Chapter 14: The Pursuit Begins: Tracking the Widow
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: ESTABLISH CONNECTION WITH YELENA BELOVA. SECONDARY OBJECTIVE: PREPARE FOR MISSION: STINGRAY. INFORMATION ACQUISITION: RECOMMENDED.]
"Establish connection? System, last time I 'established connection' with Yelena Belova, it involved a throwing knife and my temporary demise," I scoffed, peering through a pair of binoculars at a shadowy building known to be a temporary safe house for covert operatives. "I'm pretty sure her idea of 'connection' involves a very painful interrogation and then a deep-sea burial. My idea involves flowers. And maybe a really good pick-up line about aliens."
With my system upgraded and my coffers overflowing with ill-gotten alien gains, it was time to focus on the true reason I was even bothering with this whole "immortal" thing: Yelena Belova. My future knowledge confirmed she was out there, a deadly ghost, working for various shadowy clients. My task now was to find her. And annoy her. Repeatedly. Until she had no choice but to acknowledge my utterly undeniable charm.
My "Basic Espionage Mastery (Limited)" was surprisingly helpful. It wasn't like I could suddenly disarm a bomb with a paperclip, but it gave me an intuitive understanding of tradecraft: how to tail someone, how to find information, how to blend into the background (when I wasn't deliberately trying to get killed, that is). Combined with my "Advanced Tactical Awareness," I was becoming a surprisingly competent, albeit chaotic, spy.
"Alright, Adam, time to put on your detective hat. Or, in my case, my 'mildly unhinged stalker' hat. This is going to require subtlety. And a healthy dose of technological wizardry. Good thing I scavenged a few of those Chitauri data drives."*
I started by leveraging my black market contacts. Silas, despite his initial chipmunk voice trauma, was a surprisingly useful source of information. Money talked, even to disgruntled alien tech dealers. I also infiltrated various dark corners of the internet, using my salvaged Chitauri data drives to access networks and databases that were far beyond normal human capabilities. Turns out, alien processors were really good at hacking. Who knew?
I pieced together fragments of information: a flash report about a 'ghost operative' disrupting a criminal organization in Budapest, a brief mention of a mysterious figure seen near an abandoned Red Room facility in Russia, a flicker of a name – 'Yelena' – whispered in a hushed conversation among rival assassins. She was a needle in a haystack, but I had a very expensive, very weird magnet.
My methods were unorthodox, to say say the least. I once paid a street informant in a perfectly preserved, miniature Chitauri energy cell for a rumor about a "blonde assassin who hates being called 'Natasha.'" I hacked into the encrypted comms of a minor arms dealer, not to steal anything, but to inject a single, anonymous message: "Yelena, your biggest fan wants to know where you're getting your coffee. Asking for a friend. (The friend is me.)"
I even used my "Basic Illusion Casting" to subtly alter wanted posters in various cities, adding humorous little additions to the descriptions of "dangerous blonde female operative" – like "prone to dramatic sighs," or "known to appreciate sarcasm," or "might attempt to stab you, but only because she secretly likes you." I doubt she saw them, but it amused me.
"This is espionage, Adam Stiels style. Less James Bond, more Inspector Gadget with an unlimited revive token. And a lot more bad jokes."*
The intel pointed towards a current assignment in Eastern Europe, a high-stakes hit on a former KGB handler who had gone rogue. Classic Widow stuff. Dangerous. And exactly where I needed to be.
I purchased (legally, for once) a private jet, filled with enough snacks and a surprisingly comfortable sleeping pod. I was rich, after all. No more economy class for this immortal. My "Advanced Tactical Awareness" helped me plot the most discreet flight path, avoiding any major air traffic control systems that might raise red flags.
As I flew, I reviewed everything I knew about Yelena. Her trauma, her conditioning, her dry wit, her love for vests with many pockets. This wasn't just about a prank or a challenge. It was about genuinely getting to know her. To break through the layers of Red Room conditioning and see the real person underneath. And then, to annoy that real person until she finally admitted she loved me.
"This is going to be my magnum opus. The greatest romantic comedy/action thriller the universe has ever seen. Starring me, the perpetually alive, incredibly charming protagonist. And her, the perpetually annoyed, incredibly deadly love interest. It's got 'movie deal' written all over it."*
I meticulously planned my approach, not just for the upcoming "Stingray" mission, but for my first real "contact" with Yelena. I wanted it to be memorable. Unforgettable. The kind of thing that would make her question her sanity.
My private jet touched down on a secluded, abandoned airstrip in rural Hungary. The air was crisp, the night silent. Perfect for a dramatic entrance. Or, in my case, a dramatically annoying one. I knew she was here. My gut, and my "Basic Espionage Mastery," told me so.
"Alright, Yelena," I whispered to the night sky, a mischievous glint in my eye. "Get ready for the most persistent, most sarcastic, most unkillable suitor you've ever had the misfortune of encountering. Your life is about to get significantly more chaotic. And slightly more romantic. Eventually."