maskirovka | (no subject)

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It was snowing in New York. Despite the weather, the city never slept. Hustle and bustle filled the still-crowded streets as citizens went about their usual habits, long-time residents more than used to the Big Apple's idiosyncrasies. Buildings were lit up like star-filled towers, and one in particular was still buzzing busily, even at such a late hour.

On the fortieth floor, two individuals occupied a fairly nondescript conference room, waiting for a third. The man, tall and dark-skinned sported a long black coat and a black eyepatch, and was slowly pacing back and forth. The woman, seated with dangerous nonchalance, was idly smoking a mint-scented cigarette, the smoke drifting around scarlet curls that cascaded around a pale, sharply aristocratic face. Cat-green eyes flicked now and again to the tall man, and it might have been a trick of the fluorescent light, but her upper lip may have lightly lifted in an expression of exasperated derision once or twice.

If so, it was irrelevant, as words had been exchanged, opinions noted (and just as quickly discarded), and decisions made. The time for talk was over. Now was the time for actions. And assignments.

And just possibly, the time to save the world.

Again.

Directory Fury glanced at the silent clock on the wall, then huffed a frustrated sigh.

The woman, Agent Romanoff, gave a light scoff, stubbing out her smoke on the table's perfect surface. Fury shot her a glare. Which she shrugged off, saying in a Russian-accented voice, "It would appear, Director, that your dog is incapable of telling time."

Fury's glare devolved into a glower. "He'll be here. Barnes is the best tracker there is."

"So you keep insisting."

The long black coat whispered as it fell still when he did. "Can it, Romanoff. You know what's at stake here. We're going to have to work together if we all want to survive."

She waved an elegant hand, crossing arms over her chest in marked defiance.

Not missing her silent indignance, Fury lifted a single eyebrow. "Mind your fangs, Romanoff. I don't want to have to put either of you into Time Out."

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"I'll tell you what, princess," Bucky responded without looking at her. "If you get to it first, you're free to put whatever it is down."

As it was, he could scent her clearly. Normally he thought vampires smelled like death. If he was lucky, it was clean death. Not fresh, but peaceful. Most of them smelled like they could never quite clean off all of the kills they made, the tang of turned blood clinging to them. Romanoff, however, had a surprisingly homey scent for someone who looked like her, for a vampire. She did smell clean, and there was no mistaking her for what she was, but it was... soft?

He snorted and rubbed his nose, trying to clear it.

"But since I'm going to be the one finding it, I'm not sure how you think that's going to happen—"

Before Bucky could completely get the words out of his mouth, Fury snarled. It was a very controlled, professional sound, but it still made it clear that he was already sick of their bullshit.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Fury said, glaring at both of them with his one good eye. "I seem to have been under the mistaken assumption I was working with adults in this agency. Am I going to have to get the two of you a babysitter?"

Natasha ground her teeth. "No, sir," she grated back, rising gracefully to her feet. She was small and curvy, petite, even, but her tiny frame could more than easily punch its way through a few brick walls.

And even though Nick Fury was one hundred percent human, to have gained the post of Director of SHIELD, the global organization responsible for policing the monster population around the world, it was more than impressive, and the man wasn't one to cross.

Ever.

Natasha tossed her head, scarlet curls bouncing as she headed for the door. "Let's go, Barnes," she brusquely tossed back. "I trust you can keep up, da?"

Shrugging to hide his discomfort, Bucky finally turned back toward Romanoff. Standing, it was even harder to ignore the fact she's a classic knockout. The kind of woman who would have been a movie star when he was young. It was easy to picture what she must have looked like back then.

None one of these modern supermodels, who were fine enough in their tall, fashion icon way, but she was certainly more his type.

If she weren't a bloodsucker.

"Keep up with what? I'm driving."

The heels of her boots clicked sharp staccatos down the tiled corridor. Though she was shorter than average, she still held a brisk pace. Red curls bouncing with her movements, she tossed back again, "Ha. As if." No way in hell was she going to just climb into the passenger seat of...whatever Ford Piece of Shit this mongrel cranked down in the parking garage.

