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[ Natasha spies the shield through the window while she's scaling down from the roof. She hears no one in the room; she lands heavily on the injured leg, and brushes her fingers over the paint, lifting it to test its weight. Vibranium, exactly as she remembers. Well, only one person would ever be seen outside with this. She sits cross-legged on the bed and leaves her hands in full view. If he is to be trusted, it's a show of good faith. If he isn't — she's ready. ]

[ Civilian disguise: get. Natasha has a pair of faded jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, the sleeves bunched up enough to hide her bracers, the front covering her belt. Her hair is tied back in a lazy bun. She's scouring the kitchen for knives, testing their weight for throwing, almost absently playing with them. It does little good to pretend she's busy with a salad — a cover here won't last long if Wonderland has anything to say about it; she's rarely enjoyed playing the damsel in distress card even when it has its uses. So she only constructs Natasha Romanoff, and searches for the best knife she can find. ]

[ When the limp can no longer be concealed, Natasha curls up in a small nook in the library. Tolstoy's Sevastopol Sketches sits open and bookmarked on a page, a cover for what Natasha's actually doing, which is attempting to take apart the phone. It'll be bugged or tracked, somehow, and the irritation of not knowing is snaking its way under her skin — along with the damn leg. ]

[ She makes a disgusted noise. ]

What next, a cat?

[ None of the above work? Pick anywhere around the perimeter of the mansion or in the corridors — Natasha is snooping around.]

Better watch what you ask for, or you might get a cat.

[ Tommy stays a good few feet away from Natasha, trying not to startle her. He did not know her well, but he knew well enough that surprising the Black Widow was a completely stupid idea.

He gave her an awkward wave. ]

Hi, Widow.

Edited 2015-09-07 17:02 (UTC)

Sharon doesn't leave her room much these days outside of exercising or getting dinner. Ever since the Hydra event, she's been warier than ever of Wonderland and the people in it. Whatever magic this place ran on managed to turn Steve Rogers - Captain America - into a Hydra agent. It had done what Sharon would have thought was impossible.

But no, her nightmare had come to life. She's lost count of the number of nights she'd spent seeing Steve, or even Peggy, instead of the STRIKE team in the Triskellion. Now, the nightmares aren't limited to the Triskellion.

The mission is all that counts, she repeats to herself. She has to keep that in mind.

Of course, she has no mission at the moment. Except to prepare for the next event so she might not die in it, or, worse, get brainwashed again.

She stops in the hallway of her floor, her bag of leftovers from the kitchen in one hand, and stares down the hall. She thinks she recognizes the redheaded figure.

She shakes her head. No. It isn't impossible, but it's certainly improbable.

She sighs and walks toward her door, but the closer she gets, the harder it is to deny what she's seeing.

"Romanoff?"

Even though the event has passed, Sharon finds herself fervently hoping that Natasha isn't Hydra. She can't take on Natasha. Particularly not with a styrofoam cup of string beans and the rest of her lunch on one arm. Why can't Wonderland ever throw her under a bus at a convenient time?

[Food is very important for Helena. That she has access to so much, first of all. She doesn't appear to notice or care about anyone else. She sits on the counter eating cookies straight out of the box, not bothering with something so trivial as a plate.

But she does notice. She notices things.]

Any knife is good knife if you do it right way.

What's wrong with cats?

[Dipper's hanging out in the library like he so often does, carrying a stack of books that vary in topic from codebreaking to zombies to fiction from the eighties, plus a few files and journals that could be on anything. He tucks them under his arm, wandering out of the shelves to get a look at the new person. He's pretty sure he hasn't seen her before, though that doesn't necessarily mean anything.]

[ The same thing that's wrong with cats is wrong with children. Natasha doesn't necessarily hate children. She doesn't even particularly dislike them. It's what they require: food, water, being walked a few times a day? and the kind of gentle patience she knows other people have. Not her. ]

Nothing is, [ and it's not a lie. She does like her cat, Liho. ] I wouldn't want to keep one here, would you?

So I've been told.

[ Smart boy, keeping his distance. Natasha sets her phone down and looks him over: height, approximate weight are about what she can remember, but in a place like this that doesn't really mean much at all. ]

Speed.

[ It's a calm, no-nonsense voice, the kind that easily translates to I-know-everything-you-did. ]

What's happened, back home?

[ Helena might've been perfectly content to sit by herself this entire time, but Natasha hasn't turned her back to her since the moment she arrived. It's the keen way she's aware of becoming the object of Helena's peripheral gaze, zeroed in upon like a mouse on a field ready to be picked off by a hawk. ]

[ She doesn't retort. She does, however, turn fully towards Helena and hold out the knife for her. ]

Show me.

Natasha's interest in the blonde coming down the corridor is purely cursory: there's no noticeable movement to suggest she's either looking for a fight or intending to talk — rather, that lunch is a dead giveaway of Sharon's true intentions. She's the only other person in the corridor — she'd be the brief focus of anyone who'd happened to be in the hallway, until —

'Carter?'

There's a pang of relief Natasha will never indulge or admit to, even to her own Sharon. This one is a lot younger, less lines on the face, leaner build. And the cadence of her last name in this one's voice is different. None of it stops Natasha from approaching, disguising a limp.

