Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Arnime Zola curls up into herself, sitting slumped outside the SHIELD medical department. There’s a piece of paper crumpled up in her hands, but she’s not looking at it. Her eyes are fixed on the ground.

“Doctor Zola?” Zola looks up, to see Director Carter standing over her, looking down with one eyebrow raised. “You didn’t show up for work today.”

Zola doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t feel like wasting what little breath she has left. Instead she just smooths out the paper in her hands, and hands it to Director Carter.

Carter’s eyes sweep down it, and Zola sees them catch on the words at the bottom of the page. Diagnosis: Terminal.

At the age of fifty, Margaret Carter is just as beautiful as ever, her neat brown curls touched with silver and her makeup picture-perfect. Zola has worked with her for twenty years now, and she has felt many things about the other woman - jealousy, affection, disdain, fear - but right now, she hates Carter.

When Zola was fifty, she was an old woman already, worn with a lifetime of cowardice and envy. But even when she was young, she had never been beautiful - a short, fat little woman who spent all of her time buried in her lab. It was not her ugliness that she resented, but her weakness. Her mind was strong, yes, but her body always failed her. Perpetually weak and perennially ill, she had grown up hating her body and her own humanity.

Carter, Zola can tell, never had such problems. Carter is strong, and brave, and beautiful. No man would ever turn away in disgust and mock her attentions. She’s like a movie heroine, winning the hero’s love with her perfect lipstick and her high heels.

Zola was never the heroine type. There are no women like her in the movies.

“Doctor . . .” Carter says, softly. “Doctor, I’m sorry. Can nothing be done?”

Zola’s hatred fails her all of a sudden. She didn’t expect Carter to sympathize with her. God knows she doesn’t deserve it - even at this moment, HYDRA’s tentacles are working their way deeper into SHIELD’s heart at Zola’s command. “It’s incurable,” she whispers, staring at the ground.

A hand comes to rest on her shoulder, and Zola looks up to see Director Carter sitting next to her. “You know I’ve never . . . gotten on with you,” Carter begins. Zola lets out a short, bitter laugh. That’s an understatement. Carter was always the last person to trust Zola with anything. “But you are working with SHIELD for a reason. And that reason is your intelligence.”

“What else do I have?” Zola asks.

“Don’t be like that,” Carter admonishes. “I know self-pity when I see it, Doctor Zola.”

“I am dying. Surely, if anyone deserves self-pity, it is myself.”

“Pity won’t get you anywhere, Doctor. You have done terrible things. You know that. But you’ve also done remarkable things.”

Zola frowns. “What are you saying, Frau Direktor?”

“I’m saying that you’ve performed miracles before, Doctor.”

Zola’s eyebrows raise. “You think I could save myself? Invent a cure to a disease that no one else could?”

Carter shakes her head. “I don’t know what you can do, Doctor. Only you do.” She pats Zola on the shoulder and stands up. “Don’t lose hope.” She offers Zola a companionable grin. “After all, the other doctors looking for a cure were only men.”

Zola is left staring after her and considering the possibilities.

Later, in HYDRA’s top-secret lab, Zola turns to the scientist in charge, and tells him, “Activate Project Asimov.”

Carter is right. There is still much left to be done, and Zola did not get where she is today by giving up easily.

And if Carter lives to regret giving her pet war criminal hope . . . well. Zola never claimed to be the heroine.

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Johanna Decker was an aging housewife - no, she corrected herself, with a heart-wrenching pain, an aging widow now - with two children and a medical degree. Even in her youth, she’d been no Mary Astor, and yet here she was, being asked to play the part of the femme fatale. She had to laugh at it, if only because otherwise she might start crying.

Escapism had always been her stock and trade, and as she sat in the cold holding cell waiting for the terrifying Russian agent to return, she slipped off into her memories. The day she had met her husband, Bruno Decker, so many years ago. He had been a military man, a friend of her brother’s, and Johanna remembered how she and he had fallen deep into conversation, quite ignoring her poor brother. Bruno was so unlike the men she met in her medical practice -  all old men in mind if not in body, much too proper and educated to laugh at themselves. Bruno was never too proper to laugh at anything, and Johanna found herself laughing along. Her brother hadn’t expected them to get along, and he found himself rather miffed as the night went on. Johanna remembered him egging Bruno on to tell ever-dirtier jokes, expecting Johanna to be offended - but Johanna only laughed harder, almost choking on her wine.

A scream from outside of the cell cut into Johanna’s reverie, and she flinched, toying nervously with her wedding ring. Shut it out, she told herself, focus. She stared fixedly at her ring, and forced herself to think back to the day Bruno had first proposed to her. It had been during the Great War, Bruno back home on leave. It had felt like they were stealing precious moments of life out of the jaws of death. Their country had never seen anything like the war engulfing it, and it sometimes seemed then that not just Austria but the entire world would disappear into the flames.