Although with how her night was going, she doubted whatever he drove would be even that. Probably a fucking motorcycle, with her luck. That was even more insane.

She slapped her way through a set of double doors, taking a hard left towards the elevator. Angrily shoving the DOWN button, she fumed and waited, leveling a mild glare through artfully disheveled scarlet as her "partner" arrived.

"Took you long enough," she couldn't help but snap.

Bucky huffed, not quite a growl but a grumbly, gravelly scoff. His long stride ate up the ground, but like hell he was going to visible hurry to keep up with Romanoff just because she had her back up. He openly rolled his eyes when she snapped at him.

"First off, I'm right here. You're not exactly leaving me in the dust," he told her, shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. "And second, the elevator isn't going to get here any quicker if I hurry my ass up."

His ear almost twitched as he heard the carriage nearing their floor.

"Which isn't going to be for another few seconds. So you can manage not to get your pretty panties in a twist."

She laughed, sharp and without even the slightest trace of humor. "Oh, never fear, Agent Barnes," the vampire told him as the elevator slid into place and the doors silently opened, "you won't ever have to worry about the state of my panties, twisted or otherwise."

Stomping into the carriage, she smashed the button for B2 with a hard finger, quietly muttering curses to herself in old Cryllic. But the work always came first, which was why she was headed to the agency morgue before striking out for the wilds of the Canadian border.

At the second level basement, the elevator doors opened again, dispensing the two agents to SHIELD's laboratory floor, which included the crime lab, morgue, and armory. The morgue was staffed by a cute gothic pixie named Dana, and she grinned like a pumpkin when the two agents badged in.

"Ohmygod, Romanoff, my girl, where you been?" Her California surfer accent went well with her purple and black hair, nose, eyebrow, and lip piercing, although the iridescent wings and nut-brown skin seemed a bit out of place. Glowing lavender eyes then flicked over the wolf.

"Haaaaay, Barnes," Dana trilled, giggling. "How's it hangin', gorgeous?"

"Worried is not the word I'd use for it," Bucky gruffed back at her, not a serious snarl but the sort of nipping and snipping that inevitably occurred in a pack when two members were vying for dominance, to figure out which of the two of them was going to be in charge and who'd show their throat.

At the thought, his quick, pale eyes darted to Romanoff's neck, taking in the elegant lines among her red curls.

Then Dana was demanding his attention. He thought they were supposed to be in a hurry—but he put a tight, personable approximation of a smile on his face for Dana.

"Hey, Irish," he said, calling her by nickname instead of her actual last name. Casual. "Messy job. Looks like the tsarina and I have to clean up. What do you got for us?"

The little pixie sobered then, shivering in recall. "Nothin' good," she told them plaintively, wings fluttering with unease as she led them into the morgue proper. "Pick a box, whole left side is full of 'em."

The photographs had been bad, but seeing the carnage like this was...worse. Natasha opened the first, grimacing at the sharp smell of formaldehyde that preceded the rolling slab, and she pulled back the white sheet, hissing a dark frown at the sight that met her hard gaze. It was hard to tell what the deceased victim had been at first glance; animal, human, or other. There was hardly anything left.

The second, third, and fourth were the same - hunks of meat and a few shattered bones that might have been anything. Closing the berth, the vampire turned to the pixie, undaunted eyebrow lifted in professional curiosity.

"Toxicology?"

Dana shook her head. "All clean. No drugs anywhere."

"Bite marks, patterns? Dental impressions from the assailant?"

Again, the pixie shook her head. "Nothing that matched anything we have on file." She gestured. "The complete reports are in your briefing. The Director made sure everything was included in the case files. I know I don't gotta say it, but this is some bad shit, Nattie."

Bucky rubbed his nose absently, sniffing. The chemical scent effectively covered anything more subtle than rotten meat and turned blood. He knew better than to expect they'd get anything beyond a place to start their investigation here.

