CHAPTER ONE: 
the end.

"I DON'T THINK I DESERVE TO DIE."

Her lips parted further and a hoarse, rough croak of a laugh slipped out. "I...I spent all my life thinking otherwise, but now that I might actually see my end, I...I don't want to."

Wet coated her face from rain she couldn't see. Only feel. It soaked through her suit like it was nothing but paper, through her bones until she was sure they were melting under her skin. It mingled with her hot tears and the thick, wine-red blood she could only barely see on her trembling hands. But every time she thought the rain might wash away it all, more oozed out and she felt every pore of her body cry out in more burning hot pain, bathed in silver streams of ice from the heavens. Like she was being burned and frozen alive, all in one go.

The rain beat down relentlessly. It slid into her empty mouth and down her throat, rendering her breathless as she gasped and choked on the sky's tears. And she laughed, even as it cried for her.

"It...it wasn't supposed to go like this."

12 HOURS EARLIER.

"Let me make this clear. The mission is simple, but it is crucial that you follow every point in the plan and do not screw this up. Am I understood?" When every blank-faced agent in front of her had nodded, Maria Hill's lips stretched into a tight, mirthless smile. "Great. I know you've all been briefed already, but I want to reiterate the objectives of this mission. Agent Romanoff, you're playing the part of Alina—"

"—Pennington, French model who just moved returned from a year abroad. I'm there to make Avery Dono—"

"—I'm giving the summary, Romanoff, not you."

Somewhere beside her came snickers and a low, 'fuckin' showoff' that Maria immediately glared at. Natasha frowned. Rage and frustration bubbled its sour bile in her gut. She wished she could fight back, shoot back even one smart response to the cowards who thought that but...well, she didn't get that option, unless she wanted to be frozen out of everything at S.H.I.E.L.D.

And it wasn't that she really cared to make friends...but there also wasn't time for so many enemies. So she stayed silent and clenched her fists.

"As I was saying," Maria continued pointedly, "once Romanoff has secured Donovan, you'll make him take you to his base and try only to subdue," once again she shot a clear glance to Romanoff, which only annoyed her more, "anyone in your path. Your job is to rescue the Austrian Chancellor's daughter, Carlotta Wagner. That is your most important goal, and first priority. If any of her blood is spilled on American soil, God forbid she dies? Well...I don't think I have to give anyone a history lesson here. Do you all understand?"

Natasha dipped her head tersely. She was only half-listening to the instructions, having ingrained the mission into her skull over a hundred times before. Every face, every detail, down to the minute. She couldn't care less about this summary. Her focus was mainly on the fact that one member of their taskforce was not with them — one of the few people in the entire organisation she could trust to watch her back.

"Now, you've been given..." Maria paused, frowning at Natasha's raised hand. "Yes, Agent Romanoff?"

"Where's Agent Barton? I thought he would be leading this mission."

Her superior sighed, heavy irritation laced into her tone. "Unfortunately, Agent Barton is not available this time. He was given..." her lip curled, "a more pressing matter to attend to."

Natasha tried to search her brain for any ideas as to what that could be. It had to be important, otherwise he would be here — he had assured her yesterday that he would. Not because Clint Barton enjoyed his job (honestly, he'd do anything to get out of working), but because he knew her social security relied pretty heavily on him being there. Without him, the target on her back was exposed. And she could take the hits, but god, that didn't mean they didn't hurt like hell.

She squinted to her right, at the two agents beside her. Agent Pollux was a bull-headed blonde who switched between calling her a communist skank and a 'nice piece of ass' behind her back (though he rarely hesitated to spit the former in her face, especially when she dared defy him in an argument). Agent Bosworth wasn't much better; while she tolerated her fellow agent's origins, she was calloused, cold, and seemed to think her barely conceived plans were their only chance at a victorious job.

Which they weren't. Ever.

"Agent Hill, if Agent Barton's not leading, then are you?"

"Actually...Romanoff has been put in charge of the mission today."

Natasha's eyes nearly fell out of her head as she whipped around to stare at Maria, wondering if this was a cruel prank. But nothing on the superior agent's face said so. Instead, she smiled stiffly as ever with confidence in her eyes.

"A-are you sure that's right, Hill?"

"That's Agent Hill to you, Pollux. I'm your SO, not your friend." Maria glanced at Natasha briefly, communicating that she'd explain after before glaring at the blonde idiot in front of her. "And, yes. She will be in charge of the play-by-play. I'll have eyes from base, but you're to take immediate orders from Romanoff on this one."

"I—"

"—but—"

"—what—?!"

"I'm not taking questions or comments on this decision. You've been given a job, and you've already wasted," Maria scowled down at her watch, "five minutes of precious time to do it. Go to your places. I'll be right with you."

With a scowl and an sneer, both Pollux and Bosworth stomped away. Natasha watched them whisper to themselves, her frown digging deeper. She couldn't really hear what they were saying, but it wasn't hard to imagine the general idea — and oh, did she already want to either fight or fly out of there.

"Agent Romanoff."

She glanced back to Maria and adjusted her 'at ease' position, though she was far stiffer than she was thirty seconds ago. "I-you cannot be serious about this."

Maria smiled tersely. "Clint tells me you've been jumping at the bit for more responsibility. I thought you'd be excited about this decision."

Of course he was behind this. He probably didn't show for that very reason, knowing she'd have his head for putting her in such a position. Natasha sighed; coward. "Taking charge of a mission with two agents who think I'm traitorous scum was not exactly what I meant. I — you know my capabilities. I work best alone. I could do this alone, in half the time and half the danger."

"You were trained to work alone, you mean." Maria shrugged. "But that's not how S.H.I.E.L.D does things. So, I suggest you learn how to cooperate quickly, and join your teammates in the van."

