Maeve Fedorovna; an ungraduated assassin from the Red Room, an accomplice in attempts to kill Tony Stark, the world's most feared virus in the matrix. She was good at her job, she was even better at engineering, and many people were starting to take...
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Alliances can shift from ink on paper to manipulated audio fragments with the pressure from half-a-limb; from there, everything spirals. The white dots once connected by a single thread become overlapping and knotted, until you have a scarf that hugs your neck too tight and makes your skin crawl. My hidden allegiances between Justin Hammer and Ivan were beginning to tango with my allegience to the Red Room, though at the end of every day I am reminded the Red Room is my solitary red pin that connects everything at one place.
Justin Hammer had already made his afternoon visit to me, declaring my efforts—in the nicest way possible—useless and impractical compared to Stark's technology, combined with the militaries suddenly eager assistance. Though nonchalant in the moment, I would be holding some offense against the man who contributed nothing but lame jokes and half-witted metaphors. At least in allegiance with Ivan, the assassination of Tony Stark would eliminate threats against Dreykov. Justin Hammer was in the middle of delivering the news to Ivan, with much more entertaining when he attempted to sound like the mastermind. I laid above, in the Red Room's required trainee uniform with every piece of equipment I had stolen away from home.
The bland ceiling tile smelling of styrofoam was shifted forward enough to let a sliver of light breathe into my surroundings, my eyes squinting as I attempted to watch Justin Hammer exit, talking about celebratory sex—his desperation was far too noticeable, especially from the limited view of a ceiling tile. Ivan relaxed against his flat creaking mattress, a toothpick in between his teeth, and in a matter of seconds his eyes looked up at my hiding space; my cue exactly.
Shifting the ceiling tile out of my way, I dove forward from the ceiling and curled my body into a tight summersault while charging the widow stingers around my wrists. My feet met the ground first, falling to one knee as I aimed at the two security and brushed my thumb against the palm trigger. The slim black capsules released two disks, their centers becoming alight with an electric pulse as they attatched to the guards' dark pieces of clothing. In a few short strides, my knee met one of the officer's ribs as my arms wrapped around his neck and brought him closer to my height. Grunting in response, one of his hands firmly grasped my arms; spinning my arm in his grasp and freeing my elbow, one hit to the temple knocks him out cold.
