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Peter leaned against the wall in the quiet med bay aboard his ship, the soft beeping of monitors and equipment surrounding him. An unconscious Natasha Romanoff lay on a medical bed across from him, her breathing even and slow, signs of her recent ordeal evident in the bandages that adorned her.
Peter's crew—Groot, Cosmo, Howard, Revan, Rocket, Teefs, Lylla, and Floor—looked over at Natasha with a mix of concern and curiosity. The group was buzzing with quiet conversations about the night's events, each trying to piece together what happened.
Howard, sat off to the side with a martini in hand, couldn't help but ask, "Seriously, Peter, how do you always manage to find damsels in distress wherever we go?" His voice carried a mix of amusement and genuine curiosity.
Peter just smirked, shrugging nonchalantly. "What can I say? It's both a blessing and a curse."
Soon enough, their conversation was interrupted as Natasha stirred on the bed, her movements slight but unmistakable. Peter's head snapped towards her, a serious expression replacing his usual playful smirk. "She's waking up," he whispered urgently. "Everyone out—now. We don't want to scare her; after all, none of you are exactly what she's used to..."
Murmurs of reluctance filled the room as the crew began to shuffle out. Groot, a bit slower than the rest, was the last to leave, his figure lingering in the doorway as the automatic doors hissed shut behind them.
Natasha's eyelids fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was Groot's retreating back. Her mind, foggy from sedatives, blood loss, and exhaustion, couldn't fully comprehend if she had seen a walking tree or if her mind was playing tricks on her.
As the door clicked shut, she took in her surroundings. The room was unlike any hospital she had ever seen, filled with technology that seemed far beyond what Earth had to offer. Her gaze landed on Peter, who approached her bedside with a concerned look.
"How are you feeling?" Peter asked gently. "Any pain?"
Natasha, still processing her environment, quickly assessed her condition. Her wounds were expertly tended to, bandaged with care she hadn't expected. "I'm fine," she replied cautiously, her voice hoarse. "Could use a glass of water, though."
"Sure thing," Peter said, turning to fetch her a drink.
The moment his back was turned, years of Red Room training and brainwashing kicked into high gear. Natasha's mind, influenced by subtle conditioning and survival instincts, saw an opportunity. Despite the nagging fear of Peter's unexplained abilities, she couldn't suppress the urge to escape.
Before Peter could even take a step away, Natasha sprang from the bed, her movements swift and precise. But sadly, for her, Peter sensed the attack. With a quick movement, he dodged her strike, his hand catching her wrist in a firm grip.
"Easy there," Peter cautioned, his voice steady but filled with a hint of disappointment. "I'm not your enemy."
Natasha struggled against his hold, her instincts flared again, prompting her to lunge once more. But Peter was ready. He caught her by the shoulders, his grip firm. "Natasha, stop!" he urged, but she continued fighting, kicking her legs up to tangle around his body, attempting to put him in some sort of arm bar.
Peter, unconcerned with her attack, sensed something deeper at play. Closing his eyes, he extended his senses through the Force, reaching out to touch her mind gently with a sliver of telepathy, the same telepathy he once used to speak with Master Windu on the battlefield while still listening to his music.
It was a delicate operation, and the connection was fragile, as this technique wasn't designed to be used in this manner. But after a few seconds, he found exactly what he was looking for—a complex labyrinth of barriers and triggers meticulously interlaced within Natasha's psyche.
It was like nothing he had ever encountered before. Within that mental labyrinth, he discerned a flicker of the real Natasha, a part of her that was fighting against the automatic responses drilled into her. It was clear she didn't want to attack, yet her body moved on its own accord, driven by deep-seated programming.
'This is a mess…' Peter thought to himself as he realized how much work it would take for Natasha to fix. 'I should just focus on calming her down for now…'
Natasha's struggles ceased gradually as she felt an unfamiliar calm wash over her. Her muscles relaxed involuntarily, confusion etched across her face. "What are you doing to me?" she asked, her voice a mix of fear and curiosity.
"I'm not hurting you," Peter reassured, his voice soft. "I'm just trying to calm you down and help you regain some control, at least for the time being..."
As he maintained the connection, Peter's expression softened. "I don't know if you realize it, but you've been brainwashed. It's like you're programmed to react depending on the situation, even against your will..."
Natasha's eyes widened, a surge of panic flooding through her. The walls she had built to compartmentalize her emotions crumbled slightly, allowing her vulnerability to surface. "I—I don't want to fight you," she admitted as Peter finished his work, putting her back in control, her voice barely a whisper. "I… I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…"
Peter nodded, gently releasing his hold on her shoulders and stepping back to give her some space. "I know you didn't," he said, his tone soothing. "Just take a deep breath and relax. I didn't remove the programming, as that can only be done through your own effort, but I've helped you take control for the time being."
