Chapter 340

Sokovia

The golden sunlight descending upon Sokovia painted the rugged landscape in shades of amber and bronze, casting a dusky glow over the city's tired streets. In Valleda, an area east of the city center, ramshackle buildings lined uneven roads, rising up in haphazard angles as if fighting for space. Most structures here bore the scars of past conflicts—walls split by deep cracks, windows long shattered and covered with makeshift boards or plastic, entire walls crumbling to reveal gaping holes like wounds left untreated.

Years ago, a fierce war had scarred this small nation. Though Valleda had not been the main battlefield, stray bombs and artillery blasts had ravaged it, leaving homes and lives alike broken. The six years that had passed since then had done little to heal those scars; officials had cobbled together hasty repairs, but for the residents here, life among the remnants of that destruction was the norm.

In one of these buildings, a darkened structure that seemed barely standing, Wanda moved cautiously along a narrow, grimy street. Her tattered clothing and dusty face blended with the environment, masking her presence as she pulled her brother Pietro along. Her sharp eyes scanned their surroundings, vigilant and tense, watching every shadow and doorway until they reached their destination—a decrepit building that looked like it had long been abandoned.

Click, click.

The heavy metal door creaked as Wanda pushed it open, the harsh sound echoing through the dimly lit first floor. Just inside, a pale, stoop-shouldered man lounged at an old desk, his hungry eyes gleaming as he caught sight of Wanda and Pietro.

"Well, look who's back! Had a good haul today, did we?" he sneered, his voice dripping with a familiarity that felt wrong.

Wanda's gaze narrowed. She gripped her brother's hand tighter and adjusted her coat to reveal several worn daggers tucked into her belt. The sight of the blades made the man falter, a flash of unease crossing his face.

He cleared his throat, trying to mask his nervousness. "Remember, you owe your share today," he demanded, his voice attempting firmness. "Don't forget your brother's dues, either."

Wanda didn't bother to respond. Reaching into her coat, she pulled out a small plastic bag and tossed it to him before leading Pietro toward the stairs. The man caught the bag, his gaze fixed on her back as she walked away.

"Hey, Wanda!" he called after her. "You know, our boss has a soft spot for you. Says if you join us, you'll live in comfort—food, clothes, you name it. You won't have to scrape by."

Wanda didn't even glance back. She kept walking, leading Pietro up the dark staircase, her expression set and unyielding. Behind her, the man muttered curses under his breath as he opened the bag. He grimaced at the contents—bread, fruit, a few packets of instant noodles. "Little witch," he grumbled, though he knew better than to provoke her directly.

After all, he hadn't forgotten the incident with the three men who had tried to take Pietro. He'd watched as Wanda, unafraid and unflinching, had taken down all three, her hands and face streaked with blood. Since then, he hadn't dared push her too far.

Wanda and Pietro made their way up the dingy staircase, weaving past beggars and huddled figures wrapped in tattered blankets. Reaching their door, Wanda quickly unlocked it and pulled her brother inside, securing the door with an iron chain before breathing a sigh of relief.

Inside, the room was sparse but clean by local standards. Wanda moved to one corner and withdrew a hidden dagger, swiftly pulling it back and hurling it toward the opposite wall. It hit its mark with a thunk, embedding itself directly in the center of a torn photograph—Tony Stark's face, now riddled with tiny holes from repeated strikes.

Pietro watched silently, accustomed to the sight. Both of them bore the memories of the explosion, the screams, the missiles marked Stark Industries. In this forsaken part of Sokovia, Tony Stark's name was a curse, and many held him responsible for the ruins left in his weapons' wake. Here in Valleda, no one had forgotten.

Satisfied, Wanda stepped back, her gaze cold as she regarded the face of the man who, in her mind, was responsible for their suffering. After that war, she'd honed her skills with whatever weapon she could find, using her focus to enhance her aim. Each throw was a reminder of her vow to seek justice for her family.

Pietro broke the silence, his voice eager. "Wanda, what are we having for dinner?"

Wanda's hardened expression softened as she turned to her brother. "We got a good haul today," she said. "I found some instant noodles and saved eggs and sausage from last week. Let's have a feast."

Pietro's eyes lit up, and he nearly jumped with excitement. "Instant noodles and sausage? Really? I've been dreaming about that!"

