bornrussian (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bornrussian) wrote2012-05-28 04:45 am
bornrussian) wrote2012-05-28 04:45 am
Entry tags:
Into the night we go
On the surface, it's just like every other mission Natasha has ever been on. Infiltrate the secret science base, find out what progress they're making, destroy their records after sending a copy back home, and torch the place behind her. On second glance, it's far more sinister than that. In the subterranean base in the Ukraine, scientists are trying (among other things) to change the human genome to create a race of veritable super-men. They're working to manufacture soldiers with superpowers.
Now, one might argue that's no different from the American Military's top secret attempts to do the same in the 1940s (or, hell, the Black Widow Program itself). But the methods are beyond dubious. They're using human test subjects and not one of them volunteered. And the survival rates are incredibly low. Though not as low as the success rates.
From what Natasha can glean from their records, it seems they started their experiments on the homeless; old alcoholics and runaway teens. But, lately, they've been grabbing more-- viable specimens. Like the specimens and not the methods are to blame for the lack of results.
The research station itself is a sprawling underground complex of bunkers dating back to the second world war. The walls are poured concrete, the clinical green paint peeling in places, and there's a hint of mildew, sweat, shit and decomposition underneath the sharp smell of disinfectant that's everywhere, even in the dingy private quarters of the scientists. There's a fading swastika embossed in the far wall of the canteen where the staff eats, and everyone pretends not to notice.
Natasha is posing as a brilliant, young lab assistant with a knack for languages and organization. The knowledge input for the mission has been vast, and for the first few days, her head throbs with the information crammed into it and each time she turns too quickly, it feels as her overfilled mind sloshes over the edges. She carries herself gingerly until the sensations finally fade and the information is integrated into her memory.
It's supposed to be a quick in and out, a week at the most. But, not only are the base computers not hooked up to the Internet, they also aren't used very much. Certainly not for keeping records. Every single file, folder and document is filed in paper-form in the heavily guarded Archive. Though Natasha gains access there within the week, it'll take her far longer to take get the requested information out without raising suspicion.
In the meantime, she does the job the scientists think they're paying her for. She organizes schedules, files reports (after typing them up on an ancient typewriter), and orders new medical supplies when needed. But she also draws blood from the subjects, injects them with whatever solution the scientists think will work this time (but generally only makes the subjects writhe in pain on the stretcher they're tied to), checks on I.Vs and vitals and stats, and yeah, sometimes she even brings the subjects food. Though calling it 'food' is quite a stretch. Most of them have to make do with I.Vs where nutrients are mixed with heavy duty sedatives to keep them calm.
She also observes the autopsies. There are fifteen in her first week.
Natasha's been there for two weeks when she catches sight of a familiar set of shoulders and her heart damn near stops in her chest. He's shuffling along a corridor between two orderlies, being led to one of the testing facilities. And despite the fact that she's needed down in Lab 15, she follows him, just to make sure that she isn't mistaken.
She isn't. It's doubtlessly him. Despite the slump of his shoulders and the way the drugs have softened the features of his face, and clouded his eyes, she'd know him anywhere. Even barefoot, in the filthy used-to-be-white scrubs of the facility he's still the most handsome man she's ever seen, with a smile she can't seem to get out of her head, except he isn't smiling now.
Hawkeye. Or, as he's known here, subject 319. Fuck.
The plight of the subjects hasn't passed her by, but they're not the mission, so she's compartmentalized, boxed them away and ignored them. But, she can't ignore this. Can't ignore him.
Within the day, she has his file tucked away in her pile of medical reports, and she's gotten herself assigned to him, even though he's not in the genome-trials where she works. He belongs to one of the other departments, where the death rates are slightly less steep (if only because they're generally transferred to the genome trials after a testing period of a couple of weeks), but the experiments are that much more painful.
They keep running into each other on missions, but this is the last place on Earth she expected to see him. Especially as a subject. What is his play here? Why is he here?
By that evening, the questions get to be too much for her, and she bribes the lab assistant who usually does his post-procedure check-ups to let her do it instead.
The cells where the subjects are kept are all clustered in one of the sub-levels, following a dank and dark corridor. The smell down here is worse. Even the antiseptic can't cloy the stench. It's not Natasha's first time down there, but it's the first time it gets to her, the first time her stomach knots with nausea the further down she walks.
The door is marked 319 with white chalk and you can still see where other numbers have been smudged out. She bangs the door, balancing the small tray of instruments on one hand and her hip. "Three, nineteen," she calls through the little hatch in the door of his cell, peering in through it to make out his form in the small cell. "Up against the wall, hands behind your head."
Now, one might argue that's no different from the American Military's top secret attempts to do the same in the 1940s (or, hell, the Black Widow Program itself). But the methods are beyond dubious. They're using human test subjects and not one of them volunteered. And the survival rates are incredibly low. Though not as low as the success rates.
From what Natasha can glean from their records, it seems they started their experiments on the homeless; old alcoholics and runaway teens. But, lately, they've been grabbing more-- viable specimens. Like the specimens and not the methods are to blame for the lack of results.
The research station itself is a sprawling underground complex of bunkers dating back to the second world war. The walls are poured concrete, the clinical green paint peeling in places, and there's a hint of mildew, sweat, shit and decomposition underneath the sharp smell of disinfectant that's everywhere, even in the dingy private quarters of the scientists. There's a fading swastika embossed in the far wall of the canteen where the staff eats, and everyone pretends not to notice.