Natasha lay back, the tension easing from her body as she processed Peter's words. A part of her wanted to reject his help, to reject any help, as a matter of pride. But another part, the part that was tired of always looking over her shoulder, wanted to believe him.
"Why would you help me?" she asked, her gaze fixed on him, searching for any hint of deceit.
Peter smiled, "Because I wanted to." He answers simply, shrugging his shoulders.
Natasha considered his words, her trained mind analyzing every angle. Yet, despite her skepticism, she felt a stirring of hope, a feeling she hadn't truly experienced in a long time.
"Thank you," she finally said, her voice soft, still laced with a bit of disbelief.
"No problem," Peter said, smirking and winking at her. "I usually charge for my services, but I'll make an exception for you..."
As he spoke, a faint blush tinted her cheeks for the second time that day. Her voice wavered with vulnerability until a sudden memory sharpened her gaze with suspicion. "You called me Natasha earlier. How do you know that name?" she asked.
Peter paused, a playful smirk donning his face. "I'm psychic," he replied, his tone light, almost teasing.
Natasha narrowed her eyes, reading the slight tension in his posture, the way his gaze flicked away for just a moment. It was clear he was lying and joking to deflect the question, but the likelihood of him actually being psychic seemed very possible. After all, he does have strange powers…
"That's not an answer," she retorted crisply, her tone flat but her mind alert, searching for the truth behind his evasion.
Peter's smirk grew wider, enjoying the puzzled look on her face. "It's not, is it?" He said simply, refusing to give her an answer. Truthfully, he forgot that they hadn't introduced themselves to each other yet. 'I need to be more careful in the future about accidental name drops like this…'
Realizing that they hadn't exactly introduced themselves yet, Peter held out his hand. "I'm Peter, by the way. Peter Quill."
Natasha observed his outstretched hand cautiously before taking it, her grip firm despite the confusion still evident in her eyes. "Natasha Ivanov," she replied, giving a false last name as a reflex, a habit drilled into her from her many years in the Red Room.
Peter shook her hand, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ivanov," he said, then paused, his smile broadening. "Or should I say, Ms. Romanoff?"
Natasha's eyes widened in surprise before a hint of annoyance flickered across her face. Peter laughed lightly at her expression. "Remember, I'm psychic," he reminded her.
Huffing slightly, Natasha crossed her arms, deciding to play along for the moment. "Alright, 'psychic,' how am I supposed to fix this programming you mentioned?" she asked, her tone a mix of skepticism and genuine curiosity.
Peter's demeanor shifted to something more serious as he approached her again, this time pulling a chair closer to the bed. "Well, it's not going to be easy, and it's not going to be quick," he started, his voice softening to convey the gravity of the situation. "But I know some meditation techniques you could use. They could help you analyze and organize your thoughts, and gain control over your implanted responses."
Natasha looked skeptical, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Meditation? That's it?" She asked, looking at him as if he were a fraud doctor, offering to cure her cancer with acupuncture.
"It's more about gaining insight into your own mind, understanding the triggers, and learning to control your responses," Peter explained. "It's not an instant cure, but it's a start—a way to reclaim your autonomy."
Seeing her continued skepticism but also her slowly growing curiosity, Peter decided to demonstrate. "Here, let me show you a basic technique. It's called 'Mind Mapping.' This meditation will help you explore and organize your inner thoughts and memories, providing structure to what may feel like chaos in your mind."
He moved behind her, placing his hand on her back, using the force to guide Natasha through the process, instructing her to focus on her breathing, to feel the bed beneath her, the weight of her own body, the steady beeping of the med bay equipment. "Focus on these sensations, let them anchor you. Whenever your mind starts to wander to dark places, bring it back here, to now," Peter instructed gently.
Natasha followed his directions, felt his hand on her back, a frown of concentration creasing her forehead as she felt a warm energy envelope her. "W-What is that?!" She exclaimed.
"Concentrate." Peter chided from behind, his hand glowing with the force.
Closing her eyes, Natasha followed Peter's instructions for the Mind Mapping technique. She visualized navigating through a labyrinth of her thoughts and memories, identifying and organizing each element.
As she delved deeper, she could almost see the cold, meticulous blocks of her conditioning laid out before her. The room remained silent except for her rhythmic breathing and the occasional beep from the monitors.
