Sarah is on another retrieval mission II

Diving between gunfire, I dodged bullets like I was Neo, and even caught a couple mid-air, which wasn't half bad considering the rounds were molten hot. Melinda was first. I ducked low, elbowing her in the gut and sending her flying back like a crash dummy into a stack of crates. Pathetic.

Natasha was up next, and I delivered a right hook that had her faceplanting faster than a dropped penny. Pausing to admire my handiwork, I smirked. "Wow," I taunted, voice dripping with sarcasm, "you two are a real crack team. Like Nikita and Alex, except way less competent."

Natasha groaned, blood dripping from her chin. She staggered to her feet, swaying like a toddler trying to walk. I retracted my titanium claws with a casual flick, giving a little flourish. "Still with us, huh? Guess that super-soldier stuff's working overtime."

Slowly, I sauntered forward, practically waving a "come at me" sign. Natasha raised her gun, probably hoping she looked intimidating, but her hands were shaking. Just as I was about to reach her, Melinda's voice sliced through the tension. "Hey, birdbrain!"

I didn't even flinch, waving her off like she was a fly. But then I caught a flash of terror on Natasha's face and spun around. Too late. A fireball erupted behind me, blasting me across the warehouse like a kite in a hurricane. I slammed into a metal crate with a deafening crunch, flames licking at my heels.

The whole area looked like a low-budget pyrotechnic show gone wrong, smoke curling through the air. Melinda, leaning against a splintered crate, was gasping, clutching a grenade launcher. "This thing," she wheezed, "is a lifesaver."

I stood up from the flames like a phoenix, shrugging off my charred cloak to reveal thin, armor-like plating underneath. Not exactly practical, but hey, it flaunted my figure. I flashed a mocking grin. "Yeah, that grenade launcher?" I called, my voice raspy from the smoke. "Definitely going on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s credit card."

Locking my gaze on Melinda, I lunged for the launcher, grabbing her arm before she could launch another grenade. My punch to her gut had her doubling over, and she emptied her stomach all over the floor. I followed up with a knee to her chest, launching her backward, then a sidekick that cracked her arm like a snapping celery stalk.

"Don't forget the service charge," I quipped, dripping with sarcasm. "Bill's in the mail."

Melinda's face went pale as she slumped against the broken crate. She looked at me like I was a phantom, knowing they were way out of their league. I strutted out, black box in hand, mission a success. The grenade launcher's remaining ammo clinked around in my bag.

"Huh," I muttered, "guess blowing everything up at once was a bit much."

I glanced over at Natasha, huddling behind some crates like a cornered rabbit. "Hey, you!" I called out, not bothering to lower my voice. "Grab your friend and scram. This place is about to go off like the Fourth of July on steroids."

Without so much as a look back, I strolled toward the exit, ignoring the gun Natasha still had trained on me. She pressed herself tighter against the crate, probably realizing by now that bullets would have about as much impact as throwing a spoon at a tank. Watching me disappear through the warehouse doors, she finally lowered the gun, shoulders slumping in defeat, and scrambled over to Melinda.

"Melinda, wake up! Can you hear me?" Natasha dragged her partner from the wreckage with all the urgency she could muster. If that person was serious about the "explosive finale," they had maybe seconds left to escape.

Melinda groaned, coughing as she stirred. "Ugh… I'll live," she croaked, voice rough from the smoke. "Just some cracked ribs, maybe a broken arm… and the worst headache of my life. Just gonna need a few days on the sidelines… cough."

Natasha's expression tightened as Melinda's raspy cough turned into another spurt of blood. "Think you've got some internal bleeding?"

"Pfft, probably just a stomach thing from her knee," Melinda muttered, trying to sound casual, though her voice was weaker than she'd have liked. "Just get me out of here before it actually does go boom, alright?"

With no time to spare, Natasha hauled Melinda up, half-carrying her as they stumbled toward the exit, urgency in every step.