The ring itself had come later. That night, laughing but sincere, he had presented her with a ring made of paper and glue. He had promised that one day when the war was over he’d buy her a real one, but neither of them cared if he did - the words were what mattered to Johanna, and she had said yes by sweeping him into a kiss.

The day the War ended, with Austria-Hungary falling to pieces and the fate of the world still in question, Johanna and Bruno danced together - because whatever happened to the Empire, they were together again, and they let themselves believe that meant everything would be okay.

Six months later, their first child was born. The birth had been difficult, but Bruno held her hand throughout it. “It’s okay,” he said, “It will be okay, just focus on me.”

“You. German. Achtung! What is your name?” The voice that sounded in reality was very different from her husband’s, and Johanna started before looking up at the tall Leviathan agent.

“Johanna,” she said. “Johann De - ” But she stopped herself, because it was too painful to say her dead husband’s name to an agent of the organization that had killed him. “Fennhoff. Johanna Fennhoff.”

Chapter Text

A short woman drives up in a car with Just Married spray-painted on it. She goes into the bar with a kind of dazed smile on her face, and looking back at the car, it’s not hard to see why. Sitting in the passenger seat is a gorgeous man. His name is Lorelius. He has long red hair and the kind of scruff that looks exactly as effortless as it isn’t. He’s wearing some kind of silly costume - a green and gold jacket open to the waist, with slashed poet sleeves, and tight leather pants that leave just enough to the imagination - but it looks great on him. There’s a cold, calculating look on his handsome features, but that looks great on him too, like Edward Cullen and Christian Grey and Benedict Cumberbatch all rolled up into one.

There weren’t a lot of women hanging out in front of the biker bar when he arrived, but the longer he sits there, the more accumulate. Some of them are biker chicks; some of them are waitresses slacking off; a few of them just seem to have wandered by. They watch, and they titter amongst themselves.

But none of them approaches him. They know a few things about dangerous men, the women of this world. They have been taught it all their lives.

The man is displeased. Sheep, he thinks, On Asgard they would already be vying for my favor. Does this world even boast any women worth the effort?

He opens the car door and gets out. He pauses, turns around and locks the car door, making sure to bend over to show off the way the leather pants cling to his body. Then he puts on a flirtatious smile and approaches one of the women.

The world is very simple in Grace Ward’s eyes. She follows orders. She completes the mission. Whether that’s for HYDRA or SHIELD, doesn’t matter to her. She is a loyal and integral member of SHIELD. She is a HYDRA double agent.

Neither of these concepts is contradictory in her mind. She was trained to live a double life, and she has taken to it with a skill that would frighten Garrett, if he was smart enough to know he should be afraid.

She’s an expert at cognitive dissonance, so when Lorelius looks at her up the barrel of his gun, his brown eyes dark and warm, she fights back. There’s someone else. She doesn’t want Lorelius - she wants Sky. There’s something burning in her, stronger than love. Something bright and powerful and unhealthy.

But when Lorelius lays a hand on her, Sky’s face vanishes from her mind, supplanted by another obsession. In the blink of an eye, Ward follows Lorelius with the same unquestioning devotion she owes to Garrett. She thinks nothing of hurting and killing in his name. She is his woman.

When Lorelius says, “You will present me with an army and in return, I will give you a . . . gift,” Ward thinks nothing of building an army.

But the gift . . . that gives her a moment of pause. Lorelius leads her upstairs into a hotel room, and Ward is eager - so eager - but something niggles in the back of her mind. Later, when she looks back on this, she will think that her love for Sky was so strong that she remembered him even in Lorelius’s grip. But that’s not true. Lorelius has overwhelmed love before, without a second thought. Obsession, now . . . that’s stronger than love.

“Come now, Grace Ward,” Lorelius says, seductively. “Lie with me.”

Part of Ward knows she doesn’t want this. But in the end, she follows orders.

She completes the mission.

Chapter Text

People say “fat” like it’s the worst thing a woman could be, but the truth is, Willow Fisk works very hard to maintain her body weight. Most of it is muscle, but the fat is important too. She’s built like a sumo wrestler - if women were allowed to sumo wrestle - and she fights like one, too. There’s just one major difference: Fisk fights dirty. Wrestling has a lot of rules and codes, and Fisk knows the only rules in crime are the ones she lays down.

People make a lot of assumptions about Fisk. That’s okay with her. Let them assume what they will; if they can’t prove it in court (and they never can), it doesn’t matter to her. One of the things they assume is that she’s lazy and out of shape because she’s heavy. Fisk smiles to herself. If they are lucky, they will never give her reason to prove otherwise. She knows she’s a deadly combatant. Of course, she can’t win every fight, and that’s okay too. That’s why she employs assassins and enforcers. After all, a general doesn’t fight on the front lines - and neither does she.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she sees a tall, broad black woman dressed in an expensive grey suit. Her hands folded over her black cane, she strikes a regal figure, befitting her nom de guerre. It’s hard to imagine that as a child, she was impoverished and lonely. But she learned. She had ambition. Knowledge, she believes, is power, and so she studied very carefully before putting the first steps of her plan into action.

