"Being willing to die is a powerful trait," Felix Ragnell withdrew his gaze, turning back toward the direction where the transport had vanished. "It's also the trait the Foundation needs most."
"You're a perfect fit here, Natasha Romanoff."
Boom.
That line hit harder than anything before.
He not only knew her full name—he seemed to know her future.
This man—this organization—what were they?
A tidal wave crashed through Natasha's mind. Staring at Felix's plain, unreadable face, she felt—for the first time—a fear born from some unknown dimension, as if her life were a book he had already finished and could flip through at will.
"Let's go."
Felix didn't give her time to linger in shock. He turned for the command room.
"The op has begun. I'll take you somewhere better—so you can see how we 'handle' problems."
He paused, then added:
"And so you can watch—live—what kind of hell your precious Tony Stark is being kept in."
Natasha drew a slow breath, forcing the waves inside her to settle.
There was no backing out. The moment she'd stepped into this base, her trajectory had been forcibly bent toward a new, unknown path.
All she could do was follow.
See. Hear. Learn what secrets this behemoth called "the Foundation" still hid.
They returned, one after the other, to the sci-fi-bright command room.
Dr. A167 did not join them; he seemed to need time to process the solemn farewell he'd given the departing soldiers.
On the main screen, the feed had changed.
Gone were the simple satellite maps. In their place: a static-spattered, eerie green thermal picture.
The vantage was high—clearly a high-altitude drone.
Along the bottom, lines of data flashed by:
[Arrived over target area.]
["Sky-Eye" UAV deployed.]
[Optical/thermal/biometric acquisition nominal.]
[Commencing live relay.]
Felix leaned a shoulder against the console chair, pointing at the valley in the center—strewn with hot signatures.
"Welcome to the live broadcast, Agent Romanoff."
There was a hint of play in his voice.
"Let's enjoy tonight's feature from the Afghan highlands: a horror film."
Silence pooled in the room.
On the main display, the heat image sketched out the Ten Rings camp in crisp strokes.
Hundreds of human heat-shapes dotted the valley like scattered pieces on a board.
Some patrolled. Some huddled by campfires. A few lurked in shadowed corners, clearly up to something they didn't want noticed.
It all looked very ordinary for a terrorist camp.
"Good skills, hard wills, very limited scruples or faith."
Felix's voice cut in, breaking the hush.
He wasn't watching the screen; he watched Natasha—as if delivering a precise assessment.
"Among S.H.I.E.L.D.'s people, your drive to atone is near the top. Nick Fury fishing you out of the Red Room may be the most cost-effective investment of his life."
Natasha said nothing.
She knew he was evaluating her—and pressing down with a suffocating, I see through you weight.
It felt bad. But she couldn't argue.
He was telling the truth.
"A good soldier doesn't ask about the past," Felix went on. "The Foundation cares about the present—and the future. You have the potential to be one of us; you just need a small catalyst."
He turned his eyes to the screen. The corner of his mouth curved,ever so slightly.
"And today is the day we inject it."
…
Meanwhile, in an Afghan valley.
The night wind keened across bare rock, making a sound like a thing in pain.
A Ten Rings sentry named Hassan leaned, bored, behind a boulder, scanning the black mouth of the ravine.
Then a strange whispering shhh-shhh brushed his ear.
Soft. Fine. As if countless little snakes were skating over the ground without a sound.
Hassan frowned and tightened his grip on the AK-47.
Snakes?
This place was barren, yes—but snakes were rare even here.
He listened harder. The sound faded, as if the wind had played a trick.
"Damn nerves," he muttered, loosening his shoulders.
He didn't see the finger-thick strand in the boulder's shadow—purple-black, alive—gliding, silent and slow, around his ankle.
Hassan noticed nothing.
Just an itch against the skin. A tiny crawl, like an insect.
He glanced down—
The vine snapped tight.
A brutal yank tore him off his feet. He didn't even get a scream out before he was dragged into deeper dark.
Another vine sealed over his mouth. Only muffled mmf sounds escaped.
A cold, plant-sap tang slid from his ankle across his body like spilled ice.
He felt himself being… eaten.
Life sluiced away.
Seconds later, stillness.
Only an empty set of clothes and an AK lay on the ground.
Not far away, a second sentry named John had heard the faint scrape.
"Hassan? That you?" he hissed.
No answer.
John went taut. Rifle up, he crept in.
His flashlight swept the rock—and his pupils cinched down.
No Hassan.
Just clothes. And the gun.
What—
From the corner of his eye, he caught a shrinking ribbon of purple pulling back into the shadow.
A vine.
His heart lurched; a cold shock arrowed up his spine.
He'd seen that vine.
Earlier that day—when that damned American tried to escape—they'd found that same eerie growth deep in the valley.
It had sat quiet then.
He hadn't expected it to hunt at night.
(End of Chapter)
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