Even though she's not looking at the scene directly anymore, she's still acutely aware of where Yelena is laying on the floor. The way it dissolves is too close an echo to the way people had drifted into dust. She can still picture her exactly as she was when they went to Ohio, staging all those holiday photos. Too young to realize what was about to happen to her. That the next three years would be everything - safety and home cooked food and playing in the yard. And then back to the Red Room in a shipping container to continue having all of their edges honed to lethality.
Natasha's almost grateful for the way the lights shift, sparing them the indignity of trying to figure out how to talk about family. That is, until he moves around her to approach the scene. More closely than either of them have before. She wouldn't say she knows Rocket well, not yet - at least better than she had before the snap. But she knows people, and her eyes skim the scene, giving him a moment to drink in the proximity of people that are clearly important to him.
The power structure is fairly easy to trace around the ring. Even at a quick glance, she can see the places she'd apply pressure to get them to turn on each other. The blue skinned man clearly holds as much significance to Rocket as the tiny creature in the cage. It reminds her of the tree alien she'd seen during the battle in Wakanda, but at a much smaller scale.
Her eyes lift to look up at him when he indicates that the blue skinned man is going to die tomorrow, but even that knowledge seems to pale in comparison to the disappearance of that caged creature. The reason becomes apparent when he explains the connection. That alone is enough for Natasha to reorient her attention, to steel herself. Right. Spending a couple of hours like this is going to turn into a special kind of hell.
She moves over to stand next to Rocket again, the side of her hand brushing against his in a neutral, easy offering for connection. "Fuck Thanos." It's a quick sentiment, but she knows she wouldn't want some big speech right now. She's never been the speech type anyway. The scene shimmers, interestingly not resolving around them despite the fact that they'd moved forward, but the same distance away the others had been at the start.
The light that's shining on them now is blisteringly white, and Natasha feels a chill go down her spine. There's a ring of eight girls, around the age of sixteen, standing in the driving snow and wind. None of them are dressed for it. And there's a pack of supplies in the center of the circle. They're all eyeing each other warily, like they're waiting for someone to make the first move.
It's Natasha.
There have been scores of widows over the years, but she's the only surviving member of her class. Because Dreykov had tried something different with them. Subtly encouraged them to off each other. Pushing the boundaries of the constant testing. Making sure that there was no rest, no trust, no companionship to be found.
The fight looks exactly like what it is: a battle to be the sole survivor. To not die horribly of exposure in the Siberian wilderness where they'd been dropped off. Young Natasha is panting and bloody by the time she's the last one standing, clearly just managing to hold back tears as she opens the pack and dresses herself in the layers inside. The scene begins to fade as she turns and starts to brush the snow over the fallen girls in a makeshift burial.
"Okay," she says, resolved. She re-holsters her knife and pulls one of the widow's bites out and tosses it, watching with a resigned sigh as it just sort of...sparks harmlessly. "So much for hoping we could interrupt the electrical current."
no subject
Natasha's almost grateful for the way the lights shift, sparing them the indignity of trying to figure out how to talk about family. That is, until he moves around her to approach the scene. More closely than either of them have before. She wouldn't say she knows Rocket well, not yet - at least better than she had before the snap. But she knows people, and her eyes skim the scene, giving him a moment to drink in the proximity of people that are clearly important to him.
The power structure is fairly easy to trace around the ring. Even at a quick glance, she can see the places she'd apply pressure to get them to turn on each other. The blue skinned man clearly holds as much significance to Rocket as the tiny creature in the cage. It reminds her of the tree alien she'd seen during the battle in Wakanda, but at a much smaller scale.
Her eyes lift to look up at him when he indicates that the blue skinned man is going to die tomorrow, but even that knowledge seems to pale in comparison to the disappearance of that caged creature. The reason becomes apparent when he explains the connection. That alone is enough for Natasha to reorient her attention, to steel herself. Right. Spending a couple of hours like this is going to turn into a special kind of hell.
She moves over to stand next to Rocket again, the side of her hand brushing against his in a neutral, easy offering for connection. "Fuck Thanos." It's a quick sentiment, but she knows she wouldn't want some big speech right now. She's never been the speech type anyway. The scene shimmers, interestingly not resolving around them despite the fact that they'd moved forward, but the same distance away the others had been at the start.
The light that's shining on them now is blisteringly white, and Natasha feels a chill go down her spine. There's a ring of eight girls, around the age of sixteen, standing in the driving snow and wind. None of them are dressed for it. And there's a pack of supplies in the center of the circle. They're all eyeing each other warily, like they're waiting for someone to make the first move.
It's Natasha.
There have been scores of widows over the years, but she's the only surviving member of her class. Because Dreykov had tried something different with them. Subtly encouraged them to off each other. Pushing the boundaries of the constant testing. Making sure that there was no rest, no trust, no companionship to be found.
The fight looks exactly like what it is: a battle to be the sole survivor. To not die horribly of exposure in the Siberian wilderness where they'd been dropped off. Young Natasha is panting and bloody by the time she's the last one standing, clearly just managing to hold back tears as she opens the pack and dresses herself in the layers inside. The scene begins to fade as she turns and starts to brush the snow over the fallen girls in a makeshift burial.
"Okay," she says, resolved. She re-holsters her knife and pulls one of the widow's bites out and tosses it, watching with a resigned sigh as it just sort of...sparks harmlessly. "So much for hoping we could interrupt the electrical current."