"You don't understand. They do not trust me."

"And?"

"Those two would sooner stab me in the back and listen to the enemy over a word I say. They will not trust me; you and I both know this."

"Then you make them, Romanoff." 

"And how, pray tell, would you like me to do that?"

Maria's shoulders rose again, like it was just casual conversation. "That's up to you. Taking a bullet often shows loyalty pretty nicely. Though I doubt Barton would love to see his prodigy shot, I know Naomi is—"

"—are you sure there's no reasonable solution for this? That he really cannot be here?"

The brunette nodded. "Unfortunately, Barton said there was something he absolutely could not miss."

Nat was beginning to realise that his excuse was just that, a big fucking excuse. But she didn't have time to drag him in and play bodyguard, nor did she have the cowardice she'd need to swallow her pride and ask for help. Much as she wanted to be a child and beg for help, that chance had died long ago. She had to be a big girl, now.

"Fine," she said, straightening herself up again. She tried to make herself look collected; a bit of a difficult task considering her outfit. She felt silly and overexposed in her slinky black dress and heels, but Natasha kept her head high. "I can't promise we'll all get back in one piece, though."

Maria cocked her head. "You'd really take a bullet for them?"

"No. But I know they'd rather take a dozen then listen to me."

As she strode over to the small group, fury grinding her teeth and clenching her jaw, Natasha tried to ignore the lump growing steadily in her throat. There was no more time for hesitation and worries. She was an agent, a soldier of S.H.I.E.L.D and the job had to be done. 

Still, she couldn't stop the inkling of worry in the back of her mind. The feeling that somehow, something was going to go terribly, terribly wrong.

"It was so easy."

Her hands had never been so pale. They reminded her of the lilies of the valley she could only vaguely recall, flashes of a memory soaked in white and dark red. They had never reached such pallid white before, or trembled without stop or sustain. Much as she tried, her fingers fluttered without cease. Red dripped lilies, left on the undug grave of a fallen fool. 

"It was supposed to be so easy," she corrected, lips tasting rainwater and sharp iron all in one go. "In...out...push...pull...done it a thousand times before, for either side. It should have..." Even admitting out loud hurt. Even knowing there was no one around to berate her for it, she felt shame telling the shadows how she failed.

Natasha knew it didn't matter, either way she was dead. Still, the shame ate at her, worse than the poison in her blood, and she wondered if that was why she was dying. And maybe it would be her own hand after all — or her mind — that dragged her down to hell.

Her head hit the back of the wall, spinning like a top and barely seeing. 

10 HOURS EARLIER.

"You know, your accent is so fascinating," Natasha trilled, every word filled to the brim with disgustingly fake interest. "Almost familiar, really."

Her hand, extended and draped like pale, red-tipped silk over his hand. She had to bite back a cringe as his thick digits carressed her skin and faked coy arousal in how his clammy fingers cradled her wrist. "I...pardon for overstepping, but I just — well, I was telling you about my travels, wasn't I?"

"Mm." The man didn't look up from the creamy roll of her wrist. "Yeah, real interesting stuff."

Natasha giggled and ignored her rolling gut as he stared at her skin — like he wanted to consume her alive, lick her joints clean of flesh and suck every drop of blood off her bones. She'd never admit it to a living soul, but these missions made her wish for death. For more reasons than one.

"You're too kind," she cooed, pressing into his hand. "But...so, I stayed a week in Lithuania, and I really fell in love with it. The countryside is so charming, so... 'ow you say, quaint?" She bared her teeth, gleaming and begging to bite. "I 'ave to say, your accent sounds just like the sweetheart I stayed with, there."

The man glanced up then, frowning. "I — m'not Lithuanian. Latvian, actually."

Natasha played up her surprise, and she wondered how the hell this fool didn't catch her game, because she wasn't even trying to be subtle anymore. "I...oh, how interesting. Do you miss your homeland?"

"Well, I..." he cocked his head, seemingly considering his truths and lies for a moment. "Sure. I miss how it used to be."

"Oh. You mean, by that...?"

"Nothin'. Don't sweat your pretty head on that." He shot her a leer, gripping her wrist tighter in his hand. "Let's not ruin our dinner with politics, yeah?"

Again, she laughed. "Please, yes. I'm afraid I wouldn't be much good in politics talk anyways."

"Sure. Why would you need to be?"

"Plus...well," she rolled her deep red bottom lip between her teeth, leaning in just enough to tantalize him, "there's more to you than boring politics, right?"

Avery Donovan was an idiot. But at least he didn't hide that — whether he knew it or not, he gave her everything, and told her everything with every hitch in his breath and gross twinkle in his eyes. "And what's that mean, princess?"

"Oh, well...just, you know what they say about Latvian men."

He raised a brow. "Hm?"

"Proud...loyal to their ways..." Natasha trailed a cold index finger up his bare forearm and past his button-up, until her red fingernail was buried in the scruff of his chin. She cocked the finger, forcing him barely a foot from her face. Her eyes darted down and stared for a long three seconds at his chapped lips, then back up to his hungry gaze. "...and really, really good at keeping a good girl warm for the night, eh?"

In her ear, someone gagged. She guessed it was Pollux. She ignored it.

Avery smiled wide, "are you a good girl, princess?"

"Well..." her fingers curled around his chin, thumb rubbing just barely against his bottom lip. "You wanna find out?"

Ten minutes later and Natasha's bare back had never been more intimate with a brick wall. Her poor skin; she knew for a fact she'd have some sort of horrible scratched map across her shoulders and upper back from how Avery was rubbing her up and down the wall (like a bear on a tree, the fool). Still, she sucked it up and even moaned when, for the eleventh time, he used his massive hands to shove her further up the bricks by her hips.

"Yeah," Avery hurried, chasing her lips even as he left them, "you like this? You like this, princess?"

