Natasha stared at the photograph, her fingers trembling slightly against the glossy surface. "He was a hero of the Soviet Union. How could they imprison him like this?"
Smith didn't bother explaining the political realities, how Captain America had been elevated to mythic status while the Red Guardian, his Soviet counterpart, had been discarded as a propaganda liability once the Cold War ended. History was written by the victors, and Alexei had been on the losing side.
Instead, Smith placed a second photograph on the desk.
Natasha reached for it slowly, as if the image might burn her fingers. The woman in the photo stood on a rural farm, feeding pigs, her hair graying but her posture still carrying echoes of operative training. Melina Vostokoff looked older, weathered by years of isolation, but unmistakably alive.
"Mother," Natasha whispered, the word barely audible. Her fingers traced the photograph's edges with unexpected tenderness. "You found her too."
Smith watched her carefully, gauging the emotional impact. Time to strike deeper. "We didn't just find your temporary family from Ohio. We also located information about your biological mother."
Natasha's eyes snapped up, suddenly rimmed with red. Her voice came out flat, controlled, the kind of control that required immense effort. "I'm just an orphan. Abandoned. Thrown away like garbage. That's what the Red Room told me."
Smith raised one finger and shook it slowly. "That's not what our intelligence indicates. You weren't abandoned, Natasha."
He leaned forward, his voice carrying quiet intensity. "You were selected for genetic screening, potential evaluation for enhanced operatives. The Red Room identified you as high-value and took you. By force."
The words landed like hammer blows. Natasha's composure cracked further, tears threatening to spill.
"Your biological mother never abandoned you," Smith said, his voice steady. "She kept searching. She kept asking questions. She traced everything back to the Red Room and to Dreykov."
Natasha's posture stiffened, but she did not speak.
"She didn't get close enough to confront him directly," he continued. "But she pushed hard enough that he noticed. And when Dreykov noticed, he had her killed. She died because she refused to stop looking for you."
Smith's eyes were calm. There was no softness in the truth he offered. Only weight.
"Your mother didn't let you go. She tried to come for you. They took that from both of you."
The tears broke free, streaming down Natasha's face despite her training, despite years of conditioning that taught her to suppress emotion. All this time, she'd believed herself unwanted. A discarded child turned into a weapon because she'd never mattered to anyone.
But her mother had loved her. Had died for her.
Smith couldn't determine if the emotional display was genuine or calculated performance, Natasha was skilled enough to manufacture tears if necessary. But having seen the original timeline, having watched her journey unfold, he believed this was real. This was the moment her carefully constructed understanding of herself shattered.
"As for your sister Yelena," Smith continued after giving her a moment, "I don't have a current photograph. Our intelligence places her as an active Red Room operative, the next-generation Black Widow after you. She's currently deployed on missions for Dreykov."
Natasha wiped her eyes roughly, her jaw setting with determination. The grief transformed into something sharper, more dangerous. "Is it true? The Red Room wasn't destroyed?"
Her voice carried an edge like broken glass. "That mission was staged? SHIELD lied to me?"
Smith chose his words carefully. "I'm not going to tell you what to believe. You need to see the evidence yourself and draw your own conclusions. But I can take you to Melina. She can confirm whether the Red Room still operates."
He paused, letting that sink in. "And Dreykov, don't you want to personally avenge your mother? She died searching for you. He murdered her to cover his tracks."
His voice dropped lower, more persuasive. "Your sister Yelena is trapped under his control right now. Unable to escape. Unable to even recognize that she needs escape."
Smith understood human psychology, understood the power of self-discovered truth versus secondhand information. If he simply told Natasha that SHIELD had deceived her, she might dismiss it as enemy propaganda. But if she saw Melina alive, saw evidence of continued Red Room operations, confronted Dreykov's living presence, that would be irrefutable.
People trusted their own investigations far more than anything they were told.
Natasha composed herself with visible effort, wiping away the last traces of tears. When she spoke again, her voice had shifted, professional respect mixed with acknowledgment of hierarchy. "What do you need me to do, sir?"
The honorific satisfied Smith immensely. "Not what I need you to do. What do you want to do?"
Natasha was silent for two heartbeats, processing. Then: "I want to see Melina. Confirm Dreykov's status and whether the Red Room still exists."
Her hands clenched into fists. "I want to rescue Yelena. I want to completely destroy the Red Room. That organization should have been eliminated."
Smith clapped his hands once, sharp and approving. "Excellent goals. But how do you plan to accomplish them?"
