Chapter 9.
The next three days passed in a new, transcendent kind of hell. Sly, now my only trainer, had apparently taken my request for "something more interesting" quite personally. His sparring style was also entirely different from Natasha's. She was precise, quick, using your own momentum against you. Sly was more like a battering ram. He didn't dodge — he took hits on his blocks, and in response he unloaded such simple, powerful, and unavoidable combinations on me that I was flying toward the mat before I'd even understood what happened. There was not a trace of elegance in him — only bare, earthbound combat craft, honed in real conflicts.
And naturally, I had nothing to counter with. Every sparring session ended the same way — me on the floor trying to catch my breath, him standing over me, not a flicker of expression on his face.
"You're not fighting," he stated after yet another one of my flights. "You're thinking. Thinking which technique to use, where to step. In a real fight there's no time for that. The body has to work on its own. Again."
And we went at it again. And again I flew. But strangely, I began to catch his rhythm. His movements, for all their power, were predictable. He wasn't trying to fool me — he was trying to show me something. And my brain started slowly building patterns from his techniques. I still couldn't respond fast enough with my body, but I was beginning to understand why I'd lost. It was valuable experience, even if it came at a painful price.
On the fourth day, as Fury had promised, a small black unmarked van rolled onto the property. I was just recovering from the morning run when the driver's door opened and out stepped Clint Barton. I recognized him instantly. He was in a plain jacket and jeans, looked relaxed, and wore his trademark slightly cunning smile.
"Hey, Hardcore!" he said, walking over and extending a hand with genuine energy.
Still catching my breath, I shook it with some surprise.
"How do you know that callsign?" I asked.
"Oh, Natasha made sure of it," he grinned. "Says it describes you perfectly. The exact wording, I believe, was 'a stubborn Russian idiot who will headbutt a wall until a hole appears.' Honestly sounds like a compliment."
*Damn. That woman is never going to let me forget about her.* I thanked her mentally, but said nothing aloud.
Clint, meanwhile, opened the van's rear doors. Inside sat five aluminum cases. He pulled out three larger ones and two smaller ones, arranged them, and opened them up.
"All right, let's go. You're the client, so you choose."
The three larger cases held suits. Not form-fitting catsuits like Natasha wore — more tactical rigs. The first was light, made from some kind of multi-layer material with Kevlar inserts across the chest, back, and shoulders.
"This one's for mobility," Clint tapped the chest plate. "It'll stop a 9mm round, fragments too. But it won't save you from a rifle round or a knife. On the other hand, you won't overheat running a marathon in it."
The second suit was heavier, with more substantial ceramic plates.
"And this is the serious one. It'll take a hit from an AK-47. But it weighs quite a bit. You're not running far in this."
The third suit was somewhere in between. The same plates as the second, but smaller in coverage area and integrated into a more thoughtfully designed, anatomically considered underlayer.
"And our compromise option," Clint patted it. "Protection almost on par with the heavy one, but due to the smart weight distribution and materials — mobility almost like the light one. Downside — it's expensive. Fury will probably object, but since you asked for 'the best'…"
To demonstrate, he took an arrow with a sharp tip and drove it hard into the chest plate. A dull thud sounded, and nothing was left on the plate except a small white mark.
"See? Handles arrows fine."
I was already reaching for the compromise option when Sly's voice came from behind us. Clint and I had been so absorbed that we hadn't noticed him walk up.
"Take the second one," he said flatly, nodding toward the heavy suit.
I looked at him in surprise. Clint raised an eyebrow.
"Seriously? You can barely move in that thing."
"It's not for maneuvering." Sly fixed me with his heavy gaze. "His style isn't to run and jump. His style is to absorb the hit and answer back. Heavy armor gives him time to think and make decisions. As for speed — he'll build that on his own."
I thought it over. Sly, as always, was mercilessly right. I had never won a sparring session through speed. I survived — or rather, simply wasn't destroyed — through endurance and correct positioning. Heavy armor gave me what I was lacking: time. Time to assess a threat and deliver my own strike — maybe only one, but a decisive one.
"All right," I agreed. "I'll take the second one."
"Your call," Clint shrugged, and snapped shut the cases with the light and compromise suits. "Now for the firearms."
He opened the two smaller cases. Laid out on gray foam were pistols: two Glock 17s, two SIG Sauer P226s, and two Beretta 92s.
"Standard 9mm, as requested. Reliable, proven models. Take your pick — there's not much difference between them."
I looked at Sly. He ran an assessing eye over the weapons and nodded toward the Glock.
"Simple. Dependable. Won't let you down. And it weighs less than the others."
The Glock appealed to me too, for its straightforward utility. I picked one up. It settled into my hand comfortably — not too heavy, but not a toy either.
"Perfect," Clint collected the remaining pistols and the suit cases. "The suit will need to be fitted to your measurements. I'll bring it back the day after tomorrow. I'll leave you the pistol and a couple of magazines in the meantime. Get some rounds through it, get used to it."
With that, he got back in the van, waved to us cheerfully, and drove away. I was left standing with the Glock in my hand.