Natasha did not, in fact like it. Nor did she love the fact that in her ear, her idiot 'teammates' were yelling about the traffic they were stuck in — like they were trying to get her caught. At least Avery was too lost in their very one-sided makeout session to hear it, but still. They were supposed to be there five minutes ago, she grumbled in her head, way before Avery got to meeting her back molars.

"Oh, o-oh," she preened, rolling her head back in fake enjoyment. In reality, Natasha was just trying to relieve her fucking back. "God, if I knew all Latvians were like you, I would have visited years ago!"

"Aw, trust me princess—" enough with 'princess', she was about to vomit into his mouth with that sad sick pet name! "—no man could treat you like I could."

"O-oh yeah? Well then," she leaned away from his lips and pressed her fingers to them, stopping him from initiating more, "maybe you should show me all you can do? In private?"

Avery kissed her fingertips. "Sure. My place's—"

"—I don't wanna wait for you," Nat pouted, inwardly cringing as he fondled her hips, "when my car's right there?"

He stilled. "Here? In...in public?"

"What? It's got tinted windows." When still he hesitated, Natasha leaned in, pressing her lips to the shell of his greasy ear. "Are you scared, Avery?"

"I-I no, no! Lead the way, princess."

Perfect. She pulled away from him, grabbing his wrists in a steel grip. Avery protested, but she ignored him, assuring him with words she herself hardly heard. Natasha was over the situation, just as she had been twenty minutes ago when she realised she was going to have to stall. Her only goal was to reach the van parked across the street.

"C'mere," she giggled, pulling him closer even as he protested. "Nice and dark, in here—" 

The door flew open and Natasha pushed him inside, slamming her heels into his calves to make him fall to his knees. Avery howled and moved to fight back, but when he saw the twin guns aimed his way — and felt the knife Nat jabbed into the back of his neck — he smartly stopped squirming so much.

"Took you long enough," she bit at Pollux and Bosworth, dropping the French accent. She stepped into the van and slammed the door shut. "What could have taken you so long?"

"We told you. Traffic."

Nat glared at Bosworth as she ripped her black wig off. The heels went next, swapped out for comfortable combat boots as the two agents — imbeciles, really — detained Avery. "You had two hours to beat traffic. And considering you dropped me off five minutes away..."

"We're here, Romanoff," Pollux interrupted. He smiled wide at her, smarmy and smug. "'Sides, it's not like you didn't find a good way to spend your time, eh? Did'ja have fun, feelin'—"

"—finish your sentence and I'll slice your throat, leave you to bleed in the streets like a dog."

The blonde agent let go of Avery, letting him fall with a pitiful 'thlunk' so he could step to Natasha. "You'd like that, eh? Cause that's all you are, ain't ya? Waiting to kill every one of us and return to your superiors like a good little commie bitch."

Red-hot fury coated her brain. Without thinking, she raised her hand, twisting the knife so it was ready to taste the disgusting pig blood filling Agent Pollux's body.

But her hand fell flat when someone interrupted. Not Pollux, not Bosworth, but the newly kidnapped Avery Donovan, who was watching from the bottom of the S.H.I.E.L.D van in terror, confusion, and just the littlest bit of arousal. 

"A-Alina? What's going on?"

Natasha ground her teeth and stepped around Pollux. The knife she was planning to use to end him, instead extended to Avery's neck, running down the same stubble she was stroking not ten minutes earlier.

"That's what you have to tell us, Donovan," she told him. "Or," the knife drew a thin red line across his neck, making him whimper, "it'll be a very difficult night for you."

"I just wanted to do the right thing."

Natasha never forgot any of the hands that had touched her. Whatever the intent, purpose or hold. Whether it was a brief brush or prolonged contact. Most of them sat in the same category, in some way or another. Undesired and unwanted.

There were days when the touches overwhelmed her. Nights where she couldn't shut her eyes, not even to blink, because every horrific memory laid in wait. They choked her, held her down, pressed their jagged nails into her skin and ripped and punched and pulled until she was skin and bloody bones. And through it all, she had somehow made it through, stronger than the last Natasha.

No. Not stronger. Just more numb.

She stared at her own fingers. Red-stained flower petals that had taken so much. Held too many hearts in between. She could still feel the thu-thump, thu-thump against her palms, hear too many innocent souls beg her to take mercy.

She couldn't remember how many lives her hands had swallowed. But she knew all the ones that had almost taken her own.

"Maybe I deserve this," she told her aching hands. "I've done...so much. Taken...too much. I didn't earn another chance, I..."

Was it wrong, to want one anyways?

8 HOURS EARLIER.

The plan was simple. Or, it was, before Nat had made the foolish decision to consult with her so-called teammates. It would have been so, so simple, barely an hour's work and they could have been back at base. But when she had laid it down — "I go in with Donovan, pretend to be a buyer, you sneak around and take the girl to safety before we light it up" — Pollux and Bosworth had immediately shot her down.

Taking a bullet to gain trust seemed much easier than reason, at that point. Or, putting one between each other eyes — Clint Barton might not like that, but he wasn't here, was he? He put her in charge. 

But. That wasn't really an option, so...

So much for team leader. Nat felt like a fucking doormat, allowing the two agents to trample her well-thought out idea into the dirt and creating pure idiocy in its stead. Even Donovan looked like he was annoyed, and they were ambushing his base. They were a bunch of idiots, no doubt walking into a bloodbath, and it was all going to be on her shoulders.

Maybe that had been the plan all along, though. Make her look stupid, lead her to fail and then abandon her like a dog at the side of the road.

"Say a word and I cut your tongue out," Nat hissed to Donovan, a knife pressed to his back to validate her promise. A small sense of satisfaction glowed when he gulped; but it was not nearly enough to inspire confidence. Not with the two goons skulking behind her.

