Chapter Text
"Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?"
- John Keats, Ode to a Nightingale
2014
Switzerland
An arrow sliced cleanly through the stale air, soaring high over the cavernous ceiling above and arcing down over the rows of rusted, ancient computers, finally cutting its target perfectly in half. The old chain snapped, and the weight of the precarious balcony it had been holding up collapsed with a deafening crash, instantly hurling a vast cloud of dust and debris over the area. The facility had clearly been abandoned for years, perhaps decades, and judging by the technology of the computers, was at least half a century old.
Clint Barton leapt onto the ruins of the balcony and pulled himself up onto the railing above with barely a grunt, surveying his handiwork. Not only would it take hours for the dust to settle, it blocked the view of anyone who might happen to wander inside: not that he expected that to occur—the building was at least fifty miles from any other signs of civilization, and it had been completely empty for decades.
"Couldn't resist making a scene, huh?"
Clint spun around on one heel and grinned at Natasha Romanoff, who was leaning against the railing waiting for him, having simply taken the stairs to the second floor. The corners of her mouth were upturned in a slight smirk, but as usual, it was impossible to tell whether or not she was genuinely amused.
"You know it," he said flippantly, reaching around to pull another arrow out of its quiver and string it on his bow. "God, this place is a dump. I'm expecting zombies to attack us any moment."
"You're not too far off," Natasha replied, silently appearing at his side. They began to move together down the catwalk, their steps ringing loudly on the metal. The walkway spanned the perimeter of the entire factory floor, with only a solid steel door visible at the very end of it. "This was Arnim Zola's personal laboratory before his death forty years ago. S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence has it on file that he spent most of his time here studying nuclear radiation after he was recruited."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. intelligence?" snorted Clint, unable to help himself. "It's everybody's intelligence now. I wouldn't be surprised if the CIA and MI6 have already infiltrated this place."
Natasha glanced sideways at him. "Not everything was leaked," she said cryptically. "HYDRA kept certain cards very close to its chest. This lab was likely just a front for Zola to continue his work for them."
"Is that why we're here, then?" Clint asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow. "So you can find out all of HYDRA's secrets before Fury does?"
She smirked again, wickedly. "Partly," Natasha admitted. "And partly because I owe Steve."
Clint, of course, knew what the answer to his next question would be, but he decided to ask it anyway. "Owe him for what?" he pressed, his tone as casual as if they were merely having drinks over lunch and not infiltrating the personal laboratory of one of HYDRA's most infamous members.
Natasha didn't even deign to roll her eyes in response to his pretend ignorance, keeping her gaze fixed firmly ahead. When she finally spoke, her voice was unusually serious. "He saved my life in D.C. more times than I'm willing to admit. The least I can do is help him out a bit."
Clint glanced over at her, his sharp eyes zeroing in on her throat: he was secretly pleased to see a delicate silver arrow still hanging there—a pendant he had presented to her shortly before her assignment in Washington. Most people would swear that the Black Widow didn't have a sentimental bone in her body, but Clint knew better.
"See something you like?" Natasha purred in recognition of his poorly disguised thoughts, and Clint realized he had been staring at her. The knowing glint in her eyes made him wonder, not for the first time and not entirely jokingly, if she actually could read his mind. Natasha always knew—or at least she knew more than Clint, something he was perfectly happy to accept. It was one of the reasons why their partnership was so effective, among other words.
"Sure," he said briskly, recovering himself as fast as he could and casually shrugging one shoulder. "I was just thinking that I've got a damn good eye for jewelry."
Instead of continuing their banter, Natasha only coolly arched her brow and tilted her head slightly. Clint knew from experience that the lack of a verbal response from her was much more dangerous than any retort could be. He also knew he would pay for his wit later, likely in a highly unpleasant manner, but for now he could relish the victory.
Moving like a well-oiled machine, it didn't take the two of them long to reach their target: like the computers below, the lone steel door was rusted from disrepair, but likely still just as impenetrable as it had been upon installation. Clint reached back into his quiver and drew out a small, oblong detonator, flipping a switch on its underside and maneuvering it into the lock with practiced ease. Less than a second later, there was a shower of bright sparks and the heavy mechanism completely melted under his fingertips. Natasha shoved the door inward with her shoulder and as one they stepped inside a narrow, disappointingly ordinary hallway that stretched into the darkness beyond. A single lightbulb almost completely covered in cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and there were only two windowless doors set into either side of the corridor, offering no clues as to what lay beyond them.
