Multiverse: Deathstroke-Chapter 513: Red Room

Compared to Hydra, Leviathan was easier to track.

The "Red Room," a training ground for Black Widows, was run by Leviathan under Vasili Dassaiev and Viktor Uvarov. After the Brotherhood of the Shield split, they broke away, forming a secret organization named after a mythical beast in the vast, frozen expanse of Russia.

Leviathan.

Choosing Russia had a key advantage: an abundance of recruits. The people here, men and women alike, were built tough, their resilience practically etched into their souls.

Vasili and Viktor weren’t fools. With Hydra at its peak and SSR hot on its heels, the two powers were bound to clash, leaving one weakened. If Leviathan jumped into the global fray now, it’d create a three-way stalemate. Better to bide their time, amassing soldiers, supplies, and wealth, then strike when both Hydra and SSR were battered.

The Red Room’s location was vague—Natasha mentioned it was somewhere in Siberia in the comics, but Su Ming had no specifics. No problem.

The Red Room was an underground base housing hundreds of trainees, scientists, support staff, and even a military garrison. With so many people, supplies were a constant need—food, training ammo, grenades, chemical reagents for experiments.

Some items, like towels or basins, could be stockpiled yearly. But one thing couldn’t be stored in bulk: test subjects.

Test subjects were used for target practice, combat drills, even dissections. Each trainee, molded into an assassin or spy, consumed several daily. Leviathan’s goal was mastery through repetition, and no one became a top-tier killer by reading books—Deathstroke certainly hadn’t.

Storing too many live subjects was inefficient. They required food and posed security risks. The Red Room’s supply chain for "materials" had to be frequent. Su Ming could wait.

It was February. Transporting goods into Siberia by truck or cart was impossible—the snow was elbow-deep. The only reliable route in early spring was the Trans-Siberian Railway, built in 1891. The luxurious Golden Eagle train took seven days from Moscow to Vladivostok, leaving passengers staggering.

Given the Red Room’s secrecy, its supplies likely came via an unscheduled or dedicated train. Su Ming needed that schedule. He’d memorize every train heading to Siberia, stake out the tracks, and inspect any that didn’t match the timetable.

If a train carried food, chemicals, brainwashing gear, skirts, and makeup, it was his ticket.

In a remote Siberian outpost, a prison-like complex stood ringed by snow-laden barbed wire and watchtowers. Grim-faced soldiers patrolled with silent military dogs.

At its center was a small building, disguised as a radar station, perhaps housing a few radiomen and a stove. In truth, most of the facility lay underground, its inner walls painted blood-red.

Deep below, in a large classroom, instructors taught a group of girls by screening a film. The teacher paused periodically, explaining how to silently kill a target in moments of joy.

Some girls averted their eyes, embarrassed. A hulking female warrior would then stride over, beat them, and force their eyelids open to watch. Refusal lowered their scores. Below a five? Worthless. They’d be killed by their peers, fertilizer for the "flowers" who survived.

By the film’s end, the woman always won.

Click. The instructor turned on the lights and shut off the projector. A gaunt, skeletal woman with gleaming eyes, she wore a subtle Capricorn pendant on her collar.

"Girls, was the film good?" she asked, not expecting an answer. The response was scripted, enforced by Leviathan warriors ensuring compliance.

"Very good!" the girls droned.

The instructor cackled like a witch. "Excellent. Now, what lesson did you learn? Dottie, you first."

A blonde girl stood, her gaze vacant but obedient. "Teeth are a useful weapon."

The instructor shook her head, sneering. "Shallow. Too shallow. Get out and take thirty lashes!" 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

Before Dottie could move, two burly female warriors dragged her out by her hair. Screams echoed from the corridor.

"Too loud!" the instructor roared, chasing after. "Keep beating her until she passes out!"

She unbuttoned her collar, spat on the floor, and returned. "Dottie’s answer disappointed me. The next better think carefully. I want the essence, not surface nonsense."

The girls froze, confused. Was there deeper meaning in the film?

"Anya, Dottie’s best friend, your turn," the instructor snapped.

Anya, with braided hair, stood. "I learned that controlling minds and inflicting pain brings joy."

The instructor paused. "Incomplete, but acceptable. Extra bread for you. Sit."

The others exhaled quietly, grasping a vague direction for answers. No one would die today.

"Romanoff, stand. Add to Anya’s answer," the instructor called, pointing to a younger redheaded girl from a later cohort, there to observe.

The session continued. Some girls lost their dinner; others earned rewards. At least tonight, they’d sleep chained to their beds, not thrown to wolves or incinerated.

The instructor, a goddess of their fates, toyed with her whip. "Class is over. Instructor Sharapova will take you to slaughter livestock—our people’s enemies. No, pigs!"

"Yes, Instructor!" the girls replied, standing at attention.

"The pigs will be unbound and told they can earn freedom by killing you. Each of you must kill ten barehanded. I don’t care if you live or die, but I’ll check tomorrow. Fail, and you’re shot. Understood?"

"Understood, Instructor."

"Dismissed!"

Warriors led the girls out, but the instructor stopped them, ordering guards to drag Dottie back.

"Dottie, you’re nearing graduation. Tonight is your final test."

Bloodied and barely conscious, Dottie lay on the rust-scented floor, unable to think. An assassination? Seducing an official for secrets?

"Dottie Underwood, await your orders," she gasped.

"Good," the instructor said calmly, buffing her nails with the whip. "Tonight, kill your roommate, Anya. No weapons. Hands only."

"What?! Anya’s my best friend!"

"I know," the instructor sneered. "But she’s been ordered to kill you. You see her as a friend, but does she? You’re weak now. If you don’t strike first, you’re dead."

Dottie fell silent, but the instructor showed no mercy.

"Drag her to their room. Guard the door. Tomorrow, only one walks out, or they both die."

She waved dismissively, and the guards hauled Dottie away.

Anya had no such orders.

The instructor had chosen Dottie as a prime candidate—because she was prettier. That was it. Her earlier answer was correct, but the beating was to weaken her, strip her security, and plant paranoia.

This was the Red Room, Leviathan’s forge for elite female agents. Beauty was a weapon, preserved by the Leech Serum—a privilege even the instructor couldn’t access, left to age and envy. She tormented the girls, but the Red Room’s graduation was no invention of hers; it was protocol. Kill your best friend, survive a free-for-all with your cohort, and only one emerges. The victor undergoes sterilization and receives the precious Leech Serum.

That survivor becomes the Black Widow—the deadliest, most ruthless of them all.