Donovan knocked, and the door opened a sliver, with a distrustful eye just barely visible through the crack. It glowered at the quartet at the door, focusing a moment too long on Nat's visible flesh, which was pale and pebbling in the freezing weather. 

"Yeah?"

Donovan spoke lowly to the eye in Latvian. Natasha didn't bother translating to her team.

After a long pause, the eye disappeared and the door swung open. A large man, easily over six foot, waited behind it, with busy eyebrows crushing into the same eyes that had been watching them before. In his hand was a large machete — a bit medieval, but still an effective weapon.

"T'rough 'ere," the man said gruffly, each word thickly accented. He eyed Pollux and Bosworth uneasily. "But not'chew."

"Hey, I—"

"—'zey come, or no money."

The eyes darted back to Natasha, skimming over her form in a less than desirable way. He reminded her of so many other men, too many others, with eyes that gloated and picked and plucked without relent, without care, without permission or care for forgiveness. In a dream world, she'd crush his kneecaps for such a disgusting stare.

In her reality, however, she would not be so lucky. Her body slumped back into her floozy, French persona, are curves and no stiff edges, clinging to the edges of her slinky black dress. "I keep my guards wit' me at all times."

"Not allowed."

"Please," she cooed, batting her eyelashes up at the man, "allow me some sense of security. Do you think such a woman as me could take care of herself?"

The man looked suspicious, but still nodded, though he made sure to remove all visible weapons off of Pollux and Bosworth. No worries to Natasha. If there was a fight, and she was certain there would be, she'd be doing the heavy lifting anyways.

And of course, there was a fight. It was so predictable. So easy. Donovan just needed one in and with the entire fucking team breathing down his neck, he got it. Natasha saw the gun before the others, and immediately grabbed their hostage, throwing him towards the revolver just as the ever familiar BANG echoed through the room.

"MOVE!" she screamed, though her crew was already scrambling to either sides of the room, fists bared but woefully empty. She slammed her hand into one of the men's faces, reaching for his exposed weapon with the same fluid movement, blasting holes through the next guy's kneecaps. She whirled around and smacked another in the face with the gun, sending him flying.

As the next man fell, Natasha rolled into an easy kip and went to run, but movement caught the corner of her eye. In her peripheral, Pollux was having it out, and weaponless he was an easy target.

"ебать!" she growled, but there was no way of getting out if it. Pollux would be a splat on the ground if she didn't step in and while the mission was the girl...S.H.I.E.L.D missions weren't victories if they were stained with causalities. So, she changed course, literally throwing the gang members out of the way so she could launch at Pollux' assailant.

Her elbow crashed into the Slavic's nose, sending him groaning to the ground. After that, Natasha wasted no time in knocking him out with a well-aimed kick to the head. Her finger ached at the trigger, but again her former S.O's words echoed in her head: people are not just numbers at S.H.I.E.L.D. 

So instead, she took her fury out on Pollux. "You fucking idiot," she swore, smacking him on the shoulder. "Do you realise what you've done?!"

The man didn't say anything. He didn't even look her in the eye. Coward.

"I don't have time for this. Take this, and take care of them." She forced her stolen gun into the man's hands, rolling her eyes at how pitiful his grip was (shame was a powerful negative but good god, mourn your mistakes later!). "I'm going after the girl. Can you handle them?"

"But what about you?!" Pollux only had a voice then; maybe he did care, after all. She doubted it though. "You have no weapon."

Natasha bared her teeth in a harsh, unsmiling grin. "I don't fucking need one."

"They'll never know...how grateful I am."

She still remembered that fateful moment. Heart in throat and a pounding in her head that hadn't stopped since the first glimpse of burning, bloody red. There was a hand, thrown out to take hers, and it trembled but it wasn't out of fear, but of hope. The first hand in what felt like centuries that wasn't raised to strike her down, but to lift her up.

And it still hung when she had refused it the first thousand times. And when she finally took it, they held strong and pulled her back to the light. And oh! How delightful it was, to taste the sun on her tongue again, to feel warmth on her vampiric skin.

"Thank you," she murmured to the phantom limb, entangling with her broken fingers, still tugging her forward. But she didn't have the strength to take them again. "I'm...sorry I didn't say it sooner."

The ghostlike hand hung, contemplating her words. She imagined them reaching out, stroking her cheek, ruffling her hair like a child, like she imagined a father would embrace their daughter or how their mother would kiss their forehead and promise that forever, pride would be the only thing they thought of when they saw their wide eyes...

She would give anything, to feel that.

7 HOURS EARLIER.

It was like a beehive. 

There had been men everywhere, swarming from all corners. No one knew the place was this packed, and honestly Natasha had no clue if they were the same ten guys coming back or if it was just waves of strangers looking to take her out. Either way, she didn't care. All that mattered, was finding the damn girl.

Natasha somersaulted down a hallway, raising a blade in her right hand — she'd snatched it back from some idiot in a red jacket who thought he'd scored a new toy. No one else was around done there. It was empty, so far down below, and just a small white door waited at the other end of the hall. She squared her shoulders and hurried towards it, careful to watch for any traps.

There was nothing. Natasha didn't know if that was a good or bad thing anymore.

The door was unlocked, and led down a shallow set of basement steps, frightfully bleak and unfurnished. Downstairs, she found not one but two girls. Both were bound with tape and rope, slaps of black across their mouths and string harshly binding their arms and legs together. But where one's hands laid limp in their lap, the other was curled up around her bindings, like she had been trying to get out.

Natasha only recognised one of them; the Chancellor's daughter was bloodied and bruised but she was still the same pretty face from the case file. Her eyes were wide and reddened, and she could see tears streaming down to meet the tape covering her lips.