To the two siblings, such a meal was a rare luxury, a delicacy savored perhaps once a week. Wanda gathered their meager supplies, setting aside some water to boil and retrieving the hidden eggs and sausage. Soon, the small room filled with the comforting aroma of broth, noodles, and cooked sausage.

Pietro held his bowl reverently, almost inhaling the steam before diving in, slurping up the noodles with childlike enthusiasm. Wanda joined him, savoring each bite. Their laughter filled the room, a rare burst of joy in the midst of their bleak surroundings.

"Wanda," Pietro said between bites, grinning. "I did the dishes last time. It's your turn."

"Oh, really?" Wanda shot back, raising an eyebrow. "I cooked. You wash."

Pietro groaned, leaning back against the worn sofa, a playful smirk on his face. "Nice try, but I remember differently."

Wanda mirrored his smirk, stretching out beside him. They both lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling, momentarily content and full.

A moment of silence passed before Wanda spoke again, her tone suddenly serious. "Pietro," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "We need to leave. Tomorrow."

Pietro blinked, his surprise evident. "Leave? But we've been here a whole year—it's the longest we've ever stayed anywhere."

"I know," Wanda replied, her voice heavy. "But I… I have a feeling. Something bad is coming, but it's strange. There's something good about it too. I can't explain it, but we need to move."

Pietro nodded, recognizing that look in her eyes. Her instincts had kept them alive, her sixth sense often alerting them to danger before it struck. He knew better than to question it now.

"Alright, Wanda," he agreed. "But you're still washing the dishes tonight."

She gave him a mock glare, but her smile broke through. With a sigh, she handed over the bowls and watched as he reluctantly began cleaning up.

The next day, Valleda Airport, Sokovia

Coulson stepped off the plane, dressed in a dark suit, his gaze sharp as he surveyed the surroundings. Behind him, Natasha Romanoff, posing as his assistant, followed in her sleek business attire, and Rumlow, carrying himself with the casual intensity of a bodyguard, brought up the rear.

The trio moved quietly through the terminal, checking their phones as messages flooded in after being offline for the flight. Coulson's brow furrowed as he absorbed the latest information.

"Any updates?" Natasha inquired quietly.

Coulson nodded grimly. "Fifty-six potential leads so far. We've eliminated fifty-one, which leaves us with five."

Just then, another message flashed across his screen. Coulson paused, his expression darkening.

"Seems like someone's trying to get to our targets first," he murmured. "Keep an eye out. We may already be under surveillance."

Natasha and Rumlow exchanged glances but continued walking, their expressions neutral. They were used to playing their roles under pressure. As they left the airport, they subtly dispersed, each taking a separate path, blending seamlessly into the local crowd.

Coulson quickly changed his attire, swapping his suit for casual clothes and donning a hat and dark glasses. Within moments, he had the appearance of a weary traveler, a nondescript figure amongst Sokovia's bustling crowd.

He hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address. As the car sped through the narrow streets, Coulson continued sifting through the mission details on his phone, sending messages and setting rendezvous points with Natasha and Rumlow.

Halfway to his destination, he changed the address. The driver muttered a complaint, but the flash of a crisp $100 bill silenced any objections. Coulson's keen eyes scanned the surroundings as they approached Valleda, his mind piecing together the unfolding events.

Exiting the cab, he made his way through the crumbling streets until he reached the low-rise building housing the Hungry Dog Gang.

On the first floor, a stooped man with shifty eyes eyed Coulson suspiciously. Without a word, Coulson slid a bill across the table, his other hand resting on the pistol at his hip.

"I need information," Coulson said, his voice quiet but commanding. "About a brother and sister, Wanda and Pietro."

The man's eyes widened, his gaze flicking nervously between Coulson and the money. "Yeah… they live here," he stammered. "Sister's Wanda, the boy's Pietro."

"Has anyone else asked about them recently?" Coulson pressed.

The man hesitated. "Uh, yeah, someone was here last night… asking questions. Don't know who, but he was looking for them too."

Coulson's frown deepened. "Are they still here?"

The man swallowed. "Far as I know, they're upstairs. Haven't seen 'em leave."

Coulson pocketed his gun, leaving the man with a tense smile. "Thanks."

Ascending the stairs, Coulson's pulse quickened, his instincts honed by years in the field. Whoever had come for Wanda and Pietro last night might still be close—and Coulson would need to move fast to secure them before anyone else did.

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