Acts of Vengeance

--2--
The pale man raised up abruptly at the sound of glass hitting the tabletop, the impact just in front of where he had lain his head. It had been hours--more than a day, perhaps--and they had kept him in this stark white room devoid of any colors or textures to stimulate his mind save for the slate gray surface before him. He raised his gaze to his newest interrogator, his glassy eyes fluttering with drowsy disdain. The sinfully clear tumbler of liquid did look quite inviting after all this time without reprieve, so much so that he nearly gave up every secret he had ever kept just to wet his lips with it. Yet at the last second, his pride came charging back to torment him and stilled his muscles when he would have moved to claim it. Instead, he tried to make his features as smooth as he could, betraying none of his thoughts or emotions, while pulling his lips taut to reveal his sharp, metallic teeth. The effect was meant to unnerve the woman who now sat purposefully across from him.

“This would be the part where you refuse the water, and then tell me to go to Hell,” she quipped, bringing her legs to rest on the tabletop. Her arms remained tightly crossed in front of her chest, and she leaned back with an air of authority. “After that, I try to ask you some pertinent questions for an hour or so, during which you ignore me. Then you and I have a silent standoff for about a half hour, after which they take you back to your cell, and we start the process all over again tomorrow. After a few days of this, you’re going to get real bored of the routine.” Her face was nothing if not austere. “However,” she finished as she nudged the glass closer to his elbow, “we could cut out the tedious part and go straight to where you tell me what I need to know.”

The detainee surveyed her with a patronizing crack of a grin. She was obviously no threat, this human woman--unarmed, average stature, slight of build with some muscular definition, he surmised. He was intrigued by the lack of formal dress or a uniform which was unique to her among his other visitors. She was all confidence, too--her icy demeanor inferred that she fully meant to extract information from him. Yet she was also enticing in an odd way, with her form-fitting clothing that emphasized her curves and porcelain features accented with two full (scowling) lips. If she wasn’t so severe, he might actually be in love.

“We might even be able to make a deal, you and I,” she continued with no change of expression. “You have something I need to know . . .” She then leaned forward with her arms still folded, propping her elbows on the pristine surface of the table. This new position caused the smooth, black fabric of her blouse to bunch and dip just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, the flesh gathered and rounded with the upwards motion. “Maybe I have something that you need, as well.”

The words should have been dripping with innuendo considering her change of pose, but the sight and sound of her was still as emotionless and severe as before. Perhaps she was unaware of what she had revealed, he considered; she did seem too aloof to use her body as a tool for interrogation. He had also been given some background on her prior to her arrival: a senior agent with a mottled past and very little patience when it came to adversaries. And she had done some questionable things before she came to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., things she no longer chose to discuss . . . some very bad things. No, she wouldn’t use the subtle power of seduction. Rather, she was the type of woman who would plunge a knife in your gut and then twist it until the agonizing pain made you tell her what she wanted to know. Although first she would apparently try to strike a bargain with you so she didn’t have to get her hands dirty unnecessarily.

Maybe he was in love, after all.

He did see the frivolity in drawing out this situation, however. She was right about the tedious back-and-forth routine that accompanies interrogation, followed by an even more tedious interim incarceration. On this world, he would also most likely be subjected to a trial or a military tribunal at the very least. Sentencing would most likely lead him back essentially to where he came from: a secret, ultimate security prison. So, if she was willing to strike a bargain of some sort then perhaps he could gain a little something out of this whole laborious cycle. It might also make things less dull, which was infinitely more rewarding to him. He lifted the rim of the water glass to his parched mouth.

“What do you have that I could possibly want?” he challenged her with his typical wolfish grin. He swallowed the liquid down in a measured fashion, not wanting to reveal how desperately thirsty he truly was.

“Information,” she replied coldly. “I need to know what happened inside that prison before the walls imploded. You need to know what happened outside afterwards.”