She glanced to the other girl, walking forward. Where the Chancellor's daughter's eyes bulged and begged, the other girl hadn't made a single motion to move. Or even a sound. She stared up at Natasha with narrowed eyes — but she wasn't glaring. Whatever emotion laid in those dark eyes, it wasn't fear. Or anger.

"C'mon," Natasha muttered. Her voice was too hoarse, too frustrated to sound comforting, but she at least tried to lower her volume so it wasn't so scary. She ripped the tape off the Chancellor's daughter. "You're Alice. Aren't you?"

The girl nodded, gulping oxygen and tears alike as she tried to find words. "Yes. I-I-I I'm sorry, I-I-I they, they, they—"

But Natasha had no time for small talk. With one quick shnkkk of her blade, the girl's ropes fell off. "Stand. Can you walk?" She ignored the spluttering and watched her ankles, her legs, trying to gauge how strong she still was. The daughter, thankfully, stood strong enough. "Good. Who is this?"

"I-I-I'm sorry, I—"

Natasha clicked her tongue. "Whatever." Her fingers laced around the tape on the other girl's mouth and yanked. "I'm getting you both out, we can figure the rest out later. For now, we—" But she cut herself off as a curious thing happened, her tongue too heavy and confused in her mouth to form another sound. 

The other victim didn't wear a grimace, or any stain of upset on her features when the tape fell off. Natasha was instead met with a closed-mouthed, red stained smile, dripping with a look she had only seen from a handful of women, not far off from her own age.

Behind the two of them wailed the Chancellor's daughter. She was beside herself and the words she was spluttering didn't make any sense, not to an irate Natasha or to the strangely smiling girl beneath her. But something slipped that was almost clear, that almost sounded like a watery, sob-soaked sorry.

Before Natasha could act on any of the thoughts rattling through her brain, footsteps echoed above her head. She whirled around, throwing the Chancellor's daughter behind her and readying for another fight.

When not another Slav but Agent Bosworth poked their head down, she sighed in relief and lowered her weapon. "Bosworth. Where's Pollux?"

"Trying to detain the last of 'em," the woman panted, swiping at a splatter of blood on her forehead. Natasha couldn't tell if it was hers or not. "We called for backup, but they're two hours out. We got no chance of taking 'em all alive."

Natasha didn't linger on that. "We need to get the girls' out. That's the priority. Do we have a path?"

"Sure, but the van's tires' been slashed. We can't drive away."

"There was a truck parked in the back. See if we can use that." Natasha hoisted the daughter up and thrusted her not unkindly towards Bosworth. "Help her, I'll get this one and we'll meet Pollux on the way. We can't think about the guys or what they got right now."

Without another word from Bosworth — none that mattered, anyways — Natasha turned back to the unknown girl. "Come on," she huffed, sinking down to her knees. But she paused over the girl's ankles. Her hands didn't go to cut the ropes so fast, frozen a few inches over their bindings.

"Romanoff? Come on, we gotta go."

Gritting her teeth, Natasha cut through the ropes binding her feet. But a strange, worrying feeling ate at her gut. Something wasn't right.

She glanced up and in barely a second of time sprang back far enough to avoid the small spider-blade to the face. The girl came alive just as her feet were cut free, revealing her unbound hands from behind herself. She screamed without words and leapt after Natasha, forcing her farther and farther back as she stabbed down. Natasha barely missed each swipe, parrying back in shock and a new sense of cold, horrifying fear.

"ROMANOFF!"

"GET HER OUT!" She grunted, grabbing a hold of the girl's wrist. She tried to pinch the blade from her hold, but all she did was make her angrier, and her free hand slammed down against Natasha's ankle. She pulled her off guard enough to once more get the upper hand and continued slashing and stabbing.

"I CAN'T FOOKIN' LEAVE YOU!"

"GET THE DAUGHTER OUT! SHE'S OUR MISSION. I'LL BE FINE!" Natasha rolled away from the girl and shot one last warning glare to Bosworth and the now even more terrified victim in her arms. "That's an order. Understand?"

And Bosworth turned on her heel and hurried up the steps.

Natasha fell back and barely had time to lift her blade to block the blow, but her forearms trembled with the full weight of the girl pressed against them. Above her, the attacker smiled, and something red dripped from her teeth down to Nat's face. Blood coated her teeth and gums; she tried not to get too nauseated at the rotting sight.

The attacker laughed. A harsh, guttural sound that was more of a wolf's howl than a child's chuckle. There was no joy, because the girl probably had never known such a sensation — or at least, had no memory of something like that.

"мать шлет ей любовь."

"They probably won't even mourn me."

People didn't miss people like her. It'd be like missing your weapon. Sure, it would probably hurt to have a good tool go to waste in such a pitiful fashion, but you could replace her. Maybe not so easily — a good Widow, good in the sense of morality and talent, was hard to find nowadays. But someone could do it. Maybe he'd do it. Find a hurt soul and bring them back up the cliff. Maybe he won't let another one fall.

She wanted to believe she meant something to him — past a pupil, or partner. But that might just be wishful, wistful thinking. He was good. He was great. A hero, paired with a wife with a heart of gold. Good people didn't need to mourn flawed, bloody weapons.

But...Natasha hummed, so as to not waste more energy on more tears. It would have been nice to go home. To scold him on letting her lead, and then thank him, because the guy always seemed to know what she needed. To see her, and let her hug her and complain though she'd rather die in Naomi's arms then in this damp, dark hell.

And it'd be nice to ruffle the kid's hair and ask about his newest ideas. He had so many damn ideas...reminded her of another little one she once knew, with more teeth but just as much heart, lost to the gravity of time.

She sighed. Maybe when she saw Yelena after death, she could ask for forgiveness.