Natasha is posing as a brilliant, young lab assistant with a knack for languages and organization. The knowledge input for the mission has been vast, and for the first few days, her head throbs with the information crammed into it and each time she turns too quickly, it feels as her overfilled mind sloshes over the edges. She carries herself gingerly until the sensations finally fade and the information is integrated into her memory.
It's supposed to be a quick in and out, a week at the most. But, not only are the base computers not hooked up to the Internet, they also aren't used very much. Certainly not for keeping records. Every single file, folder and document is filed in paper-form in the heavily guarded Archive. Though Natasha gains access there within the week, it'll take her far longer to take get the requested information out without raising suspicion.
In the meantime, she does the job the scientists think they're paying her for. She organizes schedules, files reports (after typing them up on an ancient typewriter), and orders new medical supplies when needed. But she also draws blood from the subjects, injects them with whatever solution the scientists think will work this time (but generally only makes the subjects writhe in pain on the stretcher they're tied to), checks on I.Vs and vitals and stats, and yeah, sometimes she even brings the subjects food. Though calling it 'food' is quite a stretch. Most of them have to make do with I.Vs where nutrients are mixed with heavy duty sedatives to keep them calm.
She also observes the autopsies. There are fifteen in her first week.
Natasha's been there for two weeks when she catches sight of a familiar set of shoulders and her heart damn near stops in her chest. He's shuffling along a corridor between two orderlies, being led to one of the testing facilities. And despite the fact that she's needed down in Lab 15, she follows him, just to make sure that she isn't mistaken.
She isn't. It's doubtlessly him. Despite the slump of his shoulders and the way the drugs have softened the features of his face, and clouded his eyes, she'd know him anywhere. Even barefoot, in the filthy used-to-be-white scrubs of the facility he's still the most handsome man she's ever seen, with a smile she can't seem to get out of her head, except he isn't smiling now.
Hawkeye. Or, as he's known here, subject 319. Fuck.
The plight of the subjects hasn't passed her by, but they're not the mission, so she's compartmentalized, boxed them away and ignored them. But, she can't ignore this. Can't ignore him.
Within the day, she has his file tucked away in her pile of medical reports, and she's gotten herself assigned to him, even though he's not in the genome-trials where she works. He belongs to one of the other departments, where the death rates are slightly less steep (if only because they're generally transferred to the genome trials after a testing period of a couple of weeks), but the experiments are that much more painful.
They keep running into each other on missions, but this is the last place on Earth she expected to see him. Especially as a subject. What is his play here? Why is he here?
By that evening, the questions get to be too much for her, and she bribes the lab assistant who usually does his post-procedure check-ups to let her do it instead.
The cells where the subjects are kept are all clustered in one of the sub-levels, following a dank and dark corridor. The smell down here is worse. Even the antiseptic can't cloy the stench. It's not Natasha's first time down there, but it's the first time it gets to her, the first time her stomach knots with nausea the further down she walks.
The door is marked 319 with white chalk and you can still see where other numbers have been smudged out. She bangs the door, balancing the small tray of instruments on one hand and her hip. "Three, nineteen," she calls through the little hatch in the door of his cell, peering in through it to make out his form in the small cell. "Up against the wall, hands behind your head."
no subject
That is, in retrospect, the last clear thought he has. A desperate knowledge that this has become a one way trip, and all of it because someone hadn't done enough research, had intel that implied that the patients were volunteers, were treated reasonably well, were bribed for their cooperation. They knew about the kidnappings, of course, because that was why SHIELD had gotten involved, but the data they'd been getting from their trusted sources all indicated that sending an agent under cover as a patient would be the fastest way to infiltrate the corporation. Clint was chosen because he was new, he was talented, and there were more than a few higher ups that still didn't trust him. But it was assumed (even by him) that his strength and his skill at hand to hand would keep him safe, that if any of it got to be too much, he'd be able to get to something to send off a panic alarm and they'd send in the big guns and they'd all be liberated. None of them had counted on the drugs.
His life had become nothing but a series of needle pricks. Measurements. Medical Tests. Procedures when the drugs wore off so they could make sure the body was reacting in a perfectly human fashion, and then drugs again when the pain ended and the tests showed no results. And with the drugs came the side effects. The ones they were looking for, of course, the lack of coordination, slow thought processes, dizziness--everything to keep them in line and sedated and from rebelling, and then the ones that turned their world into a sort of living hell. The nausea that left bile and liquid for interns to clean, the nightmares that left the compound awash with screams that echoed on the concrete walls, and the
hyper sensitivity to pain that only seemed to grow with each dose he was given.
And there was no shortage of pain in his life, not now.
There were the tests where they injected various serums that seemed to light every nerve on fire and left him thrashing for hours and shivering for days. The stress tests where doctors monitored just how much the patients could handle before they collapsed--under pain, under heat, under cold, under pressure--running until their legs couldn't hold them up, and being dragged back to their feet to do it again after being injected with adrenaline, being strapped down and shocked until they passed out--all of it testing just how successful of candidates they might be for the genome project the doctor's whispered about when they thought no one was paying attention. Though, really, no one was, and if they were, there was nothing they could do about it. Despite the lack of coordination and reflexes, there were guards dispersed through out the building, mixed in with the orderlies and posted at the doors. Their intel had been wrong.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)