Post by Deleted on Jun 30, 2013 1:19:32 GMT
Name: NATALIA ALIANOVA ROMANOV Age: 86 Occupation: SPY/ASSASSIN Member Group: AVENGERS Powers & Abilities: PEAK HUMAN PHYSICAL CONDITION, SLOWED AGING, MULTILINGUAL, MASTER SPY, MASTER ASSASSIN, EXPERT MARTIAL ARTIST, EXPERT IN FIREARMS, Playby: SCARLETT JOHANSSON |
on the same side. “Ivan,” your voice manages, hoarse and quiet. Your eyes open, darting around the dark room. You’re still here and not in the small flat you shared with your father. If they hadn’t taught you how to be so strong, you’re sure you’d be crying. You’ve been here for over a week, brought in with several other girls. They call you special. They preen your feathers saying you’ll be the best. A guardian angel for Soviet Russia. For years, you believe them. It seems noble at first, aiding your fellow comrades for the good of the nation. You tell them you love your country. That you’ll prove your loyalty. The U.S.S.R has raised you, gave you life where you would’ve been robbed of it. Ivan was merely the messenger. You belong to Russia, to the Red Room. They have given you everything. The least you could do was give yourself back. You are young enough for the memories to fade away and become replaced. A young mind is a fragile one – moldable, ever changeable. It is like putty in their all too capable hands. They take you out and put something in. Then they do it again. Again, again. Until there’s nothing left. A month later, you find yourself muttering his name. This time you don’t know why. This time you’ve completely forgotten about him. You wake up in slight disorient. Your head hurts, your jaw is sore from grinding your teeth. You sit up in bed with a cold sweat upon your brow. They don’t like it when you’re awake in the middle of the night. It puts your schedule off-balance. Makes you weak the next day. So you lay back down, pulling the blanket up over your head and you tell yourself to sleep. “Do you know Comrade Ivan Petrovich?” One asks you over lunch. You glance up, looking for the right answer in their face. Unbearably neutral as always. You rack the files in your mind, going through the list of names in your database. You should remember the face of the soldier who took you out of the wreckage. You should remember the man who saved you a life in the orphanage, that is, if you managed to not die right there in the snow. You should remember your father. “No,” you say, returning to your meal. It’s the right answer. It means you’re working. The girl beside you is convulsing in her bed. You retreat to the wall, watching as two men come in to take her. She’s shouting nonsense, clawing at the air. Later you’ll realize that her mind was simply not up for the task the Red Room provided. You’ll realize that she was reset one too many times; too many memories were planted in her head. She short-circuited. The human brain is strong, but hers was not strong enough. She’s chanting as they drag her out. Something that sticks in your head for a very, very long time. “Кто-я?” “Who am I?” That’s a damn good question. “Back to bed, Comrade Romanova.” Your eyes flick upwards, finally pulling away from the wall. The shadows keep you hidden, a basic technique now embedded so far into your head that it’s second nature. You’ll be seen only when you want to be seen. The door closes, but you can still hear the girl wailing on. You slide back under the covers and pull them up to your neck. Sleep won’t come to you tonight. Truthfully it never comes easy. You just shut your eyes and will your mind to quiet. You won’t end up like her. You’re stronger, more capable. You have to be. What good are you if you can’t serve your country? The next day you’re told that the girl was sent home. For a moment, you’re happy for her. You still feel sympathy, if only for a little while longer. The girl was obviously unfit for her training. Years later you’ll realize they mean she died. You’re still naïve enough to believe they take care of you. That they want the best for you. Years later you’ll realize you’re little more than a science experiment to them - a way make the perfect spy. The softer emotions have not yet been poured out of you. You still know how to trust and how to have faith. You are still flawed. More needs to be done to you. Longer hours are spent in the training hall. Blows get harder when you make a mistake. It’s for your own good. bad body double. Before you laid eyes on him, the Winter Soldier was naught but a myth. A story you hear to keep you in your bed at night. You meet him when you're still Natalia. There's still that shred of humanity left in you. You wonder if it's why they brought him in. He's pure power, towering over you with complete neutrality. When they talk about perfection, you know that he's the one they're talking about. He calls you a Black Widow once during training. Quick, deadly, a flash of red before death. It's the closest thing to a compliment you've had in years. The distraction causes you to fall. He promises to fix that. Under his wing, you'll become something to be proud of. Weakness will be eliminated. The Winter Soldier keeps his word. You ask him once who he is - who he really is. He doesn't know, but there isn't any sadness left in him. It's merely a fact. You give him a wild grin. "Neither do I." There's a quiet understanding between you, which makes it all the more unfortunate. Two people like you shouldn't be close. To be honest, you're not even sure how it works. But when you're with him, you're a little less broken, a little more human. It hurts. But it's a good kind of hurt. Your mind gets clearer. Natalia Romanova breaks through the walls he taught you to build. It's a little more than ironic. You aren't vocal about whatever feelings you may have developed for him. You're not even sure if there are any. You attach to him the only way a girl devoid of the softer emotions can. You fall asleep next to him coiled up and ready to flee if the need arises. Sometimes your arm drapes across him, mumbling that, for the Winter Soldier, he's remarkably warm. If he hears you, he doesn't respond. You don't call it love. That word lost it's meaning a long time ago. You work together like two very worn out puzzle pieces. You shouldn't fit together, your edges rough and torn but you do. There's no sympathy between you. It would be wasted. You merely understand. You're both soaked in so much blood it's not fair that you find refuge in each other. He keeps the demons at bay, allowing you a few precious hours of sleep without nightmares plaguing you. You come back to your apartment