Coming Down ➢ Steve Rogers

prologue

COMING DOWN: PROLOGUE
2007

"Well, this is boring," Clint commented, as he moved by Natasha's side. His eyes swept from side to side, his bow loaded and ready to use at the smallest sign of movement. Behind them, ten other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents did the same. "I was expecting to come here and fight. They seem to have had some warning."

Natasha chuckled, though her eyes were narrowed. "It is an inconvenience."

They'd been investigating whispers within the intelligence community of an organisation rising. Their motive was unclear, but everyone had agreed on one thing: these people wanted to ruin the world as they knew it. They wanted to turn it on its head, instil fear, and in the end, take over. Why else would such a group exist, anyway?

The fact that they'd disappeared was beyond irritating. This wasn't the first group like this Natasha had to deal with. She'd had personal experience. But they needed to be stamped out now, while they were still rumours, before they gained momentum. That was when they became threats.

And threats were something S.H.I.E.L.D. could not tolerate.

"They might have had a warning system set up," she mused. "Either way, we need to find out as much as we can from what's left."

They ghosted through the corridors. Most of the doors were open, empty apart from papers hastily ripped or burned to prevent information being passed on, or someone's glasses, coats, or other belongings lying discarded on desks and shelves, forgotten in the haste to escape.

Most doors, that was. Only one in the entire stark white complex was partially closed; not enough to be closed, but close enough. Clint and Natasha exchanged a glance, understanding immediately. That was the room they needed to check out.

They edged toward the door and listened. There was no sound from within. Clint nodded at Natasha; she opened the door and instantly drew her guns, ready for a possible fight.

Though there would be no fight. The room was completely bare – apart from one lone figure.

A girl lay on the floor, eyes closed, chocolate locks sprayed around her head like a dark halo. Her caramel skin stood in stark contrast against the white tiles; underneath it, Natasha could see she was strong. She might be slight, but she was wiry, and Natasha knew not to underestimate her. If Natasha had to guess her age, it would be about nineteen years old. She would only be younger than them by five years at the most, Natasha could deduce that much.

"You think she's okay?" Clint asked, lowering his bow and instead looking in concern at the girl.

Natasha frowned. There was no evidence that harm had come to the girl; her skin was clear of blemishes and bruises, and she was a healthy weight. Her jeans and top were in good condition, with no tears or stains. No handcuffs bound her wrists, and the door had been unlocked.

No outward signs of damage, at the very least. Natasha had no way of knowing if these people had done anything to her mental wellbeing – or if she had even been at the mercy of this group, whoever they were. If she was this healthy, there was the very real possibility that she was been aligned with them.

"Only one way to find out," she murmured, and took a step forward.

As though this had been a sign, the girl opened her eyes.

Everyone froze, and weapons were raised; Clint aimed his bow, and Natasha gripped her guns. The girl didn't seem to realise they were there. She groaned and rubbed her head, wincing, blinking heavily. She pulled her hand away from her head and Natasha could see the girl swallow as her hand came away, sticky with blood.