...

I shoved open the warehouse door, expecting freedom. Instead, a phalanx of goons in bulletproof vests awaited me, bristling with submachine guns and some serious launcher action. The air crackled with the sound of bullets being loaded, and red targeting lasers danced across my black armor like some twisted light show.

I raised my hands in mock surrender, taking a slow step back. "Whoa there, fellas," I drawled, tossing the box onto my back with a dramatic flourish. "Is this how you greet all your guests? A little tense, aren't we?"

I was wondering when these guys would come out; not long after I entered the warehouse, I picked up on their communications, telephone, and coms—the whole package. Hydra operatives, the supposed special ops team that S.H.I.E.L.D. sent as backup, were all Hydra agents. Apparently, they were also salivating over this new grenade launcher I made."

I intercepted their comms—chatter, phone calls, the whole package—shortly after the arrival of the 'Femmes Non-Fatales' duo. Hydra operatives, the supposed S.H.I.E.L.D. Special Ops reinforcements were all double agents with their sights set on my latest creation—the grenade launcher I came here for.

Suddenly, I grinned. "Look, I found something fun inside. You guys want a present?" I reached behind my back and pulled out a metal canister, hurling it toward the group like a grenade. Eliminating Hydra scum wasn't exactly a chore.

The guys in bulletproof vests reacted with lightning speed, unleashing a torrent of bullets. I, however, remained unscathed—my armor shrugged off the hail of lead like a toddler throwing pebbles at a tank. The canister, meanwhile, exploded in a puff of white smoke.

As the canister released its steam, I dashed toward cover. I peeked back, hoping for maximum chaos. Disappointment flickered across my face. Only a few unlucky guys were writhing on the floor, their exposed skin scorched by the chemical burns. "Of course," I mused, "these were pros, not some weekend paintball squad."

An opportunity presented itself. Escape was inevitable, but why not make it memorable? After all, they were Hydra scum. This warehouse offered multiple exits—doors, windows, even skylights.

"Hey, over here!" I yelled, already sprinting. "Wanna play a game of catch? You first!" I didn't bother looking back; I ran because time was running out. I'd planted some nasty high-explosive bombs, and while my fancy armor could handle a lot, a blast furnace at 8,000 degrees? Yeah, not so much.

As I raced toward the far exit, I spotted Natasha struggling to support Melinda. Leaning in close, I dropped a friendly (but not really) reminder. "Yo, wounded warriors! You're still in the blast zone, losers. Tick-tock. Fifty seconds, maybe 100 meters to go. Up to you if you want to be charcoal briquettes."

I kicked my speed into overdrive. Even if a hundred meters was the "safe" distance, it wasn't exactly comforting. Plasma beams and high explosives weren't exactly known for their precision. The whole operation had been a gamble, with Kara getting the materials through a bit of industrial espionage. Now, it was time to bounce.

Natasha watched me disappear, then turned to Melinda, her face grim. "Come on, we can make it. We'll deal with the fallout later." With a determined grunt, she hoisted Melinda onto her shoulder and bolted for the door. I watched with a mocking grin, sidestepping to let them pass just in time.

They barely made it out when… disaster. Natasha tripped on something (courtesy of one of Ava's cables) and tumbled to the ground. Glaring up at the laughing me, Natasha spat, "You… you could have…"

I cut her off with a wicked chuckle. "Relax, drama queen. You're safe now. That… gooey mess? That's our latest prototype. Interested in bulk orders? We offer a discount."

I gestured towards the warehouse. Natasha's breath hitched. In the center of the building, a beam of pure white light had erupted, splitting into countless smaller beams that danced and sliced everything in their path, turning the warehouse into a molten crater in a matter of seconds.

The knight-clad me was gradually enveloped in Ava-Pod's energy field, walking away towards the city. Natasha, watching the destruction, called out, "Why? With your organization's advanced technology, why haven't we heard of you?"