7 HOURS EARLIER.

"Stop this," Natasha spat in her native tongue. She swatted away her attacker's flung leg and tried to use it to catch her off balance, though the girl was nothing if not agile. "You don't want to do this."

But the girl offered no response, no defeat, just another snarl and baring of bloody teeth before charging again. Natasha barely had time to roll out of the way of the knife, and had to scramble to escape its bite again, landing awkwardly on her left ankle. Oh well; she'd take a twisted ankle over death, any day.

"You do not want this," Natasha pleaded again. "You do not want to be their toy."

There was no point pleading. The logical part of her knew that, because she had been in her attacker's place, many times before. A wolf, beaten within an inch of its life and desperate for a bone. Desperate enough to do anything, to ignore everything else, all for the fleeting praise of a coldhearted superior.

The Red Room had too many claws, and their hold was too tight for Natasha to do a thing. Not when she had been one of them, not when the marks where they had clutched her tight still smarted every day. But, still, she could not bring herself to truly fight back. Her hands were extended to stop, not to kill, and though she could have had the child dead in moments if she truly wanted, well...that was it. 

It was just a fucking child.

"AAARWWGGH," screamed the girl, all flailing limbs and flashing eyes. She threw herself at Natasha and stabbed down, barely missing flesh. She stabbed again; Natasha ducked and threw her off of her. 

"You will not win this fight, малыш," she panted. 

"я попробую твою кровь," howled back the little wolf, heaving and panting, desperate for something to fill her fiery belly. "предатель."

Natasha winced. Sticks and stones she could stand. But words, sometimes they were the strongest weapon of all.

"I chose life," she said, slamming her forearm against the girls approaching face. It barely threw her, the little wolf immediately rushing back in more. "You can, too."

The wolf didn't respond to that. It just wanted her blood; conversation meant nothing to its empty, bloodlust-ridden mind. Natasha knew that the fight would end badly. That the  persuasion that saved her had come from a good creature, a good heart; she was neither those. She was barely on the right side of history herself. She could not save the life of a lost soul when she wasn't sure she had one, most nights.

So Natasha swore and readied herself for a bloody fight. Only—

A deafening crack filled the air, and both wolves' heads whirled around to see a tall, hulking shadow in the doorway of the basement. There Pollux stood, right arm clutched to his chest and with a smoking barrel of a gun in his left. 

Natasha looked back. The little wolf was still. She stared at the bleeding wound in her abdomen with a look of blank confusion. Like she couldn't really wrap her head around it, the fact that she was there, that she was the one swaying like a willow in a hurricane. Natasha watched her fall back like it was slow motion, unable to move or do a thing but watch the assassin fall.

She wondered if she even felt the pain.

"There," Pollux panted, dropping his left arm. "Now we're even."

Natasha glanced back at him. "She was only a kid."

"She was a kid with a knife and the fucking Communist Manifesto memorized. I ain't taking chances."

That was me once, she wanted to tell him, and ask if he would do the same. But she already knew that answer to that. So instead, Natasha staggered to her feet, wiping her brow. "Where's Bosworth and the girl?"

"Both safe. Looking for a way out."

"A way out?"

"Another truck," he sighed, leaning against the basement doorway. "Our car's tires all slashed. The one you saw took off. But we're thinkin' we can steal another and get the hell outta here."

She heaved a breath, her lungs burning from a fight that was fairer than she would like to admit. That was the problem with the Red Room. They trained their toys with only one thought, kill or be killed. That didn't leave much breathing room.

"Okay," she sighed, glancing around the small room. Her eyes darted over the body, shrinking away immediately after. "We should do something about her."

"Why?"

Natasha didn't answer his question. She took a step forward, trying to think over their next steps. The place was probably still swarming with people, because she doubted the other two agents were super thorough. Not that she would blame them then; they had a mission, and the Chancellor's daughter came first. Still. There were still threats looming. And if the damned fallen wolf behind her spoke for anything, then —

—there came a gasp, and Natasha whirled to Pollux, alarm bells ringing. But before he could say a word, there was the telltale sound of something rushing, and a sudden white hot pain bloomed across her gut. Sharp metal caressed her insides, barely a bite but a lick, and slid right back out. 

Natasha let out a soft 'oh,' stumbling back a step. She knew what had been done. But she couldn't bow so easily. "Go," she hissed, forcing all signs of pain from her voice. She whirled to collide with the child; every motion was burning, but it had to be worth it. Swear words in her native language slipped from her lips. They tasted like blood.

"Romanoff!"

"Go," she ordered with a huff, once again stumbling to her feet. "I'll be right there."

"But—"

She wasted no breath, instead laying chase to the assassin, who had somehow found a side door to limp out of. She knew Pollux wouldn't follow.

Spies always have an escape. She should have remembered.

As she ran, her hand slipped to her side. She drew it back up and winced. Blood. And her head, already spinning, though it was so small a cut she shouldn't feel it so fast. It wasn't hard to guess what that meant. She'd dealt enough venom to know when the snake had turned its ugly head. And she'd tasted enough of its saliva to recognise the burn. 

Maybe her red-splashed years wouldn't be pointless. Maybe she had enough tolerance to survive the little wolf's snakebite. 

Guess it wouldn't take long to figure out the answer to that question.

Natasha ran. 

"I wanted to be selfless."

Her eyes stung. She couldn't place why. Maybe the venom had reached her brain, and every orifice was trying to bleed itself out, but it was trapped by the damned balls of sight that were practically blind in the midnight rain. Maybe, Natasha wondered blearily, would it be best to tear them out? Would she survive if she rid herself of the gift of sight?

But her hands, when they lifted, were barely strong enough to hover, and she knew she didn't have the strength. So she just sank, limp limbs and bloody eyes, wondering when the venom would take away her right to think, too.

