831/Berlin, 1945

Berlin, 1945
Date of Scene:	09 June 2017
Location:	Germany
Synopsis:	At the end of WWII, a young Russian agent Natasha Romanoff meets Ares for the first time.
Cast of Characters:	Ares, Black Widow (Romanoff)

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Ares has posed:
    The war is over. At least that is what is being said in the newspapers. A ceasefire. Hitler is dead. The Soviet Army stands victorious in Berlin and opposite the other allied forces seem to be champing at the bit to take a shot at the Reds. The tension between the great nations of the world are more palpable now in peace time than ever they were when they faced the Germans.
    Yet the race was won by the Russians. They overran the remaining forces, took hold of Berlin. And to the victors go the spoils. Heaps and heaps of intelligence, records, spoils of war. They're all heading back to Moscow for cataloging and for deciphering. Yet here in the city of the fallen Third Reich there are still mysteries. Inventory of booty taken from war zones that no longer have records are needing clarification. Scientific research needs to be translated and processed. Prisoners are taken and most will not survive the coming winter.
    And yet... in the deeper bunkers of Berlin there is a prison facility with no paperwork attached to it. It has naught save four cells, heavily fortified, with multiple airlocks preventing easy access to the interior. The army was able to breach the huge main door and then cut the hinges from each steel door, letting them slam to the ground heavily.
    The first cell contained a naked female corpse. She had been curled up in a fetal position and apparently shot in the back of the head. There was no furniture in her room, nothing of remark save for the copious amount of carbon scoring all over the walls, the floor, the ceiling. It almost looked as if the entire thing had been set fire to many many times.
    The second room had a human skeleton, male, imbedded half in and half out of one of the walls, as if fused to the concrete surrounding it. The leg that was inside the concrete was intact, but the one on the outside was partially melted as if something reshaped it like clay.
    The third room contained an old man in loose green pants and shirt. He looked well fed, decently together. Except he was completely brain dead, no activity at all, though he did not seem to need to eat, or breathe, yet he was still warm to the touch. He was carted off.
    It was the last cell that gave the Soviets their best hope in this facility. In the room was a man who had been chained to the walls, bound and gagged with a myriad of restraints locking his form to the cement. There was a criss-cross latticework of scar tissue upon his back, and some sort of chemical concoction had been introduced to the scar tissue. The substance hasn't been determined as anything more than some kind of animal's blood. But as to what kind... that was impossible to say.
    So the Russian general had ordered him to be taken down. For the prisoner to be fed. The carrot was being offered for now. Perhaps in the hopes that he'd talk. And what better way to urge him towards speaking than to use the new operative that had been attached to his division.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
The same bunker is being used but they have moved him out of the cell, away from the chains, from the location where memories would be dark. The main room has a table, several chairs. They have even brought in a cot so that if he is more comfortable laying down with his wounds, he can do so. Freedom of movement after so long restrained.

There are two soldiers assigned in the room to watch over the prisoner. More are outside. He is given some time to deal with the change in circumstance although no one really is speaking to him.

When the door opens, the figure that enters is not a soldier. It's a very young woman, probably in her late teens. She's small, only 5'3", but she carries herself with her shoulders slumped forward, hunching in on herself, making her seem even smaller. Her red hair is falling down into her face, obscuring it a bit. She is carrying a large tray that seems too heavy as she is staggering to carry the weight atop it. Two plates of food, one all proteins, the other fruist and vegetables. There is a loaf of fresh bread. There are also two decanters, one with wine the other with tea. Somehow she managses to get the try on the table without anything falling off.

Natasha lets out a puff of air, blowing upwards, pushing strands of hair back from her eyes. Those green eyes regard the prisoner with open curiosity. She speaks in perfect German, a soft alto voice that is open and friendly. "~Please, eat. You have suffered enough. I have been told to make sure you are comfortable until we can get you home.~" The carrot. Food. Drink. A kind word. A promise of home.