If it were easy, Fury wouldn't be going to this level of extreme to try to track this thing down. He'd just get some of his human hunters out there, or tap one one of the specialized agencies. This sort of cross department gambit is a pretty good sign of just how fucking dire the situation has gotten.

Dana's reaction does drive the situation home, though.

She's seen some of the worst corpses the monsters of New York could produce, but it still gets to her is... well, it's something.

"Since you're warning her," Bucky said wryly, "I assume you know I'll be able to handle it myself. Don't worry, I won't let anything hurt Romanoff."

Dana shot him a look. "Don't be a dick, Barnes," she told him, briefly sticking out her tongue. "This thing isn't killing just humans." She opened the last freezer door, rolling out the sheet covered tray. "This," she told them both pointedly, "is what's left of a werewolf," and pulled back the sheet.

What was displayed on the metal tray was just as ghastly as the others.

The pixie rolled the tray back into the freezer and closed the door. "I don't wanna see either of you guys come in here like this," she said seriously. "So please, for my sake, watch your asses, huh?"

"So, it's a multi species killer," Natasha mused, almost to herself. "But...it's not killing just for food, is it?" Dana spread her hands. "Hard to say. There's not enough left to analyze."

The vampire glanced over at the wolf. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

Bucky didn't let himself show any shock at the sight of the second body, but his nose confirmed that it was a wolf before Dana even spoke. It was hard to do that to a werewolf. Not impossible, but whatever had done it either tore their victim to pieces faster than their victim had been able to heal—difficult, but not impossible, even if fights between wolves—or it had impeded their regeneration somehow. Silver was the most traditional method.

He rubbed the stubble along his jaw, his mind drifting back to things he preferred not to think on too hard. Memories he liked to leave buried.

"Not since the war," he said in a low, gravelly voice. Which was a roundabout way of saying he had, sort of.

He needed to think, and he wasn't ready to start telling those stories. Not with Dana, and especially not with a vampire.

"Was there any silver in their system? Wolfsbane?"

She'd never admit it, but a cold chill slithered up her spine, seeing the leavings of what had once been one of the most powerful supernatural creatures ever known. If something could do that to...well, it wasn't any wonder that the Director was up in arms about this new threat.

"Not that I found," Dana was telling Barnes, shaking her head in negation. Then she spread her small hands. "I mean, there's not much left to analyze, but I really hope this is the last one that comes in like this. Right?"

Natasha made a mental note to inquire further about Barnes' answer, but not now. Now was for wrapping things up in the morgue and getting going. "Don't worry, D," she tried to reassure the little pixie, "we're going to take care of it." She cut her eyes to the wolf across the table. "Da?"

"Damn right," Bucky agreed. There was no point in this mission where he wasn't committed to finding the killer, regardless of how he might feel about his partner in this assignment. His tone was absolutely firm.

He and Natasha were on the same page there, at least.

"And the sooner the better." He put on a tough face, but Bucky didn't want anyone else ending up on the slab as much as anyone else. He never could stand to see anyone suffer. Even hunting, he always preferred to make his kills as quick and clean as possible.

Whatever did this, there was no doubt in his mind it was torture.

"If that's all your questions, the sooner we head up state, the sooner we can start tracking."

"I'm good." For now. Naturally a thousand and more questions were broiling around in the front of her mind, but no answers were forthcoming. Investigation would provide those. Alas that she had to suffer this...this mutt at the same time, but she was a professional, or so she kept insisting to herself.

"I need to stop at my flat before we leave," she told Barnes as they descended to the garage level. "Especially if we're going to be off the grid for any length of time." Supplies, weapons...blood. A vampire without a survival kit was a stupid fanger, indeed.

"...is that a problem?" The arch in her tone indicated it had better not be, damnit.

Bucky shoved his hands in his pockets. He hated being here, both in the lab and in the city itself. He'd grown up in New York—Brooklyn—but the city had grown since then and he'd changed. The wolf in him, yeah, but more than that too.

He needed more quiet to work. Quiet to find peace.

