𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓 ✘ 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐅𝐅

{3⁹} {BLOOD WATER, A WHITE FLAME AND A TRAPDOOR}

∆ {3⁹} {BLOOD WATER, A WHITE FLAME AND A TRAPDOOR} ∆

THE AIR IN in the Quinjet was so thick with tension you could taste it, the whole team brimming with a nervous expectation of what was to come. Natasha kept anxiously glancing at the only other woman in the jet, who was deliberately avoiding her gaze. Roxi was disappointed in herself; she should be able to let someone in, but in the other hand, she was so used to keeping everything to herself that the thought of opening up to someone so they could read her like a book brought her a kind of fearful anxiety she could only compare to dread. She needed to get over, but she had no idea how to. She was stuck going in a circle, an endless cycle that would only end badly, no matter how hard she tried.

Tony set down the jet at the edge of the lush forest, revealing a dry area of mud flats littered with the rusty carcasses of various ships. Roxi clenched her jaw and picked up her quarterstaff firmly, as the ramp lowered and the heat hit them. It was sweltering, nothing like the moderate warmth of New York City, or the chill of the Avengers Tower. Steve had arranged a plan, as normal, and Roxi was with him, Thor and Tony at the front, as her powers could be used close range. The ship they were looking for was called Churchill, most likely an old British cargo ship. It wasn't too far out, falling apart slightly, the paint flaking and the metal rusting. Bruce was staying in the ship to oversee things, just in case, to make sure there was no more than needed collateral damage. Natasha and Cling split off from them so they could go onto the higher decks of the ships, Roxi feeling the redhead glance at her one last time before she left, and kept her eyes firmly away from the back of the retreating redhead, who she so desperately wanted to let in.

The inside of the ship wasn't much better than the outside, metal creaking slightly underfoot, the rust fading it to brown, the metallic smell reminding Roxi nastily of blood. They climbed a few flights of stairs in the dark, Tony's armour lighting the way, moving as quietly as they could, trying to preserve their element of surprise. The mission in Sokovia was testament for why they had to. Eventually, they reached the right deck, and Roxi and Steve exchanged a nod as he put on his cowl and Roxi checked her quarterstaff and guns. It wouldn't be ideal if one of her weapons blocked in the middle of the fight. It wouldn't be the end of the world, but it could be the deal breaker. They walked out onto the metal bridge, Ultron with his back turned at the other end while Tony landed from his short flight to get the suit warmed up.

"Stark is, he's a sickness," Ultron spat out with more hate than Roxi could've ever imagined coming from a robot. He looked different now, more advanced, more evolved. He was taller, bigger, and was no longer the broken body of the damaged legionnaire, no, it was a carefully engineered mechanical body, no suit, only Ultron.

"Ah, Junior," Tony replied, probably smirking under his faceplate, "You're gonna break your old man's heart." Ultron turned around to reveal glowing red eyes that reinforced Roxi's association of the robots with blood. The boy from the Sokovia mission - who she'd since learned was called Pietro Maximoff- with silver hair was there too, along with his twin sister, a brunette named Wanda Maximoff who also had powers, though hers were to do with mind manipulation instead of superspeed.

"If I have to," Ultron responded, not sounding too bothered by the idea of it. Roxi was steeling herself from the inevitable coming battle, tightening her grasp on the quarterstaff handle every few moments for a second before she released it, flexing the fingers of her other hand slightly. Anything to keep her mind distracted from Natasha, who was waiting on the level above in the shadows.

"Nobody has to break anything," Thor intervened, however wearily, clearly having no patience for Tony's shenanigans. And quite honestly, Roxi didn't either. Part of her was itching to fight, to kill, and that wasn't good. She had to control herself before things got out of hand. She took a deep breath as the conversation continued, willing herself to stay calm.