He leaned back, his tone shifting to something more challenging. "Can you mobilize SHIELD resources? Do you still trust them, knowing what you know now? Do you think you could destroy SHIELD single-handedly if they became your enemy?"
Natasha opened her mouth, then closed it, the answer obvious.
"If you understand that destroying SHIELD would be impossible," Smith continued relentlessly, "then you should also understand that destroying the Red Room, which has grown even more powerful and sophisticated since your defection, is equally impossible alone."
The logic was inescapable. Natasha had worked for SHIELD long enough to understand the organization's vast resources, its international reach, its layers of contingency planning. One operative, no matter how skilled, couldn't dismantle that infrastructure.
And the Red Room? In the original timeline, Natasha had needed the perfect storm of circumstances: the antidote to free other Widows, allies willing to sacrifice themselves, and the element of complete surprise. Even then, success had been narrow, costly, bought with blood.
If she charged in now, alone and unprepared, she'd simply die. Maybe take a few operatives with her, but Dreykov would survive and the Red Room would continue.
"I can't do it alone," Natasha admitted, the words tasting like ash. "But I have to try. Even if I die, I'll make them bleed for it."
Smith's smile carried genuine approval. "Let me offer you a path forward."
He stood, moving to the office window overlooking the Fraternity headquarters. "First, we extract Alexei from Deep Well Prison. Then we take him to Melina. With Alexei present, Melina won't simply turn you away. You'll get the confirmation you need, learn everything about the Red Room's current operations."
He turned back toward her. "Rescuing Yelena, destroying the Red Room, killing Dreykov, those come last. After we've gathered intelligence, assembled resources, and prepared properly."
Natasha rose from her chair, her posture shifting to something more formal. "Why are you helping me? What do you get from this?"
Smith didn't answer directly. Instead, he asked, "When SHIELD briefed you before infiltrating the Fraternity, what did they tell you about our organizational principles?"
Natasha's brow furrowed, pulling the memory forward. "Your creed. 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.'"
Smith nodded. "That's half of it. The rest: 'Justice must be achieved by our own hands, even if it means spilling blood.'"
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with meaning. The Fraternity didn't wait for governments or bureaucracies to deliver justice. They took it. They made it. They enforced it through direct action, regardless of political consequences.
Natasha studied Smith's face, memorizing every detail. She believed him, perhaps ninety percent. The remaining ten percent demanded verification through action rather than words. But if he was genuine, if the Fraternity truly operated by those principles...
Then maybe she'd finally found allies who wouldn't betray her for political convenience.
"Then let's go," Smith said, moving toward the office door. "We're breaking your adoptive father out of a Siberian prison, and we're doing it today."
Smith found John Wick in the training facilities, methodically disassembling and cleaning his firearms with the meditative focus of a man for whom violence was both profession and art form.
"John, can you pilot a helicopter?"
John didn't look up from the Glock he was servicing. "Yes."
"Good. We're taking the private jet to Siberia. Pack for cold weather and potential combat."
Now John's attention shifted, interest sparking in his usually impassive expression. "Target?"
"Prison break. We're extracting a Soviet super-soldier from Deep Well Prison."
John's lips twitched, the closest thing to excitement his stoic demeanor allowed. "When do we leave?"
"One hour. Meet at the airfield."
The private jet, one of several the Fraternity maintained for rapid international deployment, waited on the tarmac. Smith, Natasha, and John Wick boarded with minimal conversation, each preparing mentally for what lay ahead.
As the jet climbed toward cruising altitude, Natasha stared out the window at clouds passing below. Her mind churned with questions, doubts, desperate hopes. Soon she'd have answers. Soon she'd know the truth about her past, her family, and the organization she'd believed herself free from.
Soon, one way or another, she'd face the ghosts that haunted her.
Meanwhile, at the Triskelion, SHIELD's headquarters gleamed like a monument to bureaucratic power. Inside one of its countless offices, Agent Phil Coulson compiled his report with meticulous attention to detail.
He'd spent the morning analyzing everything, Natasha's report, his own observations from the charity gala, intelligence fragments about Smith Doyle and the Fraternity's unusual knowledge base. The picture forming was incomplete but deeply concerning.
Coulson printed the final report, organized the documents with paper clips and color-coded tabs, and contacted Director Fury's office. Learning that Fury was available, Coulson immediately headed for the executive level.
He knocked on the heavy door, waited for the electronic lock to disengage, and entered to find Nick Fury seated behind his desk, reviewing satellite imagery on multiple screens.
"Sir, I have the analysis you requested on Smith Doyle and the Fraternity." Coulson placed the report on Fury's desk. "You're going to want to read this immediately. We may have a significant problem."
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