Chapter Text
Somewhere over the Bering Sea
Sevastopol . Sous-marine .
Those were the two pivotal words that escaped Paris’ quivering lips before she blacked out from a stab wound inches away from her heart. Fortunately, the assassin’s heart was still beating persistently, and 48 hours later she was flying from Italy to the Bering Sea through thick grey clouds on a chartered plane, thanks to none other than The White Widow. Thanks to Paris, they now knew what the mysterious key unlocked, and where it was located.
“This doesn’t feel right,” Ilsa mumbled, writhing in her spacious brown leather seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs every now and then.
To Ilsa Faust, comfort was discomfort. She was never the type to sit still. Her wary gaze was fixated on her adversary’s former henchman, who was in charge of commanding the pilot in plotting the path to the submarine. In her palms, there was a small electronic device that resembled a map of sorts.
Paris then moved next to Grace, and seemed engrossed in conversation despite the slight language barrier. Something had shattered inside her when Gabriel betrayed her, and it was not just her broken ribs. It should have made her more distrustful of others, but she seemed to warm up to Grace rather quickly. Perhaps it was in a devotee’s habit to find a new source of hope and purpose.
One minute, Grace was on a plane, hired to steal a key, and now she was on a different plane trying to save the world. Although she had some hefty crimes on her ledger, she never considered herself more than a humble pickpocket. The rest of the IMF were on a separate flight, as The White Widow’s bargaining chip for investors. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Plus, if their suspicions were correct, Gabriel would be heading there too. It was an arms race for control of the Entity’s source code, for better or for worse.
“What doesn’t feel right, is the fact that you haven’t touched your champagne,” Alanna Mitsopolis chided.
She took a sip from her own champagne flute, sitting next to Ilsa in her custom snow-white parka. The bubbly beverage splashed violently across the neatly folded white napkin as the plane jerked suddenly. Ilsa groaned at the mini charcuterie board in front of her; frankly, she lacked the appetite.
“You can’t be too careful. After all, she was Gabriel’s second-in-command, and he nearly fucking killed me,” Ilsa muttered in a low voice.
She shivered at the thought of his contemptuous grin inches away from her face as his knife came dangerously close to her.
“You must be forgetting that he almost killed her too,” she protested, sneaking a glance at Paris’ thick bandages peeking out from beneath her shirt as she moved. It was Alanna’s medical team that helped her recover in such a short timeframe. “Besides, you of all people should know that being affiliated with nefarious men does not a villain make,” she said pointedly.
Ilsa looked away, knowing that Alanna was right, and opted to stare at the storm clouds forming outside the window. She had spent years undercover with Solomon Lane, who was practically a terrorist. Hell, if she was keeping score, The White Widow had her fair share of connections with bad men. Nonetheless, Ilsa had few reasons to trust anybody on this plane.
All of a sudden, the plane shook side to side forcefully, akin to a rollercoaster ride. She clutched the sides of the leather seat, her face turning as pale as her whitening knuckles. Ilsa never quite understood Ethan’s affinity for berserk airplane tricks.
“What’s the matter? Is super spy Ilsa Faust afraid of a little turbulence?” Alanna teased. Ilsa glared in response; something had been bothering her since she boarded the plane, but she could not quite put her finger on it. Then, Alanna unfastened her 24K gold heart-shaped necklace, and chained it around Ilsa’s neck. It felt cool against her warm skin, and Ilsa thought it must have cost more than the goddamn plane. “Here, for good luck. Now nothing can touch you,” Alanna said with a wrinkle of her nose. Then, she slipped a Valium into her palm for good measure.
“Thanks,” Ilsa mumbled, her fingers immediately fidgeting with the necklace.
As she drifted off to a light sleep, Ilsa took a groggy look at the clouds, expecting a raging tempest, yet it was too wispy to even be considered a storm cloud. She was no meteorologist, but these appeared to be Cumulus clouds rather than the towering, storm-inducing Cumulonimbus type. Ilsa frowned at her now-empty glass of champagne, its contents splattered across the velvet carpet. If there was no storm, then what the hell was causing the plane to…
“What the fuck?” Grace shouted.
Ilsa woke from her slumber to the sound of screaming, as the plane shook violently with clattering noises sounding from the sputtering engine. Someone had placed an oxygen mask over her face – was it Alanna? Was this all a nightmare? Her vision was an utter blur, her ears ringing in her head. Baggage and equipment tumbled onto the ground, as did the shiny beverage carts and glassware, shattering into a million pieces. As the aircraft jolted repeatedly, the lights flickered off, and they were immersed in complete darkness until flames engulfed the back of the plane.
The last thing she saw before the plane plummeted to the ground was the pilot’s body being flung out through the air, with a piece of scrap metal impaled through his torso.