He wasn't going to have peace while something was out there murdering people like this.

And none of that is Romanoff's fault.

"Not a problem for me, tsarina," he said gruffly. Whatever gets them out. He can't help but tag on the end, "I'm not the one we'll burn to a crisp if we get caught outside when the sun comes up."

She gave him an extremely saturnine look as the elevator doors opened into the garage. "Me neither, Scooby Doo," she tossed back before striding out, scarlet ponytail swinging. "The sun bothers me, but it won't toast me."

Her bloodline carried the genetic makeup that allowed them to move about during the day. It was uncomfortable, to be sure, and she had to wear heavy clothing, dark sunglasses, and had to limit her exposure as much as she could, but the UV wouldn't kill her.

She paused, hand on a hip and a saucy expression aimed his way. "Disappointing, is it?"

Bucky grunted as he joined her on the way out, not exactly a disagreement, but acknowledging what she said. He didn't want her to die. He didn't particularly want anyone to die, if they could avoid it.

Though there was at least one creature out there right now that he'd make an exception for.

"Nah," he continued then, putting on a very fake, very unconvincing sort of smile. He really... probably shouldn't smile. Especially if he didn't mean it. He looked more like he was baring his teeth. "I'm glad to hear you might not be a complete liability. Maybe you'll even be useful."

Rather than start a fight - she doubted Fury would appreciate having his garage bashed all to hell - Natasha just rolled her eyes ignored the verbal sally; arguing with a dog was just stupid, really.

Though she did still wonder just what the Director had been thinking - or smoking - when he'd assigned the two of them to this particular mission. The friction between their species was more than just well known; it was legendary.

"Where's your ride?" She'd been delivered to the meeting by the Soviet Vampire Embassy. "I don't really fancy walking all the way across town."

"Don't worry. You won't have to get your shoes dirty," he said, perhaps a little more reflexively snappy than he should be, especially when she didn't rise to the last bait.

He rolled his shoulders, then nodded down a row of cars. No, if he was going to be playing chauffeur to some prissy vampire princess from the old world, he was entitled to be a little fucking bitchy about it. It's not like he was making her walk, or get her own ride.

Of course, there might have been some satisfaction anticipating her reaction to his ride. Somehow, he didn't think his battered old jeep was going to be up to her highness's standards. He led the way, pointing with his chin when they were close and even going so far as to open the door for her to get in before him.

He might be bitchy about the whole vampire thing, but his ma didn't raise him to be rude to a woman. Funny how things work.

"Not the smoothest ride around town, but it might come in handy once we're up in the woods."

Contrary to what she suspected he hoped, the vampire didn't have any cutting acerbicisms about the aged metal Jeep; it actually made sense. He was American, a scruffy werewolf, and more of a brute than an assassin. So, why wouldn't he own such a vehicle? It actually amused her more than anything, hence the small, private smile she ducked her head to conceal when Barnes sardonically opened the passenger door, sarcasm at the ready.

So, gracious as any 'princess' might have been, she gave him an elegantly polite nod of thanks, even murmuring, "Spasibo," when she slipped past him and into the passenger seat. The door closed; she fastened her seat belt. And said as he got into the driver's seat and started the engine, "No doubt. I'm sure we'll need to go off-road at some point. And a company SUV would draw too much attention."

She lightly touched the weathered dash with small fingertips, giving a tiny shrug. "And I've always preferred things with a few miles on them, anyway."

"Pozhaluysta." In case she thought he was one of those Americans who only knew one language. He did unclench a little, though, relaxing when she let that vampire air of superiority drop. As though approving of his car was a little like approving of him.

Which it might be, considering the number of hours he'd put into the old beast. The work had paid off, though, the engine purred reliably, and the way it rattled faintly was familiar.

"Never been a fan of those luxury SUVs," he admitted. "Worst of all worlds. Too conspicuous and they don't really have any performance on the road or off. About the only thing they have going for them is the legroom." Which is something if you're a passenger being ferried around town, and basically worthless any other time.

He backed out of his parking spot.