"I think for the first time in my life, I was." Wasn't she? Wasn't giving your life the greatest gift? She was alone and bleeding but they would live for decades. They would raise children and cradle their lovers and see the sunset a thousand times. Would they even remember what she gave for them, when their time at long-last came?

"Gratitude's empty...but maybe I would like to hear a thank you."

And that thought wasn't selfless. But it tasted nice.

3 HOURS EARLIER.

"There's no escape," Natasha screamed, stopping the little wolf in her tracks. She stood, frozen, halfway across the roof Natasha had just reached. There was nothing in her hands; she must have thrown the blade away, or tucked it for evidence, maybe.

The girl, not much of a wolf but more of a deer in headlights, turned. Her teeth were bared but they weren't so much scary as they were tired. She wanted it to be over. She wanted to escape.

Natasha stepped forward. "A Black Widow cannot die from their own venom," she said in Russian. Even as her side ached. She told herself it was nothing. It was just a bee sting smarting on a child's plump thumb. "I will not be brought to my knees from my own bite."

"ты не заслуживаешь быть вдовой." But the wolf's voice shook. It was too thin. There would be nothing left of her soon, not with how her wound wept.

"And you are the one to say I am not one? You failed this mission, little one."

The little wolf's eyes widened. "нет."

"Yes. They will not let you back empty-handed. You'll be a corpse by the morning. You and I both know this." She moved ever closer. Her mind swam, white ghosts clouding her vision. She wondered how long it had been, since she had practiced taking the Widow's Venom. If her body still knew how to fight back. "I, however, will continue on. And I'll forget all about the little wolf who nipped my heels."

"ты скоро умрешь."

"I was one of you, little one. You don't think I'm used to a little bit of venom? I drank that shit for breakfast," Natasha smiled, even as she swallowed back the bile in her throat. "You've failed. Lay down."

The wolf growled. Her posture changed, folding into one to fight. Except, her hands trembled, not the fists of a fighter but of a child.

"You won't fight me."

The wolf didn't answer, she just charged. But without the adrenaline pounding through her veins, and with fear, it was all too easy for Natasha to overpower her. She side-stepped, avoiding her flying fists. With one angled foot, she managed to trip the girl.

"Stop fighting," Natasha hissed. She climbed over the wolf and held her down with her hands, jabbing a knee into her injured stomach. "Give in. Give up!"

"нет," the wolf growled. Her hand flung up, still clutching the blade, gleaming red and silver in the rooflight. "нет!"

Natasha lunged for her wrist, but it was too late. The blade met her palm and slipped right through the braids of tendons. It's red-dappled tip winked at her from the other side. She stared at the wound in horror.

The wolf grinned, thinking she had the upper hand. "Умри, предатель."

But Natasha didn't hesitate to bite back. Jaw clenched, so hard she was sure the bones would break, she took the spiderbite and ripped it from her hand. Hot blood sprayed across the roof and over the girl splayed underneath her. She tossed it over the roof.

"I told you," she said. Her eyes carefully avoided the hole weeping in her hand, and instead let the limb fall flat against the cold, concrete roof, just centimetres from the little wolf's pale face. "I'm a Widow. You can't kill me like that."

The girl gnashed her teeth, flailing under her. But the fight was quickly draining form her body. Watching her adversary barely flinch must have made her realise how flawed her plan was - and how her Lider had set her up. She didn't see the pain, etching itself over every inch of Natasha's burning skin, or feel how her body shuddered, unfeeling to the cold but to the red-hot pain searing through the muscles, tearing through the bones. She just saw her own mistakes.

Natasha leaned closer. "I can get you out, little one. Just give in."

The little wolf spat into her face, grinning. "Never," she said in English, the first word of the language she had said all night. "I will never betray my country."

"You're nothing to them," She pleaded, persuasion turning to desperateness. Her bones ached; her blood coursed poison, pumping it straight into her heart. "You're disposable. They sent you here to die! Don't you care!?"

But her pleading was useless. They both knew it.

The little wolf grinned. And there was a small, almost indiscernible, cri-ick, and Natasha knew it was over.

"Охуе́ть," Natasha screamed, no longer caring to who could listen in. She clutched the wolf's face in her hand and scrabbled at her jaw, but it was useless. She knew the age-old trick too well. And that within seconds, as her mouth and throat filled up with cyanide, she would be holding onto a corpse.

Slowly, the life peeled from the young girl's body. She looked human as she died, losing all the bitterness and fight she'd clung to so desperately as a wolf. Natasha didn't know if it was the poison coursing through her body making her think odd, but she would swear she saw relief in the girl's eyes, just before they closed for the final time.

Natasha bent herself forward, pressing her forehead to the girl's. "отдыхай, маленький волк," she said gently.

She blinked. And,

without a moment's warning,

nothing else.

When her eyes reopened, they only met darkness. Black soaked through her freezing skin, under her nails as she tried to push around her, trying to remember where she had come in. All she could feel, though, was the corpse slowly losing heat in her arms.

Oh...and pain, such a familiar friend, suckling at her heart and pinching at her trembling legs. Even as she tried to stand, the pain made it like running through quicksand.

Natasha gave up on walking. She knew it was a hapless quest, with her thighs burning and her calves melting away into whatever ink black precipice she stood upon. The corpse rolled inelegantly off her legs and she barely felt it before it just fell away. Lost to the darkness as she would be soon.

She didn't know how long she had been unconscious for. Only that there was no one there. No sounds around her as she tugged on the door, throwing her body through the slim opening she could force for herself. No one charged. No one screamed some weak attempts at a battle cry, or sneered at her, or laughed at the Black Widow's predicament.

She would even welcome a malicious 'commie spy' reference, at that point.

