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Chapter 14: Operation "Think Tank"

Steve caught Natasha in the compound's east corridor. She'd timed it perfectly, just far enough from the training area to avoid any awkward encounters, and close enough to the exit to make a quick getaway when needed. Classic spy tactics, even when she was technically among friends.
 
"You're really not staying for Y/N's mission simulation?" Steve asked, trying very hard not to sound like a disappointed father and failing spectacularly at it.
 
Natasha adjusted her overnight bag, the soft leather worn from countless impromptu stays at Bucky's. "Bucky and I have plans."
 
The words fell flat between them, as convincing as a child's first attempt at deception.
 
"You expect me to believe that?"
 
"Guess not… But I do expect you to respect my decision."
 
Steve studied her for a long moment. The news about how you'd handled the Bus incident had spread through S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers Compound like wildfire. Quick thinking, steady hands, and the kind of instinctive heroism that couldn't be taught. Even Hill had been impressed, and Maria Hill's approval was about as rare as a quantum-stable Vibranium isotope (to borrow one of Banner’s more colourful analogies).
 
It only reinforced Sam’s idea. To use you as their new intelligence and strategy analyst, for lack of a better name. You’d been around them long enough to understand the team dynamics, had an uncanny understanding of science and technology, and clearly possessed the instincts required to be the Avengers' core strategist and operator.
 
“Nat, is there something you’re not telling me? Steve's voice softened, probing with the caution of someone who'd learned the hard way how to navigate Natasha's emotional minefields.
 
She adjusted her bag again, a tell so subtle most people would have missed it. But Steve wasn't most people, and he'd known her long enough to recognise when she was buying time to organise her thoughts.
 
"No," she lied. "There’s not."
 
“Well… if you decide that there is,” he gazed down pointedly at her, knowing full well she was hiding something, “you know where to find me.”
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
You’d been working overtime to contain your nervous energy, to package it into something manageable, but Tony's impending revelation had your insides performing somersaults all morning. For now, all you knew was that the team had come to a quasi-unanimous decision.
 
All things considered, their proposition had come gift-wrapped in generous terms—the suite, the clothes, the status—but you also understood the heft of the exchange rate. Nothing in this world came without cost, and you'd learned enough about the Avengers to know that their trust was a currency more precious than any material comfort.
 
Which brought you here, to this moment, in this room that had witnessed countless transformations before yours. The training area hummed with Tony’s latest invention. An invention, you knew full well, that would somehow involve you. You couldn't help but wonder if the others had felt this same combination of terror and exhilaration when they first stepped into their roles.
 
Had Wanda's hands trembled like yours were threatening to? Had Sam felt this same vertigo? Maybe… But probably not.
 
It felt surreal, this transformation from scientific anomaly to potential team asset. No longer were you a mere science mystery with a little cot in the lab. No longer was your closet made up of the infamous S.H.I.E.L.D. sweats. The memory of your old lab cot—that narrow slice of existence that had been your whole world not so long ago—now felt like a story from someone else's life. Yet it had led you here, through a series of impossible moments and far too many tests, to this precipice.
 
You absentmindedly kept caressing your new access card against your hip where you'd clipped it. The reminder of the deal you'd struck. Room and board in exchange for... what, exactly? Your skills? Your loyalty? Your future? Perhaps all of these things, wrapped up in the neat package of "paying your dues". Tony’s words, not yours.
 
You took a deep breath, letting it fill your lungs until they ached. The time for nervous fidgeting was over. Whatever Tony was about to reveal would either make or break this fragile new reality you'd been offered. And somehow, despite the butterflies staging a revolution in your stomach, you were ready to find out which it would be.
 
Steve walked in, his presence commanding the instant attention of everyone present. You could feel the subtle buzz of anticipation; it was damn near intoxicating. Before he could say a word, Tony bounced to his feet with the manic energy you’d come to familiarise yourself with. The type of energy that usually preceded either brilliance or chaos, sometimes both… mostly both. You'd learned to read his expressions by now: the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that meant he was particularly proud of something, the way his hands couldn't quite stay still when he was about to unveil his pièce de résistance.
 
“Welcome, welcome, to Operation Think Tank!” he started, clapping his hands together. "For those of you who decided to grace us with your presence today, you'll get front-row seats to history in the making." He paused with a familiar glint of sass sparking in his eyes. "Romanoff's clearly too cool for this, and Barnes is... playing the all-supportive boyfriend, I’m guessing?"
 
You caught the slight tightening around Steve's lips at the mention of Natasha and Bucky's absence. There was a story there, one you were gradually becoming part of, whether you'd meant to or not.
 
Tony turned toward you with a wide grin. “And let’s not forget the star of the show, our very own wunderkind, analyst-strategist extraordinaire!”
 
The adrenaline from the Bus incident still coursed through you, and for the first time since this whole Times Square ordeal began, you felt like you had earned your place in the world.
 
Steve gave you a nod of encouragement before glancing at Tony. “Alright, Tony. Show us what you’ve got.”
 
With a dramatic flourish, Tony pulled back a cover to reveal a sleek piece of equipment resembling an advanced arcade simulator. All gleaming curves and softly pulsing lights. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you... OmniSight.
 
Clint whistled low. “Looks fancy. What’s it do?”
 
Tony wagged a finger. “Patience, Legolas. OmniSight is the ultimate tactical support system. It’s designed to process mission data—threats, terrain, tactical opportunities—and feed you all real-time intel.”
 
Bruce, who had transformed into his not-so-mean, green alter ego for the simulation, offered you a small, encouraging smile. “Alright, Y/N, quick rundown… The simulation will generate random threats. Your job is to process the incoming data and guide the team through without anyone ‘dying’.”
 
