Chapter 7.
I came back to myself with that same familiar, unpleasant sensation — as though millions of ants were running under my skin, while my muscles were simultaneously cotton-soft and stretched taut. Sly, the silent hulk, had already done his work: shot me up with the regenerative cocktail that made the body heal several times faster than normal. There was nothing pleasant about it. The injections left me feeling wrecked and wrung out, like a squeezed lemon — but within a couple of hours I could move again almost without pain. Must be expensive stuff.
I was lying on the cot in the corner of the hangar, staring up at the metal ceiling beams, when Steve's face appeared above me. He was looking down at me with that expression of care and mild disapproval that he probably practiced in the mirror sometimes.
"Alexei," he began, and I braced myself inwardly for the incoming lecture. "You can't keep doing this. You're not giving your body time to recover. You'll wring yourself out, and instead of a capable fighter, we'll end up with someone who's broken beyond repair. I understand your drive. But everything has a limit."
I glanced over at Natasha, who was standing a little apart from us, leaning against the wall. She caught my eye, gave the faintest smile, and rolled her eyes. Two months ago she'd said the same things. Then she stopped. Apparently she'd figured out it was like trying to lecture a brick wall.
"Understood, Captain," I rasped. "I'll keep it in mind."
He glanced sideways at Sly, who was sitting at the far end of the hangar, cleaning a knife with complete indifference, as though our conversation had absolutely nothing to do with him.
"I doubt it," Steve concluded honestly. "But I had to say it. There's another reason you should ease up. At least for a few days."
That got my attention. I propped myself up on one elbow, ignoring the protesting ache in my muscles.
"Fury is coming here in four days," Steve continued. "He wants to speak with you in person. Get everything you know on record. In detail. And you need to be clearheaded and sharp for that — not in a coma from your insane training sessions. Understood?"
So old Nick had finally decided it was time to move from observation to action. Or events were moving faster than he'd expected.
"Understood," I nodded. "I'll focus on theory."
"Good." Steve allowed a slight smile. "And use this chance. You'll be able to negotiate with him directly about… your needs. Within reason, of course."
Natasha pushed off from the wall, walked over, and patted Steve on the shoulder.
"Stop lecturing him, Steve. He's already got it. Come on — let him recover."
They left, and I was alone in the cool dimness of the hangar. Or not quite alone — Sly was still sitting at the other end, cleaning his knife, but he had a talent for becoming part of the furniture. So I dropped onto my back and closed my eyes. The tingling under my skin intensified — the regenerative compound was doing its work.
*God, this is awful.*
Sometimes it seemed easier to endure the pain itself than this sensation of enforced healing.
My thoughts drifted on their own back over the past three months. It had all started with that safe apartment where Steve and Natasha had taken me. Natasha had gotten Fury on the line right away, and Fury, in the midst of his impossible schedule, had carved out all of thirty minutes for a video call over an ultra-encrypted connection. I remembered especially his one eye, studying me through the screen with the kind of skepticism a man reserves for someone trying to sell him the Brooklyn Bridge.
I'd laid out my conditions again and made clear that I knew about his paranoia — but that it wasn't enough. That among his closest people were those who would betray him. The richest piece of information — more specific details about HYDRA inside SHIELD — I had held back. I could see he didn't believe me. But when I let slip, almost in passing, "Project Insight" and the three new Helicarriers that were almost finished construction — that was when his expression changed. The skepticism became something harder and more dangerous. He demanded I tell him everything and name my source. It ended up being a mini-interrogation, but I referred again to the fragments of possible futures, the visions, all of that. And at the end I told him that the best proof he could get would be to vet his most trusted agents.
And apparently he had done exactly that. Because after that conversation, I received everything I'd asked for — and more. Natasha as trainer and watchdog. Sly Marbo — who turned out to be something of a legend — as the primary tormentor for physical conditioning. This hangar with its obstacle course and shooting range. An endless supply of high-protein meals, medical checkups, and the regenerative compounds. Fury had invested heavily in me. And that was worth thinking about. It meant the information I'd given him had been genuinely valuable, just as I'd assumed. Or he'd seen some potential in me. Probably both. The important thing was that I'd gotten what I wanted.
