[A/N]: Holy hell everyone, we're at the end. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading this story, for the love you have given it, for the willingness to invest in these characters. It was wonderful to write this and share it.

After the last chapter posted, I got a gem of a sexist in my comments (on AO3). So, before we get into the last installment, let me make something perfectly clear:

I will always approach writing from a feminist standpoint (among other things). It's not about "oppressing" men, it's about all lives, all genders being equal. That goes for sexuality and race too.

My work is not for misogynists. Not now, not ever.

Misogynists and all other flavors of bigots: feel free to boost my stats with ignorance if that makes you feel a little less inadequate than you already are.

For the majority of you who are loving, sensible people: you have my love, my thoughts, my art, my devotion. Thank you for existing.

Let's finish this shit.

For the last interrogation, Natasha remains in the observation room. Agent Liu handles this solo.

There's a few preliminary questions from the agent before the subject raises one of his own.

"Who's behind the glass?" Fray asks.

The jacket he wears conceals the bandages she knows to be underneath. Her shot wasn't fatal, unfortunately, but enough to hospitalize him for over a week.

Liu shoots him distaste packaged in a glance.

Probing eyes scour the one-way glass, try to give an impression of panopticism. Natasha knows his self-inflicted mutation involves magnetics, not X-ray vision.

Without looking to his interviewer, he says, "I doubt the entire council is back there, but I'd be surprised if there weren't any witnesses."

Liu steers them. "Let's get back on topic."

"What don't you already know? There's a reason you waited so long to interrogate me." He spiders his fingers together, thinking as though presented with a riddle. It's as though this is no different than any other council meeting for him. All those occasions where they brainstormed and postulated, and he sat behind a screen with the truth while he spewed an artifice.

"I can guarantee Lionel gave away mostly everything about the science. I bet Cyrus gave you nothing." He concludes. "Jake is more difficult. It depends who you sent in with him. Personally, I'd have commissioned Agent Romanoff."

"All I'm at liberty to say is that we know almost all of the details about your company and its project thanks to your colleagues." Liu divulges. "We arranged this interview to offer you a deal."

Intrigue sparks. Fray leans forward, grinning through his musing. "If you supposedly know about everything, what are you hoping to bargain for?"

"A database of your subjects. Genetic therapy for each and every one of them."

A hand runs over Fray's facial brush. "What's the exchange?"

"You avoid a life sentence."

A chuckle slides out, painted with a tint of contempt, "You're not going public with this."

"You know we have our ways, Nick. There will be repercussions." His tenure, his lab, his current projects — those are not untouchable. Liu knows that, Natasha knows that, and, somewhere within him, Fray must realize that too. For months, Chimera Gen could fly under radars with no questions asked thanks to Fray's position and esteem. Though S.H.I.E.L.D is now but a shell, a concept torn between extinction and redemption, it still overpowers the free passes granted by Fray's various privileges.

"I see." He eases back into his chair. Stone solidifies in his cheeks. Without flinching, he says, "There is no cure."

Bullshit.

Liu doesn't believe it for a second either. "You altered their biology. I'm sure there's a way to reverse engineer the effects."

"Brenda — you recruited me for a reason. I'm advancing the field of genetics more than anyone else has done in their lifetime." He says so casually, "When I say there's no cure, there is no cure."

She insists, "You just said it yourself — you're the leading geneticist in the world right now. You can engineer a way to fix what you did."

"It's not feasible."

This is a game Natasha knows well, an old practice of hers: the twisting and play of words. Bastard.

"Well, Doctor Banner disagrees."

There's a light scoff at this idea. "Banner's specialty is nuclear and gamma, not—"

"And biochemistry."

The interjection offends him. "That's not the same."

"It doesn't change the fact that Doctor Banner thinks it's possible."

Exasperation twitches at the edges of his eyes. "It's possible."

There we go.

"You just said—"

"I said it's not feasible."

Liu channels her exasperation through a sigh that borderlines on a groan. "What does that mean, Nick?"

"Do you know how many resources would be needed to try and undo my work? Not just thousands, maybe millions of dollars — and the technology may not even be available."

This explanation doesn't impress anyone, interviewer or observer. "The tech wasn't available when you started. Lionel engineered it."

"And we piloted it on Cyrus."

Liu's taken aback for a moment. "Jesus, Nick."