Ares has posed:
    That man, just at a glance she can see that he is a man that has lived inside of himself for a long time, perhaps years. He is settled in the chair, hunched over a mug of some soup of some kind that had been given to him. A large blanket has been thrown over him to keep away the chill as the heat in the facility leaves much to be desired. He has said naught to anyone, has barely made eye contact with any. It was this way when people met him first, it is that way now.
    At her arrival he barely moves. Perhaps the chair creaks somewhat under the turn of his body upon the chair, complaining about the shift in weight. He's a tall one, that is for sure. She is what, five foot three? He is perhaps a foot and a half taller than her, if only he would sit up as well. She may seem downtrodden... yet him. He seems entirely beaten down.
    But then when she sets the trays down he'll look up. His features are hidden mostly by the large wild beard, unkempt and allowed to grow for a good long time. She can see his red bloodshot eyes, brown in color naturally but that color lost amongst the broken capillaries.
    That former prisoner turns his head to the side, looking one way. Then the other. The guards are noticed, she can see that in the tell-tale language of his body. There is something about him, something that she with her training can discern beyond the guards. To the guards it's just a slight unease at being in such close proximity to this being.
    But for Natalia, she can sense what it is. This man. Whoever... whatever he is. He is a predator.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
"~Is there anything I can do for you? Other than the food or drink, I could get you a bath. A razor. Haircut. Things to make you comfortable.~" Natasha pours wine into a glass. "~Are you from around here? Can we try to find your family for you?~" Innocent questions from an innocent townsperson sent to assist with the situation. There is nothing outward to give away she is anything more.

She does note his size first and foremost. If he was sitting upright, they would be about equal height which means he's enormous. Not good if it comes down to a fight with him. Hopefully it will be simpler than that.

Until she sees that look. Every warning bell in her system goes off. This man is dangerous. Deadly. A killer.

Like her. That goes through her mind. Perhaps he was locked away for a good reason. But they need to find out those reasons, to understand what was going on with this place.

She moves right next to him, holding out the glass in her right hand.

Ares has posed:
    There is a faint creeeeak that comes from the chair as he turns to look at her. He lifts his eyes slowly, an almost glacial shift. It is almost as if a thaw was slowly overcoming the cold control that he had placed upon himself. Then a steady rumbling breath is drawn, inwards with a low rumble that is barely audible but some would liken it to a growl. There's a slow blink as he considers her offering, lids closing, then opening and his irises meet her gaze.
    The weight of his regard is an almost palpable thing, heavy with intent and grim with judgement. His lower jaw extends slightly as if he were realizing that his joints still worked, that his chapped and cracked lips could part. A small nod is given as she holds that glass out and then with an almost reverant calm he brings fingers to curl around it. Slowly he accepts it, leaning forwards with a creak of complaint from the chair. That soup is set down, she might recognize it for a meal ration, military... perhaps one of the guards gave it to him on his own behest.
    Then he lifts the wineglass to his lips and takes one steady and extended pull, adam's apple working for a single swallow.
    It's only then that she hears a single word from him. In her own language.
    "Spasiba."

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
It feels like he's looking through her. Seeing everything. Knows what she is. She knows that isn't possible. She's still young but she is the best in her class which is why she was chosen specifically for this mission. Soon she will graduate so she already has the knowledge she needs. It's a matter of experience being needed.

As he takes the glass, she shifts her fingers out of the way then leans back casually against the side of the table, half sitting on the edge. She watches as he takes the drink. Her own close observation has no intensity, no weight to it. She's just curious about him and she gives off a sense of concern for his welfare.

"You are Russian?" she asks in that language, eyebrows lifting in surprise. A comrade from her own country? Possible but it seems far fetched for some reason. Why? Just a gut feeling on her part. No real reason for that belief. "Whare are you from?" she asks as a quick follow-up, trying to get a region if he is Russian and, if not, an actual country.

Ares has posed:
    The cragginess in his voice gives way to the low baritone rumble that she will eventually come to recognize as the man's own. "The old man," Three words given, offered in Russian with a hint of Southern accent to the words, either if not giving her insight into his origin... perhaps giving some hint as to where he may have learned it.
    He is not looking at her, his head is still bowed, curved over the glass of wine as he holds it with both hands. Another deep breath is drawn inwards, giving enough for him to add his voice again to the faint reverberation within that cell. "Does he yet live?"
    His head tilts to the side as he blinks slowly at one guard, and then the other. She is not the only one to get a subtle feeling from the man as first one, then the other of the armed men shift their feet a touch nervously. A low grunt slips from him, a wince as one broad shoulder rolls slowly through its range of motion.
    He looks up at her again then, a beetling of his brow as he watches her reaction to his question even as he... ignores her own. Perhaps tactics, for she is well aware of how one can attempt to control an interrogation session with a prisoner. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
The accent gives away where he learned the language but the fact he hasn't answered the question isn't lost on her. However, the role she is playing would not worry about such things. She she doesn't push. Yet.