And I'd earned Will Points here. The first week I'd pushed myself to the edge trying to keep up with the program they'd built for me, and it was hell. Even with the Traits, every step and every movement required forcing myself. And it was worth it — I earned two precious WP that week. But then, another week in, I hit a wall. Not a physical one — my characteristics were growing, I could see it in the system. A mental wall. I simply didn't want to anymore. There was no strength and no desire left to continue this self-torment. Body and mind were fighting back with everything they had.
That's when I understood that my current "upgrades" weren't enough. I needed something more serious, something with more bite. And I spent those two WP to level "Iron Discipline" up to Level 2.
The difference was immediate. It wasn't simply the absence of internal resistance. It was steel. The exact kind the name promised. The desire to give up, to stop, to rest — it hadn't gone away. It was still there, just as strong as before. But now it was as though it sat behind thick bulletproof glass. I could see it, hear it — but it couldn't reach me. It couldn't influence my decisions. I could now simply take note of it and do what needed to be done regardless. After that, the training sessions — while no lighter physically — became work. Hard, grinding, exhausting work, but work that could be done. I stopped saying "I can't." I simply kept going until the physical body shut itself off. That was why Natasha gave me the nickname — Hardcore. A very accurate fit, both for the system and for my new life.
And through all that superhuman effort, over those months, I managed to earn a total of four WP. It had been extraordinarily difficult. In the early days, WP came from overcoming myself — from the first time pushing past my limits. Now the system demanded something beyond that. Simply collapsing at the end of the obstacle course was normal. The system wouldn't reward that. I had to invent new ways to break myself. Running with additional weight. Complicating already brutal exercises. Sparring with Natasha while deliberately forbidding myself from using the reflexes she herself had been drilling into me — relying only on consciously memorized movements. It was a kind of perversion, but it worked. Once, at least.
I called up the interface in my mind.
*Status.*
---
*[Characteristics:*
*Strength: 5*
*Agility: 6*
*Endurance: 5*
*Perception: 5*
*Will Points: 4]*
*[Traits:*
*"Nerves of Steel" — Level 1.*
*"Structural Thinking" — Level 1.*
*"Iron Discipline" — Level 2.*
*The will hardens to a core of steel. The desire to surrender becomes entirely separate from the decision-making process, reduced to background noise.]*
---
The progress was undeniable. There was nothing left of the scarecrow I'd been. But it was still a drop in the ocean. I looked again at the list of available Traits. "Intuition's Whisper," "Metabolic Balance," "Critical Eye" — all of them beckoning with their usefulness. But I was holding myself back. Spend the WP and the bar for earning the next ones would shoot through the roof.
Four WP. Yes — I'd decided to hold them. My primary goal right now was earning WP, studying the system, and leveling up the base characteristics. In that order. The development of my skills I'd pushed to the very bottom of my priorities. Mainly because I had no idea how much longer I'd have access to such intensive training conditions.
And what if I suddenly needed to level something up right before things went bad — something like "Accelerated Recovery"? And trouble, I could feel it, was already close. Fury wasn't making a special trip for nothing. If things were following canon, the whole HYDRA mess would be starting soon. Project Insight, the attack on Fury, the hunt for Steve — all of it was imminent. Though with the new variable of my existence introduced into the equation, I had a clear sense that the MCU's story would probably jump the tracks.
And HYDRA. They were unlikely to leave someone alone who knew this much about them — even with all of Fury's precautions. Which meant I needed to be ready. Squeeze everything possible out of these four days. Push hard to bring Endurance up to six, since I was almost there. And be prepared to spend WP on something truly useful. I had plenty of time to plan and figure out what I needed for different scenarios.
I pushed myself off the cot with difficulty. My body answered with a dull, pervasive ache, but the compounds had already given me back my mobility.
---
The next three days I wrung out of myself everything I had. I asked Sly to run me through a brutal endurance session. Running in a gas mask that allowed only the barest trickle of air through, over sand, under a blazing sun. Endless laps of the obstacle course with weights strapped to my ankles and wrists. I ran until my vision went dark, stumbled, fell, got up, and ran again. "Iron Discipline" Level 2 was running at full capacity. Everything inside me was screaming and begging to stop, but my will was a cold and merciless overseer that gave only one command:
*Move.*
After these sessions of self-abuse, barely functional after the regenerative injection, I would drag myself to the room set aside for study. Natasha had excused me from weapons theory and tactical briefings, understanding that my brain was also at its limit. Instead, I took a stack of blank sheets of paper and a pen. And I started writing.