I offered no immediate response. Only when I was nearly out of sight did I finally say, "Now you know, Agent Romanoff." And with that, I vanished. Natasha was left alone beside the smoldering crater, roughly fifty meters wide, the remnants of the warehouse fight scattered around her. Her mind raced. This shadowy organization with energy weapons and enhanced people… how could it have existed under the radar for so long?

The sky hummed with the low drone of aircraft engines. Natasha glanced at the unconscious Melinda beside her, then at her own sorry state. She collapsed to the ground, utterly exhausted. Dealing with the aftermath could wait until she woke up.

...

At the S.H.I.E.L.D. partial hospital...

"Collapsed lung, internal bleeding. Already in shock," the doctor reported voice tight. Nick Fury, his single eye narrowed, stared through the emergency room window at the scene inside. He slammed his fist against the glass, a gesture that made even the doctor flinch. Fury then stalked away from the room, his jaw clenched.

Natasha Romanoff lay pale and motionless on a sterile bed. Another doctor fussed over her mouth, brows furrowed in concern.

"What the hell happened here?" Fury muttered, his voice a low growl. Fury's anger simmered down, replaced by a cold, heavy dread. Over a hundred crack S.H.I.E.L.D. special forces dead, and two of their most elite agents, Natasha and Melinda May, were critically injured.

Several more were in rough shape. One elite agent was undergoing emergency surgery for internal lung damage, another sported a fractured skull and teeth so loose they threatened to fall out with a cough. Fury stationed himself by the door, a storm cloud looming. He needed answers, and he needed them from Natasha the moment she woke up.

This was a disaster unlike anything Fury had faced before. It was clear: someone had torn through his elite team like a wet paper bag. For Melinda May, twisting off heads was as simple as twisting off bottle caps. Natasha, known as the Black Widow, could disarm a bomb blindfolded, and had fought off trained killers without blinking. This, however, was in a whole new league.

Seeing that both surgeries were still far from complete, Fury returned to his office. The loss of over a hundred men made this incident significant. He might have to reach out to some old friends—after all, he needed to make sure the World Security Council was aware of this threat.

The next day, around noon, Fury got the green light – Natasha was awake and talking. He practically sprinted to the hospital, a thousand questions burning a hole in his gut.

"Alright, Romanoff," Fury started, voice clipped. "Doc says you might have a concussion. You remember what happened yesterday?"

Natasha grimaced, a low hiss escaping her lips. "Yeah, I remember. But why the dental torture?" she mumbled through gritted teeth, gesturing vaguely at her mouth.

The young nurse hovering nearby shot him a withering look. "Your teeth are about as stable as a toddler on a sugar crash, Ms. Romanoff. Implants are no fun, believe me."

Natasha slumped back into the bed, resignation radiating from her like a bad smell. The damn neck brace felt like a medieval torture device, but she knew better than to argue.

"Alright, enough chit-chat," Fury said, all business. Normally, he'd have snapped a picture for future blackmail material, but this wasn't a laughing matter. "Tell me about yesterday, tell me about the mutant. Black Widow doesn't get roughed up by a nobody and walk away bragging."

Natasha turned her head slowly, wincing a little. "She is most likely not a mutant. Looks like we tangled with someone from an unknown organization."

"She, huh?" Fury raised an eyebrow. "Spill it."

"Yes, a woman wearing black knight armor," Natasha said, enunciating carefully. "Advanced tech, maybe, but I can't say for sure yet."

Fury's face tightened further. "Why so certain she's not a mutant? If she's not, then how advanced are we talking?"

Natasha adjusted her neck brace with a grimace. "Melinda and I split up last night, scouting for a good battleground. Setting up, I noticed something weird in the air."

"Metal cable, constantly zipping boxes around. Saw an unidentified object and a shadow when stuff went in."

"Shadow did the dock job. That tech's definitely beyond anything we've seen."