"He is alive technically," she says, the concern there reflected in her eyes. "The medics and doctors say that he is not alive up here though." She puts a finger to her temple. She doesn't try to use the words they did, continuing her act of being just a simple girl helping out those more skilled and knowledgable. "Is he a friend of yours? Family?"

She pushes off from the table, moving to the side of it. For some reason, she can't bring herself just to turn her back on him. Something about him just screams it would be stupid. She moves his soup away and pulls the tray closer, so he can reach any of the goodies if he wants to.

Ares has posed:
    "Do not bury him," Those words are delivered with a short staccato beat to them, no delay to their offering. It speaks to the possibility of him being a native speaker of the language, or else someone who is a decently good linguist with a command of such. Slowly he takes another sip of wine, then as if at her behest he leans forwards reaching out to begin to take advantage of what she had brought before him. His voice lifts again, clearer now. A touch stronger, "He hates that."
    Of course he reaches for the protein first, some poultry of some kind is taken in hand and he begins to tear it apart. Not rough in his movements, just deliberate. There is none of the frenzy of a person who had been starved for an excessively long time, it is more a calculating thing. But as he divests the chicken leg of its meat, he looks towards the guards and seems to consider something.
    It is a long time of consideration, or at the least it seems long in the silence of that room. A silence that is thankfully broken by the click and whirring of the heat coming on and pressure shifting in the radiator. But eventually that gaze is dropped back down to the food and he finally takes a bite. He chews, steadily. Swallows. And then he tells her, "If you wish to know of me. They must leave." A simple equation. Tactics? Control? Perhaps all is at play here.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
"Well he isn't dead so we weren't going to be burying him," she replies, eyebrows going up a bit in surprise. He hates that? Getting buried? That implies it has happened before, when he was believed fully dead. And wasn't. How could that be? Who are these people?

As he starts to eat, she merely waits at the end of the table. He isn't starving. Although he did have that soup. Maybe that took the edge off. It's as likely a reason as any. Something about this whole situation is putting her more on edge.

Whe she sees that long regard of the guards again, she doesn't tense. Physically. Mentally, she's prepared, guessing he may make a break for it if he thinks he can take the two. If her senses are right, he can.

The statement is met with a blank stare from her for long moments. "I don't think they are allowed to leave," she says, sounding confused by the request and glancing over toward the closest guard. "Are you?"

A negative shake of the head is the response.

She looks back to the man at the table. "You were locked in a cell. Not taken to the camps. So are you one of them? A traitor to their cause? Are you their enemy but, if so, why were you locked in a cell instead of just killed. Or a prisoner with the other soldiers. At this point, we do not know if you are friend or foe so the guards remain to protect me."

Ares has posed:
    She can see him as he gauges the situation, she can almost imagine the clicking of his thoughts in turn, churning through the scenarios of the moment. The tendons in his jaw clench subtly, his eyes narrowing just the faintest amount. Micro signals of body language that she has most likely been trained to read, a building of tension in the man's form. If he was going to jump, now would be the moment. But then that moment passes, the tension flowing from him freely as he relaxes as if a bridge had been crossed and it was a relief.
    "I was in Greece." He offers to her, a beginning. "When the Italians invaded." He straightens up slowly and then tosses the bone onto the plate before him, clinking faintly with the impact. "Visiting. Playing at having a place amongst the people there. Knowing I had none."
    He straightens up and perhaps then she may gain her first glance of him... of him as the man that he is, but a hint of it hidden behind all the grime and the hardship. There is something... larger than life about him, as if he was entirely comfortable with who he is, with this situation...
    Yet considering this situation that is clearly absurd.
    "Before the invasion began they sent in infiltrators. Those they thought could ease the way." A snort is heard, condemning as he adds, "It was comical. Or would have been until several of them killed a man whom I had enjoyed drinking with for the last three days. He was a good man. He had a kind family. And he was shot from the shadows."
    He looks back towards her and meets her gaze, his brown irises in the damaged bloodshot eyes meeting hers and seemingly trying to bore a hole through to the back of her head. "I decided to take command. We defeated them." He takes a breath, this prisoner who had been found bound and tormented. "Now what I have told you is true. Entirely. I would have like from you. For if there is one thing I have learned in all the time I have lived..."
    The prisoner looks slowly away from her to the guards, "Is to see the blood that is there on the hands of those who have killed. Who have butchered." He nods slowly, lifting a hand to pierce the air almost weakly as he points in the direction of the soldiers. "I do not see it on him."
    The younger guard swallows awkwardly, clearly unsettled as he adjusts his grip on the rifle.
    "Yet I see it on him." He meets the eyes of the taller of the two guards who is professional enough to not change his stance.
    But then he turns to Natasha and with all the calm precision one would expect from a professional killer who has seen much, he tells her in that maddeningly calm tone of his. "And I see it on you."

