Snapshot (фотография)

VIII

"I know, Nat. I can do math." Clint grumbled, but she could tell he was disturbed. He looked at the faded photo of a grinning little boy with rosy cheeks and curly brown hair, trying to imagine him as a killer. The Red Room could do that. He remembered seeing the old photos of Nat before she was taken. They were eerily similar to Peter's.

The photo reminded him of his own kids, Natasha could tell. She left the computer to face the clouded window to the outside world, her mouth in a pinched and frustrated look. In that moment, Clint realised how much all of this was weighing on her. She appeared the same since they had met outwardly, albeit maybe a bit older, a little more tired. He wondered how differently he looked.

With three kids, Clint was sure he had more grey hairs than he had started with, a few more lines from stress, and a few more lines from laughter. He no longer bothered gelling his hair to complete perfection each day, no longer spending a painstaking hour in front of the mirror, making sure that no strands were out of place. He almost chuckled at the thought. When he started with S.H.I.E.L.D, Clint was meticulous about his appearance. Eventually, he gave up when he joined the field. No use styling if you were just going to have to wash the blood and sweat out of it later.

Natasha bit the inner part of her cheek, the screams of men, young and old, women and children running through her head. The melody of a ballet class and the sharp crack of the teacher's ruler on her hand. The feeling of blood running down her face, and the rush the adrenaline gave her. She closed her eyes, recalling all of the things she had long since repressed- the cold approval she received from the handlers, along with the lesson that one never showed emotion. Emotion made you weak in their eyes. She shivered lightly. Nat had fought against these tendencies, the little girl that once was screaming in her brain for dominance, willing her to love, and the cold hearted killer that had existed since she was broken.

The red room was active. But how? She had carefully chipped away at their defenses, using the methods that had been drilled into her, assassinating the group as if they were a real live person. The refugees had been administered into S.H.I.E.L.D. 's recuperation program. So what had happened with Peter Parker? Why? She glanced down at the picture again, wondering if this kid had changed as much as she had and hoped there was even the slightest chance he could be brought back into the light.

---

Peyta grimaced at the bustle and hustle of downtown Miami, slipping past a group of giggling college girls and ducking into a small convenience store to change his appearance in the bathroom. He estimated that he had about an hour before a warning was released about him.

Silently and carefully, he zipped up a black jacket, pulling on a pair of jeans and covering up the graphic t-shirt that made him look like the teenager he was. He frowned, staring into the stained and cracked mirror of the small bodega bathroom. The manic little voice whispered in his brain, bading him to take a shard and use it on himself, just to see the blood. He bit his cheek, wondering if Stark's blood would have the metallic smell that the others did.

He returned back to the beach cautiously, if only to grab a suitcase secreted in a bed of ferns that lined the beach. How the officers had not found it in their search, he didn't know. He didn't particularly care enough to figure out either. A family walked past him, the children chattering about their day, the explosion and anything they could see. He gave the father a smile, as see-through as the water on the beach to him, but deeper down was murky and filled with dark intentions.

Did he ever talk like that? Peyta pondered. If he had not lived this life, would he have lived as a normal teenager, filled with trivial thoughts, wonderings and ideas, doomed to tell everyone like those children? Would he have had a relationship with a girl, yearning for her like in those films he watched in the motel? He shook his head, walking down the sidewalk and ignoring the girls who giggled into their phones.

He had to find some place that he could check in. They were not going to be pleased with what was his second failure in their eyes. The explosion was never met to hurt anyone. He had scoped out the mansion, keeping track of the security and cleaning personnel to strike at the most opportune time. It was a scare tactic. He knew that Tony Stark would be ushered into his safe house on Isle of Palms in South Carolina. There, he would pose as a college kid on his spring break, and sneak into Stark's safehouse once more.

He gave a small and devilish smirk, picturing the rewards he would receive when he completed his task. Peyta would be lauded greatly, maybe even given a command of his own. But he wouldn't be freed. He frowned suddenly. Peyta had travelled many places for his secretive clientele and handlers, but he had never truly been able to fully appreciate and experience the places he went.

He shook his head and focused back on his plan. The explosion would also scare S.H.I.E.L.D. This would put more pressure on Barton and Romanova to find him. One of them would get sloppy- he was sure of it.

Peyta contemplated how he would kill Tony Stark. Although his inner animal longed for pain, he refused it. Perhaps poison was a good way to go again. Maybe something little known. Thallium was found in small traces in many home grown vegetables, and the small house near the beach had a garden in the backyard. If he injected three of the same kind of fruit, maybe that would work. He groaned to himself. Too many things could go wrong.

Finally, Peyta let the growling and bloodthirsty animal loose. He pictured the laboratory filled with ideas that could bring about world domination if it fell into the wrong hands burning, and he wondered what it would take to do that. Gasoline was plentiful inside Tony's garage, used for his many luxury vehicles. The garage... Yes... Carbon monoxide poisoning was common in closed garages when people started their car. That could work. Completely unsatisfying, but it had the most probability of success.