Whatever It Takes

3.2

It does.

The depth turns shallow and my feet catch on the bottom of the river. I pull myself up to stand and look up, finding the edge of the town. Feet splash through the water and arms wrap around me, Natasha's green eyes flashing in the dark.

"You okay?" she asks.

I throw an arm over her shoulder, both of us falling onto the shore against a rock. "Never better," I tease. "Do you have it?"

She pats her jacket, pulling the glowing vials out of the leather. Wrapped with a rubber band, there's a piece of paper tucked in the middle of them. Natasha pulls it out, the glowing red illuminating it. I lean over her and her expression changes from puzzled to shocked. When I catch a glimpse of it, my face does the same.

"Oh, shit," we say together.

A picture from one of those photo booths at a carnival, ripped evenly in half. Two girls, several years apart in age.

I'd recognize them anywhere.

Yelena, and a blue-haired Natasha.

We make our way to the town, finding a pub that's open late. Natasha calls a cab, then we order two beers to pass the time for it to arrive.

"We're going home, aren't we?" I ask.

Natasha sips, raising a brow. "I guess we are. Mason had said he's got someone in our apartment there, I'm assuming it's got to be Yel."

"She's found us first."

She sighs, nodding slowly. "We are horrible sestras."

"That we are."

The cab brings us to the train station, which brings us to Budapest. We arrive in the morning, trying to remain inconspicuous among the crowd of people getting off the train but finding it hard. We're in tattered and ripped clothes, no luggage or bags with our travel. Not to mention many faces, way more than what we had in Saebo. The chance of being recognized here is much higher.

We keep our heads down as we move through the streets to our old apartment, entering under the curling concrete arch. A woman sweeps an upper balcony, a man passes with a bag of groceries. We head to the elevator and I press the floor one below our old home.

It creaks as we go up, the sound familiar.

"I never knew how much I missed this place," I tell, looking up at the rickey box we stand in.

"I did," Natasha says, giving me an honest look.

"Are you nervous?"

"What the hell type of question is that?"

I chuckle at her serious look. She's terrified.

The doors open and we emerge, heading to a vent on the side of the wall. She kneels beside it, pulling two dusty handguns and cartridges and handing me one. I load it, and together we stalk up the stairs to our old home.

Natasha nears the door, pulling out a twisted piece of metal as she picks the lock. Then a voice pokes through the wood.

"I know you're out there."

Her voice. I haven't heard her voice in eighteen years. Her Russian accent is still there, like mine, thick as ever. It's dropped, gotten lower with her age.

Natasha reaches for the gun she tucked into her waistband. "I know you know I'm out here."

We don't know if she's been sent to kill us. Perhaps a sick ploy from Ross, maybe an old enemy resurfaced and recruited her. Whoever she is now, she is not the Yelena we once knew.