𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐬 ⇴ 𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘺 𝘫𝘰𝘩𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘯

i. long odds

A heavy fist pounded on the metal door of the cell. They woke with a start, still halfway leaning against the rough wall. It left indents on their cheek, which was sticky with dried blood. Hunger panged in their stomach and left them weary.

"Breakfast time," The man's thick Russian accent carried through the barred window on the door and echoed off of the wall. He opened the food slot and a small foam tray slid through. "Eat now, or I take it back."

With a groan, they stood up, steadying themself on the wall as they made their way across the room. They grabbed the tray and frowned at the slop they were served.

"Enjoy your short time here," The man said, closing the slot, "Soon you will be transferred."

Taking a hesitant bite of the breakfast, they asked, "Transferred?"

"We have the flash drive, and now we have no use for you." He laughed with no real warmth, "Fortunately for you, we have a contact who would love agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

He thumped on the door once more before leaving the prisoner to their meal.

"Fortunately, huh?" They muttered, stabbing at their food with their fork. Though it was unappealing at best, their growing hunger was overpowering their disgust. They shoveled whatever food seemed most edible into their mouth and set the tray on the ground. Then, with a defeated sigh, they laid on the bed and traced the patterns on the ceiling with their eyes.

Over the years they had been held prisoner here, they had learned what loneliness felt like. It was one thing to be lonely on an operation, all the while knowing you had people eagerly awaiting your return—however, being stuck in a dusty prison in Romania for a year and a half, forgotten by the team that was supposed to be your friends? That hurt like hell.

They shook their head, pushing back the thought. They couldn't risk losing their composure—not when they finally had a shot at getting out. Elaine groaned as they sat up, their joints protesting as they stretched. Their ribs still ached—underneath their shirt, a large purple bruise spread over their torso like watercolor paint.

If what the guard had said was true—and they didn't doubt it was, considering the man would have no reason to lie—then the odds of a plane flying overhead before the transfer were not good. They hoped Andrei would be transferred alongside them, but the more likely scenario was his death. Elaine chewed on their lower lip, thinking for a moment. Their eyes darted to the security camera in the corner, noticing the small red light that usually flashed every second or so was now off.

Kneeling down to the floor, they picked up the plastic fork that came with their breakfast and snapped the top of it off. Then they tore a small, inconspicuous section of the bedsheets off and wrapped it around the remaining plastic—leaving about two inches still exposed—to fasten a loose handle.

They mindlessly scraped it against the concrete wall, eyes flickering up to the camera every few moments to ensure it was still off. The handle didn't provide any real comfort and blisters started forming on their hands, but eventually, it was sharpened to a point. They pricked their finger, and a bead of blood formed, rolling down their hand. Elaine stuck the tip of their finger in their mouth to stop the bleeding, wiping the rest of the red onto their dirty shirt.

Elaine doubted they would have enough strength to fight through the onslaught of guards, but maybe with Andrei's help, and enough adrenaline—

—their thoughts were interrupted by a distant roaring. It shook the building—a plane flying low and fast. They closed their eyes for a moment, thinking back to their days in the Hub. S.H.I.E.L.D had many planes, so it was difficult to differentiate all of the engines.

The plane was not from this building—the soldiers only had two, both with unique sounds—but it could be one of their allies. They glanced at the door, and thought of Andrei—he deserved a chance to get back to his family.

A quick peek confirmed the camera was still off. Elaine clambered for the radio that they'd stuffed between the bed and the wall, wishing they had learned how to use it beforehand. Fumbling with it for a moment, they finally found the button that changed frequencies. They tuned it to the number that they recalled S.H.I.E.L.D planes staying on, thankful for the boring extra classes they'd taken at the Academy.

Elaine cleared their throat and pressed the button on the side.

"Hello?" They paused, listening to the static, "This is Agent Elaine Ross of S.H.I.E.L.D. Whoever is listing—I'm being held prisoner in a facility near your location.

A woman's voice came through the other end, but it was broken up and overwhelmed with static. The speaker was damaged, and Elaine had no way to fix it in the short time frame. Their mind ran through scenarios as they decided what information was the most important to relay.

"I—I can't understand you. My radio is damaged—but, if this is a commercial flight, then notify the authorities as soon as possible."

The voice came through again, this time being cut off by a man. The two voices overlapped, and then the static drowned them out.

"Assuming you can understand me, and that you can get me out of here—there's well over 20 soldiers here—all well trained and heavily armed." They glance at the camera, which was still off, "As far as I'm aware, the only prisoners here are me and a man named Andrei Kulyk. If you have the means for a rescue, then act fast, because by tomorrow I'll be transferred to an unknown location."

The woman spoke again, still unintelligible.

"I'm sorry—I can't make out what you're saying. The people here have been digging into sensitive files. Their tech—it's primitive at best. But with a little elbow grease, they'll have access to restricted information." They sucked in a deep breath, "Whoever's out there—send help. Please."

They lifted their finger from the button, listening as the sound of the plane got increasingly quieter.

All they could do now was wait.