He continues, unfazed. "But now you're apparently locking Lionel up, so I'm out a brilliant engineer. Unless S.H.I.E.L.D wants to fund me."

No. Natasha would rather tell herself, Not a chance in hell, but she knows better. She knows what's on the table before he does, and hates everything about it. The loathing turns a shred of her mind to Bruce, who said he'd consider designing his own gene therapy before he left yesterday. She doesn't hold anything against him here — this mad experiment's fallout is still the fault of Fray and Chimera Gen. She does wish, however, that she could order the council to wait on Bruce's decision. Give him some time. Let Fray rot a little in the meantime.

But they won't.

"And what if it did?" Liu proposes.

"It wouldn't." He concludes, not even interested in the thought. "Besides, I wouldn't do it."

"Why not?"

As though it's so simple, he shrugs. "Too risky."

"What are the risks? Death? That's already happening."

"Standard subjects and mosaics are at higher risk of developing degenerative symptoms — especially if injected with a mutation designed for a chimera — but we predicted that. That's not what I'm worried about."

Liu presses him. "What else is there?"

"Successful regression would be catastrophic for the original research."

In other words, he doesn't want his genius undone, even if it's by his own work.

Understandably, a murmur of disbelief hisses out of the agent in the room.

"Thousands of dollars down the drain. So much progress wasted, and who knows how long we'd have to wait for it to be replicated by someone else. And then, in the meantime, the world keeps spinning, keeps repeating the same mistakes." He appeals to her like she's a judge.

To Natasha, it's clear that he hasn't learned anything, nor gained any regard for lives other than his own. It's likely he'll never grow. At least she can say differently about herself. At least she has that.

Simply, somberly, Liu tells him, "That's insane."

This fails to frazzle him. "Historically, people have always said that before a scientific milestone."

Liu tries to push a lost cause into sympathy. "You manipulated people in order to test on them with unregulated lab equipment that altered their genetics. People are developing cancer—"

"Lenora developed cancer."

And that isn't a cause for concern, right? Natasha snaps at him within her head, thinking back to his aircraft, where he dubbed a Lena without powers worthless.
Liu demands an answer for the council and the mutants remaining. "Will you help remediate or not?"

Unamused, he chews on the idea. "I'll think about it."

"That's not an option."

"What are you going to do to make me decide?" After only a beat of silence, Fray smirks to himself. "Exactly."

Too late, she threatens, "We'll take the offer off the table."

Natasha wishes.

"And take away the best chance at remediation? That's rather hypocritical."

They have better options than the bastard who did this to them. Her thoughts say "them," yet her mind conjures a scene from weeks ago: the lab after Greenland, after the first encounter with Alma, Lena propped against a lab bench with Berhanu in a seat beside her. Nothing but pure distrust of Natasha and the Q-tip she brandished. Berhanu's laughter filling the room.

Inside the interrogation room, Liu shuffles her papers back together and stands. Her parting with Fray is straightforward. "You have 24 hours to decide."

Natasha seriously considers returning to her roots and assassinating him while he sleeps.

Her new phone buzzes in its pocket. When the screen illuminates, there's Lena's name attached to a text, No hair new me? Lol

Natasha pulls the message down to reveal a preview of a picture featuring a bald scalp and no eyebrows. About a month of treatment has claimed the bottle red locks that streamed down the young woman's back. The smile that peeks at her from the image preview holds no animosity or lament. This could've been much worse; Fray could've been tinkering with her biology again.

Stark Industries had offered some of their resources to assist in the research and creation of a rehabilitative therapy for the mutants. Out of the woodwork — or, rather, the plateaus of Mongolia — emerged Bruce Banner to offer his services as the principal investigator for the study. A few phone calls with Tony and Pepper, and Bruce's new base of operations would be Avengers Tower. Bruce had subsequently contacted Natasha for relocation support.

She doubts he needs her assistance with his grand total of possessions, but they did owe Lena a joint visit. Impatience and anticipation have driven the teen to call Natasha and ask when she would come. That brief conversation took place a little over a week ago. Thankfully, Bruce's decision came shortly thereafter.

That brought her here, to the organized rendezvous point. At the apex of the aircraft's ramp, she waits. Outfitted in civilian clothes with her hair back to curls, a thought wanders across her mind, wondering if the first thing he points out will be her latest shift in appearance.

Soon enough, her answer arrives. A petite taxi deposits him a few meters before the larger vessel and rumbles off after the driver pauses to gawk.