Okay, so now she had him a little intrigued. He stopped ingesting the liquid and ran his tongue slowly over the surface of his lips in consideration. None of his other interrogators had mentioned that there had been significant happenings outside of the Raft. He could play this game, perhaps, in exchange for this little tidbit; however, he was not going to make it painless. Oh, no. Of course not.

The redhead began to leaf through the file that was left on the table from before--his file from the Raft. “I can’t help but notice that there aren’t many details in this document,” she chided. “The word ‘unknown’ does appear a lot, though. ‘Birth Name: unknown. Planet of origin: unknown. Native language: unknown.’ You seem to be a man of few words, Mister . . . “ She paused for him to fill in the appropriate response.

“I am known as ‘Blackout,’” he responded, his voice rough and almost breathy. “I’m not from around here.”

“I noticed,” the woman smirked, turning her attention back to the folder in her hands. “You claim your species to be ‘Lilin,’ according to these papers. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that.”

“Like I said . . . not from around here.”

“Enlighten me,” she dared. She leaned slightly more forward, allowing another modest glimpse of the upper curves of her chest. He would like to say that he didn’t look, but, hey, he’s only human. Okay, only partially human, actually, but he may have still stolen a glance anyway.

“Lilins are descended from the sorceress known as Lilith.” He paused to see if the woman registered any recognition of this name. “Your masters have told you nothing about my origins at all? A pity.”

“Why don’t you fill me in?” It was true that S.H.I.E.L.D. had kept her more on the earthbound side of their endeavors. Until the Chitauri, she wasn’t even aware of beings from outside their solar system and precious little about any species who did not hail from Earth.

“Lilins are what are essentially known on your planet as demons,” he hissed. “We descend from one demon-goddess who allows us autonomy over our lives, for the most part, but can call us to do her bidding at any time. This being is my grandmother.”

“Lilith,” she replied. Perhaps he was of terrestrial origin, after all. It was difficult to say what superbeings the agency might be holding back from her based on what little she had been able to glean from their confidential databases. Tales of a demonic being named Lilith did run through the mythology of several cultures, including early Christianity. “So why hasn’t your dear grandmother called you back out of this place? You’ve been here for nearly two years.”

“I guess she hasn’t needed me,” he replied. “Autonomy, remember, my dear Natasha?”

She flinched briefly at the intimate use of her first name but recovered quickly. She was pleased that he was at least speaking, and perhaps if she continued to banter about things that did not seem important he would drift into more relevant conversation without even realizing it. “Fair enough,” she said, not giving him the slightest clue that she had been shaken. If he wanted to bring up names then she was game. “So, why ‘Blackout’?”

He didn’t answer immediately as he was finishing off the last of the proffered drink. The last gulp was a little too coarse, a trickle of liquid finding its way down the corner of his lips which he wiped crudely away with the back of his hand. The gesture was just enough to betray that he was feeling some of the pressure that the agency had been trying to bring to bear upon him. He grimaced with the realization that he had exposed his vulnerability, but Natasha kept her expression neutral so as not to acknowledge it. He had to trust her if she was going to get anywhere with this interrogation. Making him feel weak or humiliated was not productive so she kept talking as if there had been no change.

“I mean, you don’t seem very . . . dark to me,” she laughed gently, and she let the corner of her mouth reveal what she hoped was the trace of a warm smile. Surely he had to appreciate the irony of the name when his complexion was so bloodless.

“It is not my given name, Agent Romanov.” She did not fail to miss how his demeanor had shifted to become more formal. He still felt exposed, and that meant he wouldn’t be very forthcoming until she could make him relax a little. “It was my ‘Name among the Nameless,’ bestowed upon me not for how I appear, but rather for my abilities.”

“You mean your powers?” She was aware that this cell had supernatural power-dampening capabilities, although the technology was not as sophisticated as that at the Raft. Coulson had warned her that he would likely not be completely without powers--which, therefore, he presumably had--but that they would be severely weakened behind the barrier contained within the walls of the room.