"Where are we going?"

She'd lifted an eyebrow in pleased surprise, hearing the response in her mother tongue. Interesting. Perhaps there was more to this wolf than just fleas and drool. And despite herself, she couldn't help but chuckle agreement to his observation regarding "new" automobiles.

"Well," she granted as he backed out of the parking spot, "at least I'm not all that tall." Petite and curvy, yes, but definitely not on the "jolly green giant" side, unlike her chauffeur.

"Chelsea," was her initial response to the query about directions, then added, "Greenwich Street, seven hundred block." An upper-modest studio apartment in a reputable, comfortable building; she didn't need all that much room, nor did she entertain guests or have company dropping in. Her life revolved around the job, enduring her family's never-ending (literally) disappointment and judgement over her professional choices, and staying away from any potential threats.

Such as friends, relationships, all those positive things that others craved so desperately.

"Got it." He told her, and pulled into traffic. As much as he avoided the city now when he could, he grew up here (albeit in a different era) and his work for the pack and the department brought him in regularly. Since he couldn't stomach mass transit (too many people, too many smells, too little control, and too much risk having a nervy wolf trapped in a metal tube with all those other passengers), that meant he'd never lost the habit of navigating the city either on foot or by car.

He got her there as reliably as a New York cabbie, and with relatively little attempt to force conversation. Mentally, he was considering their situation, how they'd handle this.

Discreetly, he breathed in to get a better scent on Natasha. In his own car without the distractions of other agents or the smells of the building, it was easier to isolate her own scent and see what that told him. For the most part, nothing he didn't already know. She was a vampire. She didn't smell like rotten blood, which meant she was fastidious. She didn't exactly smell dead, which was pleasant, even if she didn't exactly smell alive either. Some vampires lived up to the undead name. Others, like her, were something a little different. That would make the drive upstate easier.

As they were nearing her address, he did speak up to ask a question, though.

"Were you born or bitten?"

She didn't answer for a minute or so, not until they turned south on Greenwich Street, and when she did, it was short and clipped. "--born." Her heart beat, her blood coursed, her skin flushed; only those who had been bitten and turned were considered "legally dead". And since turning was now, in most world governments, a felony - and the howls of vampire outrage had nearly shaken the earth from its axis, the indignant babies - the vampire population had, thankfully, crested and was now actually on the decline, much to the rest of the planet's relief.

And honestly, it wasn't that the vampire nation was truly hurt by the fact that those strong enough weren't legally allowed to turn their pets or lovers or any idiot actually wanting that particular lifestyle, it was more the fact that they'd been forbidden from doing so. The typical vampire considered itself the pinnacle of human evolution and believed that as such, paltry human rules couldn't apply to their species. Those old enough to remember the days of skulking about in the darkness, feeding on animals and whatever prey they could scrounge made a point to keep their fanged mouths closed, more than willing to let the younger, "outraged" generation draw all the ire.

Self-centered ingrates, the lot of them.

But a few, like Natasha, had turned their back on coven and bloodties, following the way of logic and embracing the newer way of life, as it only made sense if all of the species were going to cohabitate. There was only one planet, after all, and they all had to learn to share.

Which made whatever it was tearing monsters to bits in the north forests a definite threat, one that needed to be neutralized. Immediately.

He nodded as though confirming what he suspected. It went with her scent. With her attitude. He suspected if he were to go over every inch of her pale skin, he wouldn't find a single scar on her—proof of a time before she'd been immortal, before she'd been able to heal any injury short of a fatal one.

It fit with what she'd said about her line, though vampires who were made inherited some of their maker's bloodline traits too, it was different.

Not that he was an expert in vampires.

He cut a look at her, taking in the clipped tone and the way she didn't elaborate. That said something about the tsarina.

"Bitten," he said as he pulled the jeep up to the curb. His voice had a little gravel in it as he admitted that. He didn't want to pull up the memories of that, the violence that had nearly cost him his left arm. Fair is fair, though, and she answered his question. "A long time ago now."