You nodded.
 
"You don’t need to micromanage every move. Just focus on the big picture—spot threats, call out openings, and keep them on track. Trust your instincts."
 
You nodded again.
 
"The simulation adjusts based on your decisions. If you take too long to act, the threats escalate. No pressure."
 
Yeah. No pressure at all. Just processing mission-critical data for a team of superheroes while sitting in what looked like the world's most expensive gaming setup. You were sure you had performance anxiety dreams that started better than this. If you could remember them, that is.
 
Sam smirked, sensing your trepidation. “You alright?”
 
You chuckled awkwardly, trying to hold on to the memory of what had pushed you to fix the breach in the hull. Muscle memory, instinct, whatever it was. “Oh, yeah. I’ll… do my best.”
 
Tony pressed a button on the console, and the building’s systems went into lockdown mode. A safety measure to contain any potential energy surges or dangers resulting from the simulation and experimental tech.
 
Sliding into the OmniSight chair, you slipped on your headset and took a deep breath as the holographic interface flared to life. This wasn’t just a simulation, it was your moment to prove that the trust they’d placed in you wasn’t misplaced.
 
Within seconds, the room transformed into a dense, holographic jungle, complete with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant water. You could almost taste the dampness in the air. Your fingers hovered over the controls, each monitor a window into a different aspect of the mission—terrain analysis, heat signatures, tactical projections.
 
“Here’s the deal, folks. Hydra operatives stole a piece of S.H.I.E.L.D. tech and are attempting to smuggle it across the border. Our job is to intercept them before they flee. Y/N will guide us through every step… Y/N, whenever you’re ready…”
 
It took you a minute to process the data running across three monitors. In theory, this was an amazing idea. Practically? Daunting AF. Perspiration prickled along your hairline as you felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes on you, all waiting for you to say something. Give an order, an alert, a heads-up. Anything. You'd felt it before. In the library with Natasha, on the Bus during that heart-stopping crisis. But this was so much worse.
 
Someone shifted their weight—Clint, probably, always restless before a mission. A sigh followed—Sam, you'd bet money on it. Then a throat clearing that could only be Bruce, trying to be supportive in his awkward, endearing way. The silence stretched like a rubber band pulled to its limit.
 
Steve's footsteps approached the console. "Y/N... Just start with what you see."
 
The monitors flickered with data, patterns emerging like constellations. "Two enemy squads ahead." Your voice surprised you with its stability, as if some other, more confident version of yourself had temporarily taken control.
 
"Good. Where should we go? Give us a path to take."
 
The tactical display painted a story in heat signatures and elevation contours. "The northern trail's a trap. Go west. It's tougher terrain, but you'll bypass the ambush and cut them off before they reach the extraction point."
 
Sam's exhale of relief was audible. "You heard the girl. Let's move."
 
Time compressed into a series of rapid-fire moments, your voice guiding them through the holographic jungle with growing confidence. "Three hostiles at your ten, Sam... Cap, there's a ravine coming up on your right… Barton, you've got high ground potential about thirty meters ahead..."
 
The simulation responded to their movements in real-time, constantly adjusting and evolving. You found yourself settling into a rhythm, your mind processing data streams with an efficiency that would have seemed impossible just minutes ago.
 
Then something changed. A new pattern emerged in the data. Heat signatures shifting, coalescing into a formation you'd seen in those classified files Tony had given you to study.
 
"Wait... The enemy patterns... they're not random. They're herding you."
 
"Herding us?" Steve's voice carried a sharp edge of concern, despite this being a simulation. "Toward what?"
 
Your fingers flew across the displays, pulling up topographical data, cross-referencing thermal readings. "It's not what they're herding you toward, it's who they're herding you away from..."
 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
The streetlights projected stripes across Bucky's bedroom ceiling, a familiar pattern that Nat had memorised during countless nights like this. His arm whirred softly—a sound that had once put her on edge but now felt like home—as his fingers traced soft, idle patterns on her back. The sweet intimacy of the moment contradicted the heft of the secrets and paranoia they shared.
 
"So you didn't tell him about the vision?" Bucky's voice rumbled through his chest, where Nat’s head rested. The question wasn't really a question, he knew her too well for that, but rather an invitation for her to voice what had been haunting her thoughts.
 
"How could I? Y/N's a freaking star now. Who would believe me?" The words tasted bitter, not because they weren't true, but because they were. Your heroics on the Bus had transformed you from potential threat to rising hero in the team's eyes. Everyone loved a good redemption story. She would know.
 
"I believe you."
 
"That's different. You're you." She shifted slightly, pressing closer as if physical proximity could somehow make the burden easier to bear. "You understand what it's like to see something no one else sees. To know something's coming but not be able to prove it."
 
The comfortable silence stretched between them. Outside, a car alarm went off before falling silent, a reminder of the mundane world that existed beyond their bubble of concern.
 
"So what's the plan here, Romanoff? Keep it to ourselves?"
 
Nat connected invisible dots like the threads of a spider's web on his chest. "Wasn't it you who said we're the first line of defence if shit goes down?"
 
"So that's how you wanna play this? Keep a watchful eye on her? Wait to see if she makes a move of some sort?"
 
The question hung in the air between them. They'd both been the subject of others' suspicions before, had both been watched and evaluated and judged. The irony of their current position wasn't lost on either of them.
 
She pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, where the steady rhythm reminded her that not everything in their lives was complicated. Some things, like this, like them, were beautifully, terrifyingly simple.
 
"We watch," she finally murmured. "We wait. And we hope like hell I'm wrong."
 
But hope, as Natasha Romanoff had learned long ago, was a luxury that spies couldn't always afford.
 


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