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
Everything is seen. Noted. The micro expressions. The timbre of his voice. The way he holds himself, shifting his body in the chair. He has complete confidence in himself. He knows what he can do. Now that he is unleashed, this man is a danger to them all. If he chooses to be.

She has no idea if what he says about being able to sense those who have blood on their hands. It would be an easy enough guess with the guards for anyone that knew how to read people. But her? That's another story entirely.

She knows she gives away nothing. No expression, no movement. It's been drilled into her since childhood. Failure in training by the tiniest bit was met with the most violent of responses. She learned not to fail. To be the best. Yet, he seems to see something. Or is he just fishing? That would make more sense.

He has asked for the truth. That is the last thing she is ever supposed to give. Yet, he has been honest as far as he believes. Or he's a better liar than she and her instructors at the Red Room.

She makes a choice. Her right hand comes up to the guards and she motions to the door. They exit immediately. She waits until the door closes behind them, eyes never leaving that of the former prisoner. Once they are gone, she speaks.

"I am Natalia Romanova, of the Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti. " An olive branch of truth. "Your name?"

Ares has posed:
    "Aris Periplanomenos," Is given to her, the shift from Russian to the Greek is seamless as he watches her, those dark eyes never moved away from her even as the guards leave the room. Yet she can read in his manner, his features, no real relaxation in him, not taking her for granted. It's clear that with her removing that element he seems to recognize or realize that /she/ is the true threat in the room.
    But there is no malice in his gaze, no hatred that she's seen even in the eyes of some of her countrymen when they looked on her. It is a recognition. For would a sword blame another sword for their edge?
    "How long do you believe they will keep me here, Natalia?" Back to Russian, as if it might be easier for her. But then... as if this entire conversation had taken a more at ease feeling to it, he asks. "And is it true, the war is over?" On some level he can sense it, can feel in the depths of his being that it has passed, that man is no longer seeking the death of his fellow man in quite the same degree as but a few weeks ago.
    Yet it may well be a thing entire to hear of it from her lips.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
"Until they decide if you are useful to them," Natasha says simply. She isn't trying to mislead him, not lying to him. She has decided that truth may be more helpful in this particular situation. Often in her line of work, she has to go with her gut instead of with her orders. It doesn't go well with her superiors but she gets results so she doesn't usually get punished for the small act of free will. "The situatin in this place is too unusual for them to just look away, assuming you are just a typical prisoner. So they will try to get the information, to determine if you can aid Mother Russia in her path within the world."

No one told him about the War. They were told to keep quiet about any details. Yet, he knows.

"War is never over," she says with a shrug. "It just changes faces. The open one that the world was drawn into? Yes, that is over."

Ares has posed:
    "I will not be useful to them," Gone is the craggy raggedness of a man starved half to death. Gone is the rumbly voice from inactivity. He looks down at the glass of wine, the remnants still in his glass as he finishes them with a tilt back. He swallows, then sets it down upon the table with a faint clink.
    "I will answer all that I can to you, though my war... it was a small narrow thing." As it might seem he spent the majority of it here, perhaps after the resistance in Greece fell. But that speaks nothing to the nature of the being before her.
    Then he turns his head to the side, cocking it curiously as he leans to take up the bottle she had brought with her. He considers the label, and if the setting were different, if this were the streets of Paris of some years ago and they were not marred by the dinginess of this war... his body language might speak to something timeless. An old man looking at the vintage of wine, while a beautiful woman looks on.
    "I wonder, will you drink with me?" Still his Russian is precise, near perfection yet she may begin to hear subtle touches of the Greek to its guttural sounds.

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
For a moment, she considers. Then she nods, pulling another chair over to the table and settling. She is sitting across from him, keeping the table as a barrier of sorts. He will recognize it as a calculated choice no doubt. "I would love some wine."

She settles back in her chair, seeming relaxed. "They will not just take your word that you won't be useful. Why were you kept here, bound as you were? And the others? The old man is alive but brain dead. There were two others, dead."

Perhaps they were friends of his too. Maybe they were a team? Too many possibilities to choose from. The only way to get answers is if he is willing to tell her.

"Your war?" She picks up on those two words.