I wrote down everything I could remember about the coming events. Not just broad strokes — details. Names, dates, locations. I organized the information into blocks: "HYDRA Inside SHIELD," "Project Insight," "The Winter Soldier," "Captain America: The Winter Soldier," "Captain America: Civil War." I wrote concisely, in bullet points, using "Structural Thinking" to build logical chains. My hand shook with exhaustion, the letters wavered on the page, coughing fits broke through from time to time — but I forced myself to continue.
Natasha sat across from me and watched. She didn't ask questions, but I could see her eyes tracking every movement and every piece of paper. She was a professional, and she could certainly have read everything over my shoulder or photographed it with a hidden camera. So the moment I finished describing each block, I took the lighter I'd talked her out of on the very first day of these "sessions," and burned the sheets in a metal waste bin.
"Another bonfire?" she remarked once with a light smirk, watching the remains of the paper smolder in the bin.
"I don't want this falling into the wrong hands," I answered hoarsely, feeling the acrid smoke sting my eyes. "Even here."
She said nothing and only nodded. Maybe she understood. Or maybe she was simply filing my paranoia away for the daily report she was sending Fury — which I was absolutely certain she was.
---
On the evening of the fourth day, standing in front of the mirror at the sink and brushing my teeth, I studied the reflection looking back at me. The gaunt kid with the shadows under his eyes was gone. Someone else had taken his place. Shoulders broader, chest more solid, the abdomen defined — not sculpted into blocks, but no longer soft. The muscles in his arms and legs were visible, pressing through the skin. Yes, I was still nowhere near Captain America — but I looked… solid. Athletic. Someone you wouldn't be embarrassed to put in a lineup.
Pride? Yes, damn it — it was satisfying to see my own results. But I reminded myself every time: without the specialized nutrition, without these brutal supervised sessions, without the regenerative compounds, the results would have been a fraction of this, and would have taken far longer to reach. But even accounting for every advantage I'd had… I had been through genuine hell. Every muscle, every centimeter of gained strength had been suffered for and wrung out of myself at the cost of tears, sweat, and blood. And that awareness made the result worth even more.
And yet, for all that progress, when sparring with Natasha I was still a helpless child. She was playing with me. Her agility and endurance, honed over years of field work, were at a level I couldn't yet approach. I could know the theory, I could anticipate some of her movements — but my body simply couldn't keep up. She was faster, more precise, and without mercy. Every session we had together was not a loss so much as a vivid demonstration of the gulf between us.
And now, lying in bed on the eve of Fury's visit, I felt a pleasant, dull exhaustion throughout my entire body. But along with it — satisfaction. Today at the end of training I'd made one final push on the course, and the system had finally responded.
---
*[Endurance: 6]*
---
*I actually did it.*
Yes — now all of my stats had pushed past the threshold of 5, and both Agility and Endurance had a 6 next to them. For me, that was an enormous achievement. I was in the best shape of my life — both lives.
And immediately the key question surfaced: what do I ask Fury for tomorrow? The thought of a super soldier serum wouldn't leave me alone. Strength, agility, endurance at Steve's level — the stuff of dreams. But cool-headed analysis, sharpened by the Traits, dampened the excitement immediately. If I received that kind of power, how would I earn Will Points? The bar would shoot into the stratosphere. To earn even one WP through training at that level — I honestly didn't know what it would take. The only thing that came to mind was heading to Asgard, or somewhere similar, and training there. And in my estimation, that was a dead end. Will Points were my primary advantage, and cutting myself off from them was pure idiocy. Besides, Fury was hardly likely to have a spare working vial of super soldier serum just lying around somewhere.
So what then? Technology. Weapons. Armor. Yes — now that was closer to reality. A solid suit. And weapons. It wouldn't make me superhuman, but it would dramatically increase my odds of survival in a confrontation with HYDRA, for instance. Reduce the risk of getting shot by a stray bullet or caught by a random piece of shrapnel. Which meant I could continue training at my insane pace, earning WP and developing through the System. Logical. Sensible.
The decision was made. Calmly and deliberately. Tomorrow I would ask Fury for the tools to survive. And my four Will Points I would hold. For now.
With those thoughts I finally let myself unwind. Exhaustion covered me completely, and I sank into deep, unconscious sleep before I'd even properly savored my new numbers. The coming day could change a great many things — and not only for me.