Suddenly there was darkness--the room went utterly black, all light extinguished for the space of several very puzzling seconds. She could still hear the buzzing of the overhead lighting and the humming of the central air conditioning so the electricity was still in working order, and yet there was not a trace of any discernible images, only an all-consuming blackness. Then, as quickly as it began, the makeshift eclipse ended. There was only the demon, staring back at her knowingly with those strange red eyes, followed by the sound of Coulson in her earpiece: ‘Don’t worry, he can only do that for a few seconds at a time thanks to the suppression field. And not very often.’

“Thank you for the . . . demonstration,” she said blankly, hoping that the waver in her voice was not apparent. She handled the file absently while she tried to regain composure. She used the lull to think back over his last few statements so she could further her questioning. “Your‘’Name among the Nameless,’ you said. That sounds significant. Can I ask you what you meant by that, exactly?”

“Well, suffice it to say that there are places in this universe where you do not want anyone to know who you are or where you come from.” The demon seemed to smile again, but the gesture was half-hearted. “What others do not know, they cannot use against you.”

“Where was this place--the place where they gave you your name?” Natasha searched the document in her hand again for any clues, but his past (as known to S.H.I.E.L.D., anyway) boiled down to just a few sentences which dealt exclusively with the planet Earth. Yet he had said ‘this Universe,’ which immediately set her cognitive wheels to turning. Perhaps she was not as qualified to run this interrogation as her employers had believed.

“A prison,” he chuckled weakly.

“A prison, you say? Like the Raft?”

“Oh no,” he retorted, his eyes darkening and his tone seeping with wicked knowledge. “It is not like the Raft, at all.” She had not heard a voice dripping with such a malicious timbre since her encounter with Loki on the Helicarrier. She could endure it, of course, but it made her want to shiver with revulsion. ‘Oh, no . . . you brought the Monster.’

“Excuse me for just a moment, would you?”

She could only hope that her retreat was not perceived as hasty.

****

Coulson was waiting for her just outside the door. “That didn’t feel like a stopping point, Agent Romanov,” he remarked.

“Forgive me, sir, but I’m having some second thoughts about this assignment.”

Natasha looked unnerved, even a little fidgety--and did she just call him ‘sir’? He needed to run some immediate interference. “How do you mean? You are just interrogating a subject in custody after the takeover of a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility by a hostile force.”

“Believe me, Coulson, I wish it were that simple.” She shook her head emphatically. “I am not qualified to be conducting the interrogation of this particular subject.” Her intonation brooked no argument.

“I don’t follow,” he replied.

“He’s talking about an extraterrestrial prison facility, and my training is strictly terrestrial.”
“You did a pretty commendable job with Loki, and he wasn’t terrestrial.” He placed a hand awkwardly on her shoulder. Touchy-feely wasn’t really his forte, but he was sensing that he should at least make an attempt. It was not like Natasha Romanov to doubt herself.

“Loki may have gotten under my skin more than I’ve ever let on.” Coulson led her over to the nearby water cooler and deftly poured her a cup one-handed. She downed it in one brash gulp. “It wasn’t because he threatened to kill me,” she tried to explain, “but he threatened Clint--Agent Barton, and his words were just pure venom . . . pure hatred.” He handed her another drink which she downed just as quickly. “Pure evil,” she finished. She kept her gaze down, shuffling her feet back and forth on the over-waxed tile. Coulson wasn’t sure whether or not she noticed that she had crushed the paper water cup flat against her palm. She then raked her fingers back through her hair in a manner which bordered on anxious. Natasha was certainly not herself, he noted.

She took a slow, deliberate breath in before she continued. “I’ve seen my share of evil in this line of work, Phil.” He did not draw attention to the use of his first name as he thought it might deter her from her therapeutic torrent of brutal honesty. “Hell, I’ve been my share of evil.” He nodded in mild agreement. “But I have never been that close to it. He was so mad with it you could smell it on him. He was hell-bent on vengeance.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Coulson said. “Except that he wasn’t.”