Ares has posed:
    With a certain ease of motion he holds the bottle by the bottom, thumb in the indentation as he turns it just so to gurgle the red into her glass. He proceeds to refill his own and then sets the bottle aside as he leans back into the chair. He might be recovering somewhat, but there is still the faintest wince in him as the chair back touches his own. Most would not notice, it's little more than a narrowing of his eyes. But she is perceptive.
    "They may well not." He accepts her statement, but offers no reply beyond that. Instead he addresses her other concerns. "As for the others, I did not know they existed until they did not. The old man..." His words trail off and he looks to the side, towards the radiator for a moment then back to her. His smile is a small thing, barely there. "In the long hours of what I thought was night... he would speak to me."
    He looks up at her and then confesses, "Or, at the least, I thought he did. I could have been imagining it if only to... imagine I was not alone." He flares one hand slightly to the side, a gesture she might recognize as something that those in the Mediterranean use to signal that such words might not be worthwhile of the speaker.
    He holds his glass for a moment, then takes a sip, resting both hands around its base. "As for my war, it ended when the 9th Panzer invaded. I was captured and placed here." He gestures slightly with the cup.
    But then he leans forwards slightly, resting his glass and his arms upon the table. "Natasha Romanova, I am going to ask of you something. I am going to ask if I can buy the lives of those here from you." He meets her gaze and to her surprise there seems such... sincerity, as if there was a pain that was being felt and suppressed. "I would offer you my aid, once. In the future. A single wish that I will grant. In exchange I would have you go to your superiors, convince them that the best course would be for you to gain what intelligence I have, and then for me to be set free."
    He is not breathing, or it seems like he is holding his breath as he looks at her, his own dark brown eyes searching the brilliance in her own green. "If you can do this. Then I will be indebted to you."

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
It's never a bad thing to have someone owe favors. Especially when the individual is dangerous. She knows this man is. Yet, she isn't sure that deal is worth the price. She looks relaxed in chair, cradling her glass of wine in her left hand. She takes a small sip, eyes watching him over the rim as she does so. Weighing all the little details. He believes it is a good deal but of course, anyone would. He isn't the one who would be facing the wrath of her superiors if they learned he was of more worth than they thought.

Natasha swirls the red in her glass, not really needing to aerate it but it's something to do as she considers. "You want me to lie to my superiors on the offer that you will owe me." Not a question, just a repeat of what he's said as though she's weighing it, considering it.

"I can read you. You are dangerous. Deadly even. But what makes it worth my while to have you owe a favor? I don't even know if you are a man of honor truly, other than your word on it." She smiles a little bit. "In my line of work, you will understand why promises are difficult to believe."

Ares has posed:
    A nod is given and this, if nothing else, this she has said gives him trepidation. She can see the furrow to his brow as his jaw tightens, his hands still holding onto the glass of wine as if it were the only thing keeping him afloat. Not nerves, not a panic, but more with a steady intensity and focus that one might see when climbing a rope atop a slowly sinking glacier. Just steady focus.
    His eyes return towards her and he says quietly, for sound carries in the near silence of the room so easily, "You would be doing your people a favor. An easing of the moment to allow them to continue without my obstruction. What would pass between us would be a debt." He takes a sip of the wine, then sets the drink aside.
    "I have no reason to expect such from you. To expect you to overcome what you have seen and what they have done to you." His broad shoulders tense for a moment as he takes a deep breath and holds it, then exhales slowly. "When I look upon you, I have seen your eyes in others. This war has made many who look upon the world similarly." He shakes his head slowly, "There was a time I would have lauded your composure, such control, such... death. But now I see your eyes."
    His brow knits together and he says, "And I feel sadness."

Black Widow (Romanoff) has posed:
He might as well have slapped her.

Natasha's brow furrows and her composure is gone. Emotions are easily readable in her eyes for a moment. Confusion. A touch of fear that he would see through her so easily. That he seems to know about her training. The young Widow hasn't perfected her skills after all. This is all pushed aside and she clings to the anger.

"You know nothing about me," she says sharply, setting down the wine glass. "There is no reason for sadness. I chose my path. I serve my country. Proudly.

But isn't that what he did? When he helped, which ended up with him here locked in a cell. It's too much and her mind is spinning out of control so she decides the better part of valor is retreat. She can take the time to research his story, see if he was lying to her.

"I will leave you think for a bit." Like he's the one needing the reprieve. "When you can come up with a reason your offer should appeal, you can ask for me."

She is very pleased with herself when she walks calmly to the door instead of running away.