"She also claimed the dock and warehouse incidents were retrieval missions for her organization's research."

Fury listened intently. "Over a hundred agents died yesterday. You remember that, right?"

Natasha sighed a weary sound. "Turned to ash. Remember that crater?"

"One more thing," she continued. "Melinda used their weapon yesterday. Knight lady said she'd send a bill. Given her psycho vibe, wouldn't be surprised if it showed up."

...

"Report complete. There's a 60% chance she's not a mutant. The rest requires further analysis."

Nick Fury stood by the window, staring at the view in silence for a moment. Then, he took out his phone and made a call. "Front desk? This is Nick. Can you check if there are any letters for Melinda?"

"Report, Director. There's one from a lawyer, one from a bank, and a strange black envelope with just an address on it that just arrived."

"Bring me the black one." Nick was genuinely surprised. A shot in the dark, and it hit.

Last night, Chinatown's CCTV cameras and bystanders all caught the light, but no good footage. This time, nada.

Before long, a man in a suit knocked on the hospital room door. "Is Director Fury inside?"

"Come in."

"Yes, sir. Here's the letter you requested." The suited man pulled a black envelope with only an address from his pocket and handed it over.

Nick took the letter and instructed, "Go back and trace the sender. Track the mail route. Now. Also, retrieve all the camera footage."

"Yes, sir," the man said and left the room.

Fury grabbed the black envelope, a prickle of unease crawling up his spine. He weighed it in his hand, two distinct textures within. Then he ripped it open and spilled the contents onto the desk. A business card and a scrap of paper, clearly torn from something bigger.

The paper was a straightforward demand for payment. Apparently, Agent May had borrowed something – a "product" – from a company called Deux Ex Workshop. Now it was collection time. The business card offered nothing but a name and a website that reeked of ambiguity.

"Deux Ex Workshop, huh?" Fury muttered, eyes narrowed.

"Those clowns won't get away with this," he growled, already formulating a plan.

Natasha, flat on her back in the hospital bed, wasn't feeling so tough. Bare-knuckle brawling wasn't an option here, and their tech seemed damn impressive.

"Oh, by the way, Fury," she rasped, a hint of amusement in her voice. "They mentioned a bulk discount on their weapons. Thought you might be interested."

Fury scowled. "Not a chance." Is what he said, but internally his thoughts were swirling.

...

"Ava, let's go," I murmured over our wireless link, leaving Natasha and Melinda behind in what had basically turned into a warzone.

Gone was Ava's intimidating T-X form; she'd shifted back to being a high-tech pod, silently hovering above like a souped-up Roomba. Her soft chirp — a comforting sound if I've ever heard one — confirmed she'd received the command. The cloaking tech sputtered to life, wrapping us in a shimmering bubble of invisibility. I, then, used the cover to jump into my shadow dimension.

Dozens of cables snaked out from the Ava-Pod, each securing a bunch of mysterious crates, pulling them in. With a faint hum, the crates dematerialized, vanishing into Ava's pocket dimension for later retrieval. Then, Ava zipped off silently towards Brooklyn.

Back at my brownstone, I started hauling in the evening's haul. By the time I finished wrestling the crates down to the Tech Forge, the clock had already slipped past the witching hour. I soaked in a tepid bath, running through the night's events. 

Emerging from the bath, a nagging feeling gnawed at me. Something was missing, something I hadn't dealt with yet.

"Almost slipped my mind," I muttered, feeling a twinge of bitterness. Melinda had used one of our prototype grenades. We can't let that slide, can we?

The more I thought about it, the more I fumed. A perfectly good grenade wasted — and it'd scorched my clothes and scratched up my armor.

Done for the night, I burrowed into bed. I grabbed my phone and sent a quick message to Ava: draft a letter to S.H.I.E.L.D. with a little mention of "Deus Ex Workshop. And inform Kara about the mission completion.

With that handled, I finally tucked myself in and drifted off.