"Well then," Sly clapped me on the shoulder. "Let's go to the range. Try out your new toy."
The range was a long shooting gallery set up at the far end of the hangar. The targets were simple silhouettes.
Over the past three months I'd been coming here once a week, running through pistols and rifles. Honestly, I liked the rifles far more — Natasha had even commented that my results with them were consistently better. But right now I was holding my own pistol. My Glock. I hadn't fired this exact model before.
Time to try it out. There was plenty of 9mm ammunition. I took up my practiced stance, extended my arms, found the front sight in the rear notch, and began pulling the trigger smoothly.
First shot. The recoil was familiar, but the pistol sat differently in my hand than the ones I'd used before. The hole appeared in the chest area of the target, but left of center.
"Don't let the shoulder drop," came Sly's calm voice from behind me at once. "And don't jerk it. Follow through smoothly."
I took a slow breath, aimed again. Second shot. Third. A series. Sly stood behind me, watching, and occasionally inserted a correction: "Keep the wrist straighter." "Bring your sights back onto the line faster after the shot."
By the end of the second magazine I was beginning to find the feel of it. The Glock turned out to be exactly as straightforward and responsive as advertised. Predictable recoil, the barrel barely lifting after each shot. I sent round after round into the target, no longer thinking about the mechanics — just feeling the weapon. After emptying several magazines I was satisfied. Yes, I feel more confident with a rifle, but this pistol and I would find our way together.
---
A day later, as promised, Clint rolled in again. He brought my suit, already fitted to my measurements. I tried it on right there in the hangar. The armor settled like it had been built for me, without restricting any movement. I was actually surprised.
"It's not even that heavy," I said, moving and jumping in place. "There's weight, yes, but it's manageable."
Clint just smirked.
"Wait until you train in it. Then form your opinion. I guarantee your view will change."
He said his goodbyes and left, and Sly, looking me over with an assessing eye, observed grimly:
"Well, kid. Your training sessions are about to become… more interesting."
And he wasn't lying. Over the next six days I learned what his "more interesting" meant. Before, I had simply wrung every drop out of myself. Now I was doing that while encased in my own personal coffin. I even started to suspect that Sly had recommended this armor specifically to make my life more miserable.
And yes — for the first couple of hours the armor was almost imperceptible, but by the end of the first session I was ready to die. Every movement demanded enormous effort. Even a simple jog along the course became a test of basic endurance. Heat, sweat, metal and Kevlar pressing into your body everywhere — I fell, got up, and ran again, feeling my lungs burn and my muscles ache. The sparring sessions with Sly became even more one-sided — in the armor I was slower than a tortoise, and he evaded my lurching attacks with ease while his strikes, even the controlled ones, sent a dull, painful resonance through my bones.
But I didn't quit. And despite everything inside me screaming and pleading for mercy, my will was a calm and merciless taskmaster. I watched my characteristics in the system crawl upward slowly but steadily — more slowly than before, but still moving. That gave me the fuel to keep going.
---
On the seventh day, after the morning shooting session with the Glock — in the armor, naturally — I went back out to the obstacle course. My body was already beginning to adapt to the constant sensation of weight. I looked around, but Sly was nowhere to be seen.
*Strange. He's always here the moment I show up.* The thought surfaced briefly.
Then I heard the sound of an engine. A black sedan pulled up to the hangar. Two people climbed out, both apparently agents. Both in business suits, with expressionless faces and a professional bearing. They greeted me politely, even with a touch of detachment.
"Alexei Vetrov?" said the slightly taller one. "We're SHIELD agents."
He showed a leather badge holder. I glanced at it — photograph, official seal, everything appearing to be in order. The second agent stood slightly behind the first, hands free, eyes scanning everything around him.
"My name is Agent Collins, my partner is Agent Reyes," the first one continued. "Director Fury sent us. Your location has been compromised. We need to move you to a more secure facility as quickly as possible. Please gather your belongings. We'll escort you."
He even held out a folded sheet of paper. I unfolded it. Official letterhead, some kind of transfer directive, a signature and seal from Fury at the bottom. I had no idea what his signature actually looked like, but it all appeared very solid.
And yet… something was wrong. Maybe it was all a little too smooth? Too well-timed? Fury wouldn't issue a relocation order this casually, without clear necessity — and certainly not through two agents I'd never seen before. He would have at minimum contacted Sly first.
"All right…" I said, buying myself time. "Give me a minute to pack."
I made a show of turning toward the hangar, but my eyes were searching the grounds for Sly. Where was he? He was always somewhere nearby, especially when strangers appeared.
"Is there anyone else here?" Agent Reyes — the quieter one — suddenly asked. His voice was even, but the question came out too fast, with too much focus behind it.
And that was when it hit me like a current.
*They don't know about Sly.*
If they were genuine agents from Fury, they would know about Sly. Fury didn't miss details. But these two hadn't even asked where my instructor was.
A wave of panic climbed toward my throat.
*Damn. Damn it. It's them. HYDRA. They found me.*
I turned back toward them slowly, trying to hide the trembling in my hands. My brain was running through options at a frantic pace.