---
⁂
---
The metal waste bin stood in the corner of the hangar, still warm, filled with soot and a few corners of paper that hadn't fully burned. Natasha touched its rim with the toe of her boot, crumbling the fragile carbon mass. She turned and looked at the sleeping Alexei. He lay on the cot, his breathing even and deep, the way a person breathes when they've been emptied completely. Over these three months his face had gone dark from the sun, and his features had become sharp and defined.
*The ugly duckling,* she thought, with mild irony.
Not a swan yet, certainly. But no longer the frightened, scrawny kid she and Steve had met in that miserable little apartment.
She turned away from him and slipped quietly out of the hangar into the night air. It was cool. The stars out here, far from the city's glow, were bright and numerous. She took a crumpled scrap of paper from her jacket pocket — one she'd managed to pull unseen from the bin earlier today, when Alexei's attention had been broken by a coughing fit.
She looked at it for a long time. Then she struck her lighter and touched the flame to the corner. The paper blackened and curled immediately, turning to ash that the breeze carried away into the dark. Destroying evidence? Or simply a ritual — repeating his own gesture? More the second. She no longer saw him as a threat. A risk — yes. His knowledge was a bomb. But the man himself… he was a strange, almost inexplicable asset.
*Russian kid with an inhuman will,* she thought quietly, looking at the stars.
That was the most accurate description she had. In three months she hadn't heard a single complaint from him. Not a single "I can't." Only "understood" and "again" and that look of his — sometimes empty and focused at the same time — when he was forcing his body to do something it was no longer capable of doing. She had watched him fall, watched him throw up from overexertion, watched him lose consciousness from pain. But he always got back up. Always.
She remembered their first sparring session. He had been rigid and clumsy, all his movements telegraphed from a mile away. She'd played with him the way a cat plays with a mouse, slipping his attempts with ease and dropping him onto the mat. But even then, barely able to breathe, he'd looked up at her and asked: "What did I do wrong? Please show me again."
Sometimes in the evenings she'd break protocol and switch to Russian. At first just to test him — was he real, or was this a planted cover? His accent was native, Siberian, straightforward, not from Moscow. They talked about nothing in particular. Food he missed. The weather. The shortage of his native language around him. He never pried into her past, never asked unnecessary questions. And in that there was a strange, almost childlike honesty. He didn't spare himself, and he didn't expect pity or indulgence from anyone else either.
For all his intelligence, he was… simple. In the good sense. Straight as a battering ram. And in that straightforwardness there was a raw, particular strength. She had seen all kinds of people over the course of her life — heroes, monsters, geniuses, and cowards — and she rarely met anyone without a false bottom. Or maybe Alexei simply didn't have the space in him for one. He was consumed by a single objective: to get stronger, and to do it fast.
And yes — she had grown attached to him. Not as a woman, not as she might to a man. More the way you feel about a younger brother. A stubborn, slightly unhinged younger brother who needed to be reined in before he tore himself to pieces. Lately she kept catching herself monitoring his pulse during the brutal long-distance runs, slipping an extra portion onto his tray knowing his metabolism was running at its limit, and once even raising her voice at Sly when, in her estimation, he'd put too much load on the injured leg. The old veteran had only grinned in response. "Relax. He's tougher than he looks. He'll amount to something."
And he was, in fact, amounting to something. She could see the potential blossoming. Watched a slight, uncertain young man becoming a compact, controlled fighter — rough still, but with excellent raw material. And she, like a sculptor, felt a strange pride watching this block of granite take shape under her hands and Sly's.
Tomorrow Fury was coming. And all of this — their isolated training camp, her role as trainer and watchdog, those odd evenings over tea talking in their native language — would come to an end. Her intuition, honed across years in the Red Room and SHIELD, was whispering to her: *the quiet days are running out.*
And she felt a trace of… sadness. The unknown always carried risk with it. The risk of losing this strange, stubborn Russian kid who clung to life with such fury and so desperately wanted to be ready for the storm he had predicted himself.
She stretched, feeling the exhaustion finally catching up with her too. Tomorrow would be a hard day. For all of them. She took one last look at the dark hangar, at the silhouette of the sleeping Alexei, and turned toward her own room. She needed to sleep. And to mentally say goodbye to this phase. To "Hardcore," who had made her — Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow — feel something resembling simple human attachment again. Whatever came next, these three months she would not forget.