"P..." she leant against a wall, grimacing when her back met something wet. Hopefully it was just blood and nothing fouler. Her fingers tapped at the comm in her ear. "P...o...ollux...come...in..."

Nothing.

"B...os...worth...?"

Only silence met her.

Natasha sighed. She ripped the busted comm from her ear and threw it aside. She was alone.

She walked as a corpse would, if some cruel demon attached strings to its limbs and forced it to dance through the halls. She could barely see. Barely breathed, just forcing her marionette legs to carry her forward. Out. Wherever.

She could smell blood everywhere.

She wondered what would happened, to the little wolf's body.

She wished she could have taken it with her.

She kept walking.

Soon, the rooms changed. She vaguely recognised her surroundings from before and carried forward with the hope of making it out alive. Hallways were gateways to safety. Her teammates were out there. Life, was out there.

Her body slumped against the door she had come in through. She shoved a corpse out of the way, biting back a scream as her insides tore, and threw it open.

Fresh air greeted her. 

Natasha wondered if this was what it felt like to hope.

But making it outside, though it had only been half the battle, was all her poisoned-addled body could manage. Natasha collapsed like a leaf to the pavement, barely feeling herself hit ground. She twitched lifelessly. Hopelessly, she wondered if she'd get lucky, and someone would be around to pick her up.

Everyone was gone.

She knew that, even as she wondered where they had gone.

She'd missed the last boat. Somewhere in what felt like seconds, the world had succumb to darkness and everyone had escaped. She was probably already being deemed dead, or at least missing in action. If Pollux and Bosworth even had the decency for that.

Natasha heaved a sticky sigh through her lungs, feeling them burn and choke. Not much oxygen was coming in. That wasn't a good sign.

Really, none of it was.

She couldn't remember where the nearest safe house was. That was a terrible sign, too, because if a spy knows anything it's where to hide. But if she couldn't even recall what street she was using as a bed...

"C...m...on," she wheezed, dragging herself forward on bloody fingernails. They scrabbled at every indent, every stone she could grab, heaving her dying form into the darkness. Going anywhere. Somewhere. Nowhere.

Suddenly her head met wall. Her lips parted, a breathless laugh escaping before she could conserve her last few breaths. "Yes," she muttered, pulling herself up to the wall. "Yes...yes...c'mon..."

Her vision waived. Her body swayed, pressed against the last lifeline the brick wall offered.

Something wet hit her face. It dripped down her cheek. It was cold, and she looked up in hopes of seeing above, but she could only see darkness.

Natasha sighed and slumped down. More droplets joined her skin, slipping down her hair, her face, coating her bloodied hands and lap with water. Maybe it'd wash her clean, she mused, so she could die a prettier death than she deserved.

A silly thought came to her death-rattled mind. Something so obscure and hilarious, honestly, that a killing machine like the Black Widow could even picture the damn words. 

Her face tilted up, welcoming the rain on her fevered skin. Her lips parted again, tasted water and iron.

"I don't think I deserve to die," she told the rain.

She got no response back, but she still laughed at her joke, anyways.

"Maybe...they were right about me."

PRESENT.

"Maybe I am a coward."

Natasha tilted her head up and stares, squinting, into the rain. She wished she could see the sun, at least one more time, but there was nothing but the smallest light illuminating her bare, dismal surroundings, and not even the sight of stars to calm her grieving soul.

"Perhaps...this is fitting," she murmured to the darkness, eyes slipping shut once more. That time, she didn't try to open them. "I deserve to die like this."

Something shuffled to her right. In her state of disrepair, the Widow did not even hear the movement. She didn't even hear as something, someone, bumped rather viciously against the garbage cans. Even as the metal rustled and a voice groaned.

Death was so, so close. But...

"H-h-hello?"

The soft, honey-soaked voice was so unlike what Natasha had ever heard, it practically startled her back to life — or at least whatever sliver of it she was still clutching onto. Her eyes sprang open but she still could not see a thing. Only the slightest of something was visible in the alleyway, shadowed and soaked like she was.

"Бог?" she asked, blind and barely breathing.

The stranger did not answer her question, probably because they did not understand it — or even hear, because Natasha's voice was but a whisper amongst the crashing rain and ominous thunder. But still, footsteps tapped against the pavement and it seemed like they were inching nearer, to the point where she could almost feel them breathing on her frozen skin.

They were warm. Wonderfully warm.

"I-I am going to help you," the stranger told her, in that same gentle tone that intoxicated her. The slightest hint of a French accent hung with every syllable, and she noticed how it trembled. She sounded scared. "C-c-can I help you, honey?"

Natasha shut her eyes again, squeezing against her tears. But it was no use. They dripped from her eyes and mingled cold as ever with the pouring from above. "I..." she looked out again, trying to make out the stranger's face. All she could see was a sloping nose and a row of white teeth, gleaming from something she couldn't see. She sighed again. "I don't want to die..."

The stranger finally touched her, and like the breath, their hands were warm. "I promise you, you will not die. Just relax."

And despite the last crumb of logic in Natasha's mind, the wolf inside urging her to stay alert, she did exactly as the stranger asked. Her eyelids drooped low once more. She could barely keep them open even a fraction, anymore.

"Just relax," the stranger urged, pressing something against Natasha's cheek. "I-I've got you, honey."

Her eyes shut.

Me: okay, maybe in the future i'm going to stop writing such long opening chapters, lol. they're probably too long and readers get bored! switch it up! shorten it!

Also me, two days later, writing a 9000+ word first chapter: ...

Also, I'm reading through this and I absolutely despise it; I don't know why I keep allowing myself to write fight scenes because I HATE DOING IT. I'm going to throw up; this is so hard to read through and decide to post. Very sorry to those who read through this willingly. Or non willingly if I somehow subconsciously forced your gaze upon this.

Thank you for reading; let me know what you thought.