Template:Featured Articles/19-2017
 Natasha was reminded strongly of some of the worst seizures she'd ever seen as Kyle and Molly rolled to a stop in a tangle of limbs. Some she'd induced and others she'd helped fake. The more dramatic, the less people asked questions - too traumatized to want to deal with it. Right now, Molly's super strength and invulnerability were their only saving graces. She rolled the stingers between her fingers, then came to a decision. They needed something more potent and she had just the thing that would give even a healing factor pause. But even that would need a bit of a boost. She deftly switched the stingers for one of the epi-pens in the pea pod, which she then quickly jabbed into her arm. No anti-histamine for her. Nope, lab purified adrenaline courtesy of Clint and their various contacts. She slid the modified wrist guards off and tucked those away with the stingers. She slowly flexed her wrists so just the tips of her prongs showed. No need to blow through more adrenaline than she needed. They hadn't refined her adrenaline crash parameters yet, and in truth this was the first time she'd be using her new abilities. Evidently no time like the present. Kyle's shirt was garbage, so a few more holes wouldn't matter. Once her prongs started to glisten, she flexed both wrists fully and jabbed them into Kyle's chest until she felt the venom drain into him. Kyle fought as viciously as ever, bucking, biting, trying to scratch Molly's invulnerable eyes out. He got one leg up and over her neck, and then went deadly still. His head cocked to one side, and let out a horrible hissing noise, mouth foaming, nose running and snot all over his face. Kyle grunted and stopped fighting. Then his eyes locked down onto his chest, where Natasha's wrists were pressing hard into his muscles. They followed the prongs up her arms, and slowly over her shoulders and then to her face. His eyes, bloodshot and jaundice-yellow, met hers. The words that came out of his mouth sounded like "Wash Artichoke, Pirogie Gore Et, Crans Eye" all Slavic consonants that sounded alien in the so-very-American Kyle Gibney's mouth. Natasha's first thought was his accent was atrocious. Whoever taught him needed to be shot. His eyes told her he did and didn't recognize her. Then the words registered. Time slowed. She heard nothing but the rushing of blood in her ears, felt the dull thud of her heart in her chest, and then fractured red fog enveloped her. She couldn't look away. Sight tunneling until it was all she could see. But it wasn't complete. Not utterly, not like what it could be. She gave a long blink and the circling of her thumb over the hourglass mark on her left wrist stopped. "No, it's not." Natasha blinked again and a shudder ran through her. Her lips thinned as she glared down at Gibney. "Da, Crans Yee. Alfha Beet. Ya Blesha Shalom Put Murder..." the mangled Russian was spat out of Kyle's mouth, all wrong from his lips, and he bit at Molly's face, teeth scraping off her cheek. His voice grew strangled and raspy. Natasha's mind blanked out at the next set of words even as she uttered the response, "Ya predpochel by letat'." It was like all the switches were flipped to OFF. Her eyes closed and all the tension in her body was cut free. Her head rolled forward as she slumped to the ground in a graceless heap, cushioned marginally by the dense winter gear she was in. |
