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The fall of the Red Room.
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Trigger warning: suicide and mentions of sexual assault. This story is very dark thus read with caution. Note that anything in << >> means they are speaking in another language (Russian).
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The Red Room. 55.7558° N, 37.6173° E
<<If they cannot speak, they cannot fight.>> General Dreykov smirked cunningly at the men standing around him, his accent thick and curling around the Russian words he spoke. His men's faces of defeat were not reassuring, exhaustion and frustration bleeding through the tough masks they tried to wear around him. He wondered if they would stop trying to fool him, when they would come to the realization he could see right through their charade. Yet he did not let their misery irk him. It never had before. He took pride in knowing his girls were stronger than the men who devoted their lives to the Red Room, that the weapons the men yielded were no match against his own weaponry of powerful, agile girls with minds just as impressive, just as sharp. The men who thought they had some semblance of control with big guns were nothing against his girls that only he could command. <<Control and silence them any way you need to. Do not worry about what they say because the words are empty just like their minds.>> He said with a dismissive nod towards the door. The conversation was over before it even started.
He did not have time for this.
<<Yes, General.>> His men chorused before they left his office, their fingers gripping their guns tighter and their faces set in newfound determination. The sounds of their boots against the dark, wood floors faded as they moved further down the hallway.
He would've laughed if his mind wasn't elsewhere. He took pleasure in how his girls could unsettle armed men with mere words. Such men were really quite pathetic. It had been young girls, mere teenagers, who had unsettled them with vicious words and ruthless threats with no real meaning. It was a strong class of future Black Widows who had given him numerous headaches, but most of them were too valuable to dispose of. With such pretty faces, developing bodies of full breasts and shapely hips, they would be useful to him... one day. He scratched his chin, feeling the coarseness of his five-o'clock shadow as he turned his attention back toward the massive, projecting screen in front of his polished desk. He watched the pinpoint in Washington D.C., the tracker connection strong and stable despite being thousands of miles away. <<I'm sorry we were so rudely interrupted, Natasha. As I was saying, I trust your judgment on this situation. Make me proud, doll.>> He spoke to her through their radio. He longed to see her, one of his greatest creations, as she worked, but this mission was far too important to risk an unstable connection through security cameras. Infiltrating the 'new and improved' S.W.O.R.D. headquarters was a top priority after Hydra fell and intel was lost, leaked onto the web by Nick Fury. The files were useless to him now but once his Natasha worked her way into the facility, he would be able to emerge from the shadows.