There have been a few missteps along the way, but she’s always corrected them. In just a few hours, this Daredevil will be reduced to just another accident on the road to success. It’s a pity he defeated her best assassin - but she knows he will be no match for the Kingpin.

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They say the Marines is no life for a woman, that she’ll never get promoted, that she’ll die alone. The odds are against her . . . and that’s how Emily Blonsky has always liked it. Life’s not worth living without a risk. Without a struggle.

Men like to think they’re stronger than her. A number of them are right, but that number gets smaller and smaller every year. She fights smart and she fights brutal.

The only enemy that poses a real threat to her is age, and that, she doesn’t know how to fight. It isn’t that she minds the lines on her face or the grey in her short hair - but every aching joint and short breath is a reminder that she won’t be able to keep this up forever.

She wonders if she’ll die in battle or if they’ll force her to retire first.

She’s heard all her life that men are better fighters than women. Maybe she bought into it a little, because she’s genuinely shocked when she sees Banner on his knees. He’s mild, and weak, and helpless. He’s no fighter. She can’t imagine why he would want to get rid of the Hulk. Without the Hulk, he’s nothing. Emily almost pities him; she wouldn’t want to live like that.

When she volunteers for the super-soldier serum, she wants to be a fighter. But after the serum burns through her veins, she wants to be something more than that. She wants to become a god, and she’s willing to risk Dr. Sterns’ experimental treatment for that.

It’s hell of a risk. But in the end, she’d rather be the monster than the damsel in distress.

Chapter Text

It’s the first time Mystique has visited since Magneto came out. Magneto feels a vague anxiety - she knows very well how to deal with hatred and oppression, but well-meaning confusion gets past her defenses and shakes her to the core. And she has had enough of that, even from Charles, who treats her like he does students who are struggling with their identity. He means to be supportive, but the contrast between his practiced teaching air and the usual casual way he talks to her is obvious and disconcerting.

She raises a gloved hand and unlocks the many doors to her secret base, and lets Mystique walk down into her lair.

When the younger woman appears, she is unclothed as usual - except for a white satchel. She smiles, pleased to see Magneto. “Hello. It’s been too long, Magda. That’s right, isn’t it? Magda?”

Magneto nods. She has taken on her long-dead wife’s name. Erich, Magnus, Michael Xavier . . . she always liked names she had some connection to. Call it a memorial to those history would forget. “Mystique, what a pleasant surprise. It has been awhile.”

“I brought you a present.” Mystique reaches into her satchel and pulls out a parcel.

Magneto’s eyebrows quirk and part of her - a part she’s not too proud of - starts to be suspicious of Mystique’s motives. Gifts are not a standard part of their relationship, and Magneto didn’t become one of the world’s most feared terrorists without acquiring a touch of paranoia along the way. Mystique is one of her closest friends, and she doesn’t enjoy wondering if this ‘gift’ is some sort of trap or power-grab.

But when she opens it, she sees it’s nothing but cloth. She pulls it out of the paper and sees a long, elegant dress in maroon and purple

“Mystique - ” she says, surprised.

“Not so easy to find a tailor when you’re on the run, is it?” Mystique said, lips quirking. “I know a guy. He was happy to help me out, if a little . . . surprised.”

Magneto returns her ironic grin. “You’re not exactly known for your taste in clothes.”

“Hey, I still have my fashion sense. I just don’t use it on myself these days.”

“Well, then, I am flattered you chose to use it on me.”

“You should be. Try it on.”

Magneto unbuttons her coat - they are beyond modesty - and pulls the dress on over her head. It’s surprisingly heavy, and her powers detect that the cotton is threaded with metal.

“Don’t you have a mirror?” Mystique asks.

“No. I find introspection depresses me.” Magneto tilts her head, considering. “I suppose I could make one.”

Mystique cocks an eyebrow at her, teasingly challenging. “Let’s see.”

Magneto sighs, long-suffering, and raises a hand to reshape the metal of her wall, smoothing it into a reflective surface. Their image appears before them, and Magneto sees a tall, grey-haired woman in the mirror, standing next to Mystique. It’s the first time she’s really seen herself since she started growing her hair out.

She’d like to say that her face reminds her of her mother’s, but in truth, her mother never lived to be this old. Her mother’s eyes were never cold and bitter like hers, either. Magneto wonders if they would have become so, had she lived.

The dress, of course, is nothing her mother would ever have worn. It’s modelled on her costume, but Magneto can see Mystique’s unique style in it too. It’s sleeveless, with a high, cowl-neck collar. There are metallic half-spheres circling around her shoulders, like large rivets, emulating the collar of her normal costume.

“You’re beautiful, Magda,” Mystique says, softly.

Magneto smiles to herself. “You always knew that.” And she leans in to kiss her.