After a few intense moments of mental exploration, Natasha opened her eyes wide in realization. "You weren't lying. I've really been brainwashed and I didn't even know it," she admitted, her voice softer, more introspective than before.
"Oh, don't look so down," Peter removed his hand from her back and flicked her across the forehead.
"Ow!" She yelped as she flinched and rubbed her stinging face. "What was that for!"
"Because I felt like it..." Peter answered simply, a taunting smile on his face. "Now, why don't you get some rest? You are injured after all." He said, turning to walk towards the door. "I'll come and visit you again soon…"
"Wait!" Natasha called out, her gaze intense yet tired.
"What?" Peter halted, looking over his shoulder.
"Why are you helping me? What do you get out of this?" She asked, her eyes skeptical and wary.
Peter shrugged, his expression sincere. "Didn't I already answer that question when I saved you?"
Natasha's eyes widened as she suddenly recalled Peter's words from when he had first rescued her, stating nonchalantly that he was helping her because he thought she was cute. She could hardly believe it; her face turned a shade of red yet again, a mixture of embarrassment and incredulity painting her features.
Peter laughed heartily as he noticed her reaction, the sound echoing lightly in the med bay. "See you later, Natasha," he called out, turning back to wink just before he exited the room.
The door hissed shut just in time for Natasha to grab the nearest object—a small, digital scanner from the bedside table—and throw it at the closing door, aiming for Peter but hitting the solid metal instead.
Left alone in the quiet room, Natasha flopped back onto the bed with a frustrated sigh. "What's wrong with me?" she murmured to herself, her hand resting on her forehead as she tried to make sense of her reactions. No one had ever made her blush like this before, and here was Peter, managing to do it three times in the span of a single meeting.
Determined, she swore to herself that it would be the last time. Sitting up with resolve, she positioned herself as Peter had shown earlier, legs crossed and back straight, her hands resting on her knees.
Closing her eyes, she began to meditate, focusing on the technique that Peter had explained. She visualized her mind as a complex map, intent on navigating through the tangled pathways of her conditioning and taking control of her responses.
As she delved deeper into her meditation, the distractions of her physical sensations and the earlier embarrassment faded away, replaced by a profound focus on healing her mind. She was determined to fix herself, to regain control.
————
The desert sun was already high in the sky by the time Nick Fury, a tall, imposing figure with a stern countenance, and Phil Coulson, a slightly younger man with a tidy appearance, highlighted by his neatly combed hair, arrived at the cordoned-off crime scene outside Los Angeles.
The local police had taped off the area, their cruisers parked haphazardly as they attempted to make sense of the chaos that had unfolded in the night.
As Fury and Coulson approached, one officer stepped forward, blocking their path. "This is an active crime scene, I'm going to have to ask you to—"
"We're with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," Fury interrupted, his tone as steely as his gaze, flashing his badge with practiced ease.
[Insert picture of young Nick Fury here] (A/N: Yes, he still has both eyes.)
[Insert picture of Young Phil Coulson here]
The officer hesitated, his eyes darting between the badge and Fury's unflinching face. "I've never heard of… whatever that mouthful of nonsense was," he replied, skepticism threading his voice.
Coulson watched silently as Fury sighed and pulled out his brick-sized cellphone. "You will in just a second." After a brief, muffled conversation, the officer's radio crackled to life, his superior's voice sharp and clear. "Let them through and cooperate. That's an order!"
The officer's posture stiffened, and he stepped aside, mumbling apologies. The police line parted, allowing Fury and Coulson unimpeded access to the scene.
The desert was a silent witness to the night's events. Sand, disturbed only by the occasional breeze, sprawled around several lifeless bodies. Fury led the way, his eyes scanning every detail. He paused beside a body, gesturing to Coulson. "Check his pockets."
Without a word, Coulson knelt beside the corpse, his fingers searching until they found a hidden Shield badge. He held it up to Fury, nodding. "It's Agent Marco, as we feared..." Coulson's voice was heavy with regret.
Agent Marco had been undercover, investigating a dubious tech company. When he failed to check in after his last scheduled report, Shield grew concerned about his safety.
Recognizing the gravity of the situation, they sent Fury, along with his trainee Coulson, to uncover his fate and assess the situation.
As Coulson held the badge up to his supervisor, Fury wasn't even looking at him anymore, his attention caught by a peculiar linear trail in the sand. It wasn't footprints or tire tracks; it was something else. "What do you think that's from?" he asked, his voice low.
Coulson peered at the trail, shrugging. "Probably just the wind or something."
Fury nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the trail. "Yeah, maybe..." His voice trailed off as he stared into the distance, his gut telling him that there was more to it.
A/N: 2745 words :)
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