“Exactly,” she answered and then paused as she allowed the meaning of this confession to resonate. “He wasn’t crazy, and he wasn’t out for revenge.” She nudged the baseboard behind her with the heel of her boot and then stood for a number of minutes in frustrated silence. “Well, he wasn’t completely crazy,” she whispered finally.

“That’s what I thought, too,” Coulson admitted. “He was too measured and too driven to be totally insane. Even his mistakes were measured. He didn’t kill his brother when he had the chance . . . so no clear vengeance plot, either. I also got the possible impression that he did not really care about ruling the human race.”

“So did I,” Natasha probed, leaning forward and raising one eyebrow. “You had the same suspicions I did, but you never said anything to the higher-ups. Why?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he smirked. “Although, I did say it to his face. He lacked conviction, and I told him so.”

“So, how did you figure him out?” she probed.

“Through his own words. ‘A warm light for all mankind’ wasn’t the only breadcrumb he dropped, by my estimation.”

Her look implored him to continue.

“”Freedom is life’s great lie.’ It’s too draconian for someone who has spent his whole life cowed beneath the weight of trying to live up to a more successful sibling. I think he was sending us a message.”

“That he was far from free?” she pondered, rubbing her index finger thoughtfully against her lower lip. “It’s an intriguing thought,” Natasha admitted.

“So, what does any of that have to do with this assignment?” Coulson segued tactfully.

“I just don’t know if I can go through it again,” she sighed. It was as close to defeated as Coulson surmised she would ever sound. “When I confronted Loki in that cell, it didn’t go as I imagined that it would. I thought he would be like the others, the arrogant megalomaniacs who justify their actions by reciting some manifesto that comes spilling out of their crazy heads. You can see it in their eyes . . . they’re lost. Beyond all reason.”

“But . . .?”

“Loki wasn’t like that. He was brilliant: calculating, eloquent, and controlled. And he knew exactly what to say to break down my defenses. I was hopelessly outmatched in there.” She turned away from him as if she couldn’t bear letting him hear the naked honesty of her assertion. “For the first time in my life, I felt truly small--insignificant--like a gnat buzzing around the head of a giant. I realized then that the universe must be millennia ahead of us and that whatever is out there is likely to play with us like a shiny toy.”

“And crush us when they tire of us,” Coulson finished.

She nodded thoughtfully.

“I can’t say I didn’t feel the same when I felt the blade of that scepter come through my ribcage,” he confessed quietly. “I had never anticipated the possibility of him being able to duplicate his image or to seem to be somewhere he was not because it’s just not what we deal with in our world. We don’t have magic here. We don’t do telekinesis or mind-reading or doorways to other dimensions.” This seemed like the appropriate moment to try again to place a comforting hand on her shoulder so he did, and the gesture was easier this time, not as stiff. He paused briefly to be pleased with himself before he went on. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Agent Romanov, but we don’t really have anyone who is qualified to do these types of interrogations. It comes up very infrequently. And you more than handled yourself last time. I trust that you can do it again.”

“But I need something more,” she countered. “Something I can go in there and wave in front of him to make him squirm. I’m going to need your help with that.”

“I’ll send Agent May in next door with the little guy. He’s been close more than once to giving us the name of the one who escaped . . . the one who Blackout knew from before. Natasha, believe me, he’ll talk. Just give her a few minutes. I’ll have her lean on him a bit.” He suddenly realized that his touch had been lingering on her arm longer than was probably necessary. He removed it awkwardly. So much for progress in the touchy-feely experiment. “Can I count on you?” he asked, still hopeful.

She was looking at him with a contemplative stare, an indication that she was at least considering his words. “I’ll do what I can,” she said after a painful pause. “Just get me that name.”

