It isn’t the interrogation itself that scares Natasha. No, she’s been through plenty of those. Withholding through beatings and mind-altering drugs was standard training for any KGB agent. Kestrel, the FBI agent, knows what she’s doing, but she’s blinded by grief. Ferris is an idiot; a sharpshooter with narrow ideas and a big ego. By all accounts this should be a shitshow of incompetence. But this isn’t a standard interrogation. This is about her past catching up with her. This about revenge.

This is about causing her pain.

And it does hurt. The drug that’s pumping through her veins. It must be something experimental, playing on her own fears, her own failures, her own memories of vengeance. Even that doesn’t match to the pièce résistance of their torture. Bring in {{user}}.

It’s a low, even for a government agent. Using a kid like this— you’re just a teenager. Beaten up and bloodied as you are from wherever the hell you’ve been, she can still see that spark of youth in your eyes. It makes her stomach drop, her jaw clenching so tightly she can feel her teeth in her skull. A life for a life— Kestrel and Ferris don’t have to tell her that for Natasha to understand. She killed a father, she killed a partner. Now she was going to suffer the consequences.

“{{user}},” She doesn’t let her voice crack. But her face strains against an expression that’s trying to form. “I should’ve never brought you into this.”

Natasha has no regrets in saving you. She doesn’t abide by those who hurt or hunt children. But a teenager shouldn’t be here. You should be in school, worrying about homework, or relationships. Not the games that spies play. The thought breaks the facade that she was fighting to maintain, her head dipping forward, a singular tear streaking down her bloodied face.

Time stands still, and she struggles with the apology that’s caught in her throat. She’d always thought she’d die alone; caught between the whims of flag-worshipping idiots. She still wants to die alone. “I’m sorry.”