*Run? Where to? Fight? Me, against two obviously trained operatives?*
And at that moment, directly behind Agent Reyes, I saw Sly. In his hand was the combat knife he loved to keep in such immaculate condition.
Our eyes met for a fraction of a second. In his gaze there was no fear, no surprise — only calm, honed resolve. He gave the faintest nod.
I went completely still, waiting for what would come next.
What came next happened so fast that my brain barely registered the sequence.
Sly took one swift step forward. His left hand seized Agent Collins's head and wrenched it sharply to the side. His right hand, holding the knife, made one short, precise movement — a thrust into the base of the skull, into the gap between the cervical vertebrae. A dull, crunching sound followed. Collins's body went slack instantly, as though a switch had been thrown.
Agent Reyes had only begun to turn at the sound, his hand reaching toward the holster under his arm. But Sly was already moving. He yanked the knife free from the first agent in a single pull and hurled the bloodied blade toward Reyes.
The throw was impossibly precise and powerful. The knife struck Reyes in the chest with a dull impact, directly in the area of the heart. The agent gasped, his body rocked backward from the force, and he began to fall, eyes wide open with shock and incomprehension.
Sly didn't wait. He had already drawn his own pistol from the holster on his thigh. A short, clean shot rang out. The round entered beneath Reyes's chin and exited somewhere at the back of his skull.
That was all. Silence.
From the moment Sly appeared to the moment both agents lay motionless on the dusty ground, no more than three seconds had passed.
I stood and could not move a single muscle. My brain refused to process what it was receiving. Two people who had been speaking to me just seconds ago were lying on the ground in strange, unnatural positions. One face-down in the dust, the other on his back, his empty, glassy eyes fixed on the sky. Beneath them, dark and thick, a red stain was spreading slowly and unhurriedly.
Sly, his expression unchanged, directed the pistol at the agent whose spinal cord he had severed and, at nearly point-blank range, without any emotion, put a round through his head. The sound was muffled and somehow wet. I flinched from my entire body.
He walked over, planted his foot on the second agent's chest, and pulled his knife free with a characteristic, sucking sound. Then, unhurriedly, he wiped the blade on the dead man's jacket, straightened up, and looked at me.
"You… you killed them…" I forced out in a ragged whisper. My voice wasn't cooperating. "Those were SHIELD agents…"
Sly looked at me the way you look at someone who has just announced that the earth is flat. What I read in his eyes was not irritation — it was tired understanding.
"You're in shock, kid. Brain's not working. Look more carefully." He jerked his head toward the bodies. "A real Fury agent would never approach a protectee that closely without first confirming there was no one else around. And he would never rush the packing without a code word."
His words reached me slowly, through a thick layer of frozen numbness. Even "Nerves of Steel" was struggling right now.
I looked at the bodies. Then at Sly. And suddenly everything fell into place. I felt a wave of cold rush down my spine — this time from the realization of my own stupidity.
"Yes," I nodded, and my voice finally obeyed me. "You're right. It's… them."
"Good," Sly exhaled soundlessly. "Now move. We're not here anymore. Get your things. Only the essentials. Three minutes."
I nodded and took a step toward the hangar, but my legs were cotton and my eyes had drifted back to the motionless bodies.
*Those were… those were people. And they were just killed. Right in front of me…* I was slowing down again.
Then I took a sharp, short punch to the jaw. Not hard enough to drop me, but more than enough to be felt. My cheek lit up, my vision darkened briefly. I stumbled and sat down in the dust.
"Snap out of it!" Sly was standing over me, and his face, usually so still, was twisted with fury. "Now is not the time for tears! They found this place! Which means more are coming! You want to lie down next to them? You want to get taken? Get up, you useless — move!"
His shout worked better than a bucket of cold water. Everything inside me contracted into a tight, cold knot. Fear, revulsion, shock — all of it was swept aside by a single act of will as all my Traits finally kicked in at once. I got up, took a deep breath, dusted myself off, and ran to the hangar.
I worked on autopilot. Grabbed my pack, shoved in the laptop, a couple of shirts and pants. From weapons — only the Glock and the magazines Clint had left me. Sly, meanwhile, had assembled his own pack — considerably more compact and professionally organized. He slung it over one shoulder, walked to the ration crate, grabbed four packs, and handed me two.
Then he moved several tool crates aside in the far corner of the hangar. Behind them was an inconspicuous hatch in the floor, disguised as part of the concrete surface. I'd had absolutely no idea it was there.
"What's that?" I asked stupidly.
"Emergency exit. Just in case," he said, already lifting the heavy cover. "Now shut up and climb in."
His tone left no room for argument. I climbed down the iron-rung ladder obediently. It smelled of damp and mold. Sly came down after me, lowered the hatch cover, and turned some kind of lever. A click. Then he pulled a small remote from his pocket and pressed several buttons. A red LED began blinking on a panel above the hatch.
"What's that for?" slipped out of me again.
"If someone tries to open it without disarming the trap," Sly turned and pointed upward with one finger, "there will be a very loud bang up there. Enough questions. Move."
He switched on a flashlight, pushed me from behind, and we set off down a narrow tunnel.