****
“I’m back,” Natasha announced as she re-entered the room, seating herself in her previous chair. She was perfectly composed again, the professional guise slipping comfortably back into place. “I trust that you missed me?”

“Every second was sheer agony,” the prisoner teased, red eyes shining.

“Have you been considering our offer?” she asked and propped her chin confidently on her tented fingers. The cold exterior had also returned effortlessly, he admired.

“You tell me what happened outside the Raft, and I tell you what happened inside?” he clarified. She nodded. “But who goes first?” he leered in response.

“Well, you are enjoying our hospitality so I guess you do.”

“Of course,” he laughed as he tapped his fingers gleefully on the tabletop. He had every intention of drawing this round of questioning out as long as he could, and at the end, this agency would know little more than they knew right now. He, however, would be well hydrated and fed before he returned to his holding cell, as long as he played by their rules. It would all be so simple. . .

Suddenly, she was holding her finger to her head and listening intently to a voice in her earpiece. Then she grinned with overt satisfaction. “Okay, you go first, then,” she purred. “I ask the questions and you answer.”

Her abrupt shift in mood made him hesitate, but he grudgingly indicated his agreement. He narrowed his eyes at her with suspicion as he nodded.

“So . . . “ she started, drawing out the words with excruciating intent, “ . . . who is ‘Kaal’?”

His response was multifaceted: first, he was gripped with shock, his jaw hanging open in an undignified show of surprise, and then he was sneering and making a sound which was nearly a low-throated growl. He slammed an angry fist against the table and sat back, crossing his arms with what resembled a childish pout despite his unearthly appearance. Oh, he was definitely affected, and this was a positive development . . . just not for him, it seemed. It was going to be much more difficult to feed them worthless intel now. They obviously had a second source, and now they knew about that wretched traitor, which stripped him of a great deal of leverage. The last thing he wanted to do was have to speak about Kaal; it would undoubtedly lead to a discussion of a less-than-pleasant aspect of his past that was better off buried forever--just like Kaal, ironically.

Still, there was no way he had survived that collapse, Blackout had determined. It had happened more abruptly than anyone could have suspected, and, although the sorcerer was obviously revelling in his rival’s misfortune at the last, his own end could not have been far behind. Besides, there had been no Juggernaut waiting to drag him to salvation. Yet that fact did deprive him of the opportunity to crush in his smug countenance with his own bare hands, and he mourned that loss, at least.

“He’s no one,” Blackout fumed. “An old acquaintance from a different incarceration.”
“From the prison you spoke of before?” Natasha mimed a drinking motion towards the two-way mirror behind her, and in just a few seconds an agent was bringing in two bottles of chilled water. He sat one in front of each of them and quickly retreated back through the door.
The captive reached dismally for the drink. “Yes, it was the same prison” he answered in a rushed mumble.

“Then let’s start there.” The red-headed woman looked at him knowingly from under her half-lidded eyes. “Who is Kaal, and how do you know him?”

Fine, he thought petulantly, he could still tell the tale without getting into the specifics of the confrontation within the Raft. If he drew it out long enough, he could still milk them of a few meals before they tired of his stalling and banished him back to his modest chamber. “Where should I begin?” he grumbled.

“At the beginning,” she said. She twisted the cap off of the water bottle and placed it in his grip. “Where did you meet him?”

So, it was to be headfirst into the unpleasantness, then? Fair enough. “It was in the darkest part of our Universe,” he began. “Well, at least, so far as anyone knows. In a prison, known affectionately as the ‘Pit.’” He stopped in the ludicrous hope that she would somehow be satisfied by so concise an answer.

“Tell me,” she urged, her eyes focused on his in an unwavering glare.

She was going to make him tell her everything, he surmised. He took a preliminary swallow of the cool drink in preparation for the long night ahead of them both. “Are you certain?” he pleaded weakly in a last effort for mercy.

“Tell me, “ she repeated. The words were more emphatic this time.

So he began to tell her everything. From the beginning.

Notes