming a hypothermic wreck. But she’d been prepared. Russia was, after all, her homeland. She knew how to survive there better than anywhere.

Or so she told herself.

She'd landed the helicopter at the landing zone hours before, miles from the supposedly abandoned warehouse outside which she crouched. Insertion had been simple; drop in to the middle of nowhere before hiking further into nothingness, outlasting the wilderness until she reached her target. It was a silent approach, lacking the roar of engines a car or bike may have produced, certainly drawing less attention than the low hum of jet engines or the whirring of helicopter blades. Anyone within the factory would be unaware of her arrival – which was exactly what she’d hoped to accomplish.

The factory itself, an old Soviet building; plain, industrial and perfectly square, replete with connecting bunker, was an old HYDRA facility – supposedly abandoned. Records had suggested it had been evacuated at the height of the Cold War; though various sources had offered conflicting information. It had been off intelligence agency radars for years, lost to time. Then, a month prior, the intelligence satellites Romanoff carefully monitored picked up communications; encrypted, but originating from within the warehouse.

Investigations into the site's history had been undertaken almost immediately, by both parties, and after weeks spent gathering intel, it had been decided reconnaissance of the area was vital. Of course, while official agencies scrambled to organise a team, the Black Widow made her move alone, with far greater urgency and precision. With her former ties to Russia, the KGB and the Red Room, she was perhaps the perfect individual to infiltrate the facility – her expertise required nothing in the way of support, and her presence was far more likely to go unnoticed than a team of former SHIELD operatives.

But, from what she could tell upon her first reconnaissance, the factory was indeed empty. She’d been listening, watching and waiting for well over an hour, and nothing had stirred. No vehicles had arrived, no voices had been heard. The silence was utter – and more than a little eerie.

Pushing herself slowly to her feet, Natasha turned the collar of her coat up, shielding her neck from the driving sleet, before reaching down to her hip to remove the pistol she carried from its holster. Thumbing the safety, she checked the weapon was loaded correctly before heading toward a small side door- weathered and unhinged, an entrance she’d spotted during her initial recon sweep. Pressing her foot to it, she pushed firmly, opening it just enough for her to slip inside, not wishing to test the rusty metal more than she had to.

The darkness within was total, broken only by shafts of light peeking through gaps in the high ceiling above, making it easy for Natasha to stay hidden. Dust was thick upon everything, and even her slow, deliberate movements seemed to kick up thick clouds. Scanning the large, crate-laden space, she tilted her head as she did so, searching and listening for anything that might suggest she wasn't alone.

But only stillness and silence greeted her.

Snow crunched beneath the footfalls of the Huntress of the Heavens as she trekked across the wintery landscape of north Asia. The figure moving through the white haze of the landscape was a woman on a pilgrimage through self imposed isolation. The cold did not effect her but the howling winds did help well enough to keep her out of her own head, and that was truly all that the woman wanted. There was no predetermined destination in mind that she hiked toward, only a certain level of desired clarity that guided her steps. She couldn't even accurately say what it was she hoped to achieve, what clarity it was that she needed. All Angela truly knew was that she had to be alone. She deserved to be alone, in her opinion. So she had placed herself in the frigid wilds of Siberia, walking endlessly, devoid of interaction with any living creatures. It was a punishment when it was all said and done, but Angela chose to believe she was simply out for fresh air. That sounded less sad.

While she chose to keep primarily to the wilderness, avoiding interaction with living creatures and all that, Angela realized she was drawing nearer to industrial complexes. It wasn't like she knew the area or had access to a map so it was understandable that she might venture close to human dwellings at some point, but when or if ever that proved to be the case the woman would simply modify her path and opt for a quieter stretch of tundra.

Her billowing red hair looked all the more fiery against the white snow and ice that covered everything. Her face was hardened in a never-ending scowl as she walked against the flurry of ice and snowflakes that whipped about in the chilling air. 

Angela was about to pivot her step and carry her self toward a far off line of trees when something caught her vision's peripherals. She paused for a moment, watching and studying as a figure seemingly vanished into the side of a solid steel structure. Curiosity took old of the redhead and pulled like a line directing her toward the compound. Her pace did not quicken or hasten the slightest, but her eyes were now fixated on the spot where she had seen a person slinking around. The Hevenly ribbons attached to her attire swirled about her form like crimson tornados all the while as she drew nearer to the cubed building in the middle of the snow. Her weapon remained sheathed, she did not yet feel it necessary to change that fact.

The Odinspawn came to a door that was ajar by only a fraction. For a moment she doubted herself: how could a person have slinked in through such a narrow opening? But Angela never doubted herself for long, and she would never get answers if she let go of things so easy. Shifting her weight backward onto her right foot Angela threw her left foot forward and kicked in the door, the excessive use of force ripping it clear from its rusted hinges.

Natasha Romanoff

Had it not been for the crunching of snow, audible just beyond the entrance to the complex, Natasha Romanoff would have continued to believe herself alone. However, that sound, footsteps wading through a settled snowdrift– a sound that could so easily have gone unnoticed - she knew something or someone else was present, following the path she had taken into the warehouse. Her finger found its way to her weapon’s trigger, a reflex reaction disguised as the slightest of twitches. Then she continued her observation of the inner warehouse, her body language suggesting nothing had changed, that she was continuing her search of the premises. However, all-the-while, she kept her hand on her weapon, body ready to move should the door behind her open.

It didn’t just open. With unexpected force, the metallic portal flew from its hinges, clattering into the open space beyond. The resulting din echoed beneath the high ceiling, almost deafening; a cacophony that might have reached the ears of those miles away from the site. With a grim frown, teeth gritted in frustration, Natasha turned on her heel with a near-impossible speed and grace, raising her weapon and levelling it at…

Someone she didn’t recognise, but was dressed akin to an Asgardian.

She kept the surprise from her face, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Standing in the doorway, the woman’s chiselled face gave away as little as Natasha’s. Tall, broad shouldered and armoured, the fiery haired trespasser didn’t seem at all bothered by her pistol’s aim. Muscles rippled as she approached the Widow, and strange ribbons danced at her back, fluttering despite there being no breeze. Natasha’s trigger finger flexed, but she held her ground, and would do until the newcomer made her move.

Aldrif Odinsdottir