As far as I can tell, nothing.

[ He perches on a table, letting his legs swing. ]

You just showed up, I take it? The short of it is that we've been kidnapped from our place in both our universe and the timestream for the sake of Wonderland's shitty mind games, and it'll toss us back when it's done with us. We hope.

Sharon's shoulders nearly sag in relief. She masks it with a what she hopes is a cheeky grin. "About time you showed up here. You missed a zombie apocalypse and Hydra." Now that she's sure that this is Romanoff, she runs her eyes over her, attempting to gauge how much good Natasha will be in a fight if something happens. But then, what could happen that could stop the legendary Black Widow? Natasha might be banged up from time to time, but she was still the best SHIELD agent - former SHIELD agent - Sharon knew.

She glances around the hall, then her eyes drop to the bag of food. "I can fill you in as much as I can," she offers. Natasha, she can trust. She knows she can trust Natasha. She had kept Steve safe when Sharon couldn't. She had gone up against Pierce. She had been one of Fury's most trusted agents. She can trust Natasha as she can almost no one else here.

After a moment, she holds up the bag. "Want to split? I got a moderate selection of almost healthy stuff. My room's right down the hall."

It's peculiar, the sensation of being missed, even if it's not, exactly, her Sharon misses, but some other woman, someone who's the Widow and not exactly a Natasha. She lets Sharon study her — outwardly relaxed posture with tension in some lines, combat ready should the situation require, but otherwise, prepared to melt away into the shadows.

'Why not,' she says. Natasha has no need of friends, or colleagues, but they expedite an otherwise tedious process. Trust is a carefully woven web, intricate, and messy. Yet, it has to start somewhere. 'Lead the way.'

We hope, [ she echoes, mercifully with only minor annoyance. ] how long do they usually keep someone here?

Some people only last a couple months. But then Billy and some folks he knows have been here for over a year now.

[Dipper shrugs a shoulder, wandering a little closer.] My sister would. People don't exactly tend to have short term stays here. Pets can help.

[ She frowns. ]

How long have you and your sister been here?

No one escaped?

[ There's a soft, barely implied yet. It's only ever a matter of time. ]

[Helena shrugs and puts down the cookies. And then, mouth still full, she takes the knife. Facing the wall where no doors are (she will not be responsible for accidentally killing a person), she throws the knife with force, just a simple steak knife, and it lodges in the wall.

And then, that done, she simply sits on the counter again.]

See? It is simple.

[ She's not looking at the effortless flick of Helena's wrist as she throws the knife, but at her feet, and the outline of her body as the movement creases her clothes. The shift of Helena's weight in the room, the ripple of innate power, the way the air charges with something fluid and electric, cut instantly by the sound of the knife hitting wood. Like a wolf and an angel have met and danced often in Helena. ]

[ Natasha has seen echoes of this, in one other. ]

It is.

[ Throwing a knife. Hitting a target. Using yourself as a weapon. ]

Who taught you?

[ The real question is: were you made? ]

[ James is laid out on the couch with his eyes closed, but to call it napping would be generous at best. He couldn't sleep in Steve's room again if he tried - and he has tried, and continues to try. If he's stubborn enough, maybe they'll be able to share the apartment again soon enough. At the moment, they're no use together, except to wake each other from night terrors.

The apartment has been long set to rights again, all signs of their fight here gone. It's only a room, only one memory. Not so long ago, forgetting had been an easy thing.

He opens his eyes when he hears a sound from the next room. He's on his feet in a moment, footsteps silent, hushed easily by the carpet. He's still dressed in loose layers of clothing, weapons concealed beneath them, arrayed differently now to compensate for his missing left arm.

He presses his back to the wall, listens. There's no more movement from the bedroom. Whoever is inside has settled now, waiting. He considers blocking it off and going around to the window outside, but in the end he simply opens the door. The person inside is already injured. He could tell from the way they fell. Not everyone comes to Steve with the intent to harm him; more often lately, his team comes to him for help.

The woman inside, however, is not a part of Steve's team - not that he knows of. She looks familiar in a way, and for once he doesn't think that it's his memory cutting out.

Her body language is open, nonthreatening. He doesn't think for a second that she is either of those things.

He does her the courtesy of stepping fully into view, his hand open and empty at his side. ]

Why are you looking for him?

Edited 2015-09-08 20:34 (UTC)

Few months now. It's pretty awesome besides the occasional mind-scarring horror, but nowhere's perfect. [Dipper shrugs, looking less bothered by the mind-scarring horror than he probably should be, but he deals with a lot of that at home too.] On the bright side no one stays dead and everything's free! Almost makes it okay that we can't choose whether we stay or go.

[A beat.]

You're new, right? I'm Dipper.

Edited 2015-09-08 21:50 (UTC)

[Helena answers that question, the last one anyway, right off the b at, the same as she's always answered it.]

I was made to be this way.

[Said as she stuffs cookies in her mouth. She eats as if someone will take it away, and is eating the entire box in one sitting because if she doesn't, someone will take what's left. That's what she knows from life.]

You are interested in what I did. You know knives.

[Said matter of factly. Helena knows, saw, and realized that the knife throw itself wasn't the important part of the demonstration.]

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