She holds her place as he walks up to meet her. Her greeting is easy. "Hey stranger."

The smile that's lived in her memories for a few weeks now appears in front of her. He waits until he's at her level to respond. "What'd I miss?"

Together they retreat into the small plane's belly, the ramp lifting shut in their wake.

"Liu's prepping for the first phase of remediation. They've got a bunch of kids on their radar right now." She relays to him, moving toward the pilot's seat. She tosses a backward glance just as he drops his bag onto one of several empty seats. "They're monitoring from a distance for the time being."

"Until I come up with a cure." Anxiety seizes his hands, which begin their habitual fidgeting.

"No pressure." Lighthearted as it sounds, she's not even sure of whether it's a joke or the reality of their situation.

They don't know the nature of risk posed to the mutated kids, if they should view their lives through a draining hourglass. Alma and Lena could be unlucky outcomes yet, with the majority of others showing no malignant symptoms. Last time she checked, Akira's physical health was fine — his ego, however, had yet to make a full recovery. Liu had assured Natasha that the other victims appeared alright. For now.

"How are you?" Bruce slides the question between her knots of contemplation. Both of them have yet to take a seat.

"Still laying low."
He nods, rubs his palms together. "Sounds like things have been quiet for a change."

"For the most part." It's the calm before the storm. At least, that's how she views it. She has to in order to stay two steps ahead of everyone else.

The thought of others compels her to add to her previous statement, "Lena did call me last week."

Alarm shifts his brows up, then back down into a furrow. "Is everything alright?"

"She's just restless. Isolation isn't exactly her cup of tea."

"Not everyone is cut out for this style of living." He says, one secluded soul to another.

"Funny you should say that." She replies, and not because of their shared nature. Her arms uncross. One hand plunges into the pocket where she's stowed his surprise. She wouldn't call it a gift, since it's not something he'd ever ask for nor seek out.

She produces a Samsung Galaxy, the same model as hers with the same levels of imparted encryption. Since he won't take it voluntarily — she knows he won't — she crosses over to him and holds it a few centimeters above his hands.

"Mine still works fine." He insists, confused.

"It's a great antique." She counters.

"Thanks." For the sake of politeness, he says it and takes the device. She doesn't need gratitude, though. Someone needs to have a means of communicating with this man. Ever reluctant, he gently protests, "I don't...I don't need this th—"

"I know." If only he'd realize that she's already anticipated all his responses here. "But Lena wants to make a groupchat with the three of us."

It's an odd prospect for both of them, but it's the least they can do for someone who's now estranged from her family and the expired opportunities for her future.

He points out, "We're gonna be together in a day."

She gives him half a shrug. "Hey, I don't make the rules."

"Since when do you follow them?"

"When there's not a conflict of interest."

She turns and heads to her seat, her back to him so he doesn't see the smirk that's arisen. For all she's come to know about him, it seems he knows her the same. She could run from that — it's her first instinct to do so when someone gets near. Right now, be it out of intrigue or something else unnamed, she wants to linger a little longer.

Still turned away from him, she throws out, "It also doesn't hurt that she has cancer."

They settle into their seats, Bruce taking one to her left. With a few switches flipped and dials set, their vessel awakens with a hum.

"How is she doing?" He asks as the floor vibrates beneath their feet.

"She's weaker — lost a little weight." She pivots in her seat, unlocks her phone and opens the most recent text. With the picture displayed on the entire screen, she passes him her device. "Still her, though."

He teases her, holding onto her phone for a moment longer. "How come you got a picture?"

"Because I have a smartphone." That isn't off 75 percent of the time. She reclaims the contraption from his extended arm and uses it to gesture to his jacket pocket. "Now you do, too. Welcome to the modern day."

"I'm not that out of touch."

She doesn't even vocalize to call him out on that bullshit. Blatant dubiousness shifts her expression and she lets him see it.

"Maybe I am." He recovers, sheepish.

With that, she leaves him to set up his new tool and she turns her attention to bringing the plane into the sky.

"Buckle up, doc."

Over a year ago, threats and persuasion were the only methods to draw him out of his hiding. He wouldn't trust her — or anyone, really — to get on a giant aircraft, so she didn't tell him until it was too late.

This time around, she leads them as they become airborne and he doesn't clench, doesn't protest or try to run. He came to answer her call and trusts her lead. She wonders if he realizes that she's done the same.