"Not exactly Fort Knox," Clint muttered as they paused to take in the unremarkable scene. He couldn't suppress a snort when he saw that both doors were secured with nothing more than ordinary padlocks. Evidently, Zola had believed the steel door would successfully keep out any unwelcome intruders. "And S.H.I.E.L.D. never even bothered inspecting this place?"
"Officially? Alexander Pierce oversaw its closure in '72 shortly after he was appointed undersecretary of the World Security Council. Unofficially? I seriously doubt it."
Clint grimaced. "Well, that explains it."
Natasha craned her head upward to regard the lightbulb swaying gently several feet above them. After a short deliberation, she reached up and tugged at the pull chain. To Clint's mild surprise, a dim but unmistakable light flickered to life inside the bulb, illuminating their faces with a dull yellow pallor. "Must be photovoltaics," Natasha murmured, almost to herself. "S.H.I.E.L.D. was at the forefront of solar energy research during the fifties and sixties. Guess Zola used that to his advantage."
Clint rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, the bastard thought of everything. Listen, the sooner we sweep these rooms, the sooner we can get out of here."
"And here I was thinking you were having fun," Natasha teased, but she was already getting to work on the closest door, her fingers deftly picking away at the lock. Clint turned to the door opposite, noting the flimsy shackle and eroded body. All he had to do was yank the padlock free with one strong movement and it snapped open under his fingers, the latches easily giving way from time and corrosion.
"Make me actually work for something here, would you?" he mumbled to himself as he pushed the door open. The handle was unusually cold, but it wasn't until he stepped inside the room that the temperature plummeted, as sudden and as unexpected as if he had walked outside in the dead of winter. Fluorescent lights flickered on hazily overhead, whirring and buzzing loudly, and out of habit Clint reached for his bow until he realized that the room was completely empty save for a tall, upright metal cylinder standing in the far corner. The tiled floor was a long-faded eggshell white and the walls were coated with peeling plaster. The room was hardly larger than the hallway outside, and Clint guessed that the main area had been Zola's actual laboratory: this was something no one else was meant to see.
His breath came out in small white clouds as he quickly examined the space, searching for potential threats or traps left behind. When he found none, he turned his attention back to the metal cylinder, noticing the light coating of frost that covered its surface. With an uneasy twist in the pit of his stomach that he would never dare to even acknowledge, he thought that it looked very much like a coffin.
Keeping his senses on high alert, Clint carefully made his way over to the machine. Up close, he could see that, under the frost, the metal had begun to rust, and a low humming was audibly emanating from inside, like some sort of old-fashioned refrigerator. Letting his curiosity get the better of him, Clint reached out and placed his hand on its side: it was even colder to the touch and vibrated slightly under his fingers.
"What the hell?" he muttered. There were days when he would have gladly volunteered to infiltrate an abandoned HYDRA base—after all, he had once been possessed by a literal god, and later fought said god's alien army—but today was not one of them. Now he just wanted a comfortable couch, a decent television, and a strong drink.
Near the top of the machine was a circular window that was almost entirely covered in condensation. He could think of no other reasonable explanation for its purpose here aside from being an experimental refrigerator. Clint snorted under his breath as he wiped the condensation away with one hand. If Zola really had been trying to create sentient produce, he called dibs on telling Fury.
But when he leaned forward and peered inside, what he saw was most definitely not food.
"Clint, I've been calling you for the past five minutes," Natasha said in exasperation, striding forward into the room with her arms crossed against the biting cold. "Zola's office is back there—looks like it was abandoned in a hurry, and there's dried blood all over the desk. I was able to collect a sample to send to Stark." She shrugged, unaffected by the discovery—she'd certainly seen much worse in her day. "Zola might have brought the Winter Soldier here for further experimentation."
"I don't think so," Clint said, his lips barely moving. "Nat, look."
An astonished tone was one he rarely employed—not letting her interest show on her face, Natasha stepped forward and followed his gaze into the machine. Clint looked over at her, gauging her reaction—her cell phone was already in her hand. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen as she handed it to Clint, her lips pursed into a thin line and all earlier traces of amusement completely gone.
"Call Fury," Natasha ordered. "He's going to want to see this."