battered and bruised, with his arm hooked around you as your support. Metallic fingers are cold against your skin as you half-heartedly peel back your clothes, but you've long gotten used to it.. You managed it here with hardly a limp, appearances meaning everything to you. It isn't until you get behind closed doors that you double over, cracked ribs shooting pain through you with each breath. Your fingers fiddle with the straps and buttons of his uniform, now wanting nothing more than to feel his skin against your own. He brushes the glass from your hair and you let him, the only person immune to your bite. The only person that you allow in without snapping his neck promptly afterwards. Your own vulnerability frightens you. Granted, it's minute and only for his eyes. He who taught you to be so strong. Sometimes you think he knows you better than you do. There's a time and a place for you to lean into him, quiet and still, and not quite so coiled up. You allow yourself to do so now, shoulders relaxing a fraction. No one else would have noticed, but you know he can. You don't allow him to carry you into the bathroom, instead making it there with your arm hooked around his neck. You pull him into the shower with you, kissing him like it's the last breath you'll ever have. Blood and debris wash away down the drain, the last memories of the mission going down with them. He's gentle with you here, the ghost of his lips pressing to your bruises. You sigh with the sensation. It's never painful. He knows exactly how your body works without a mistake. Your affair with the Winter Soldier started aggressive, blood red, and heated. It's different now. It's something that should make you want to duck out the window and never look at him again. That would be the smart thing to do. Instead you hold onto him. The only person to ever know Black Widow and Natalia Romanova and live to tell the tale. burst at the seam. The world is grey. Seeing it in black and white causes confusion and therefore weakness. Everyone is a latent threat, a bomb waiting to be set off. You are the only one you can trust. Other people trust you. They tell you secrets as if you’re a friend. They believe you when you allow your shoulder as a place to cry on. What’s more trustworthy than a spy? “Do you know why they call me the Black Widow?” You ask, legs on either side of your mark. The red dress is gathered around your knees, the high slit exposing your garters and the plethora of weapons attached. He looks at you in fear, noting the obvious change in the scene. It seems like only a few minutes ago, you were talking and making toasts. That’s when you made your move. You’re done with him. He spilled his secrets like the rest of them - whispering in your ear when he wasn’t shouting your name. It’s time to dispose of him. There’s no reason to keep someone around if they have nothing more to offer. Your hands are around his wrists, proving yourself stronger than you make yourself look. You are a trained predator, waiting for the exact moment to reach out and take your prey. He struggles, and you tilt your head. “Stop.” You command, and he listens, falling against the bed. He’s starting to understand now. “Please,” you can hear the word muffled by the cloth in his mouth. If you were more sympathetic, you’d let him go. As it was, you had an agenda. A mission. Get what you need and leave nothing behind. So you bend down and speak next to his ear, an intimate gesture that you’ve used many, many times. When you pull back, fright is etched into every line of his face. You release him, stand up and take your bag off the table. He stays rooted to the spot, watching you with slightly bulging eyes. “I trust you understand,” you say, glancing minutely over his shoulder. Before he can nod, you’ve left with your car keys in hand. It’s raining outside, but you don’t get cold easily. You’ve hardened inside and out. There’s a car waiting for you across the street, black and inconspicuous. As you get in, you signal to the driver to wait. You stare up at the window of the room you were just in. You watch as he jumps. There’s a sound of shattering glass when he hits the roof of a car parked on the opposite side of the road. “Go,” you tell the driver. In less than two hours, you’re dropped at your apartment door. You turn the key and let yourself in before turning on the lights. It’s small and minimally furnished the way you like it. You peel away the armor you used tonight – a soft red dress that’s slippery in all the right ways. Then there’s the second layer of all your gadgets: guns, knives, a taser. You take them all off and leave them where they fall. You’ve completed your mission, now it’s time to detox. You’re not necessarily guilty about how you use your skills. It’s a routine you started in the Red Room. Finish your training, then let the scars melt away. Let the screams become quieter. Now fully naked, you turn the faucet in the bathtub, letting the water go as hot as you can possibly take it. Hot water sterilizes you and makes you ready for your next instructions. You slip into the water, washing off the perfume and makeup you had to wear. You stop being the Black Widow for an hour. Right now, right here, you are Natalia Romanoff. And no one can take that away from you. pulled in by the flood. You make a name for yourself but you don’t care. You’ve lost yourself along the way. You are the deadly Black Widow, with a bite just as fatal as your namesake. Natalia Romanoff was a fragile, pathetic excuse for a girl. You’ve grown out of that. You’re something the Russian government can be proud of. You dispose without asking questions. They keep you happy with your large apartment. They give you anything you need. You figure you’d be a liability if you turned. You have no intention of doing so. You’re not one to bite the hand that feeds you. However, you get greedy. Suddenly it’s not enough to be a Russian agent. Other people hire you for a great deal of money. You sink, and you sink quickly. If you weren’t such a good swimmer, you’re sure you would’ve drowned. You owe people. The debts pile up and you want them wiped out. You go to the source of your problems, offering services to overlook your debt. When they don’t agree, you do what you do best. It’s a reflex by now. When things don’t go your way, you get rid of them. It’s a good thing you don’t form many relationships. You’d be a terrible girlfriend. It’s become complicated. Too many people want your head on a plate. Too many people have you on their radar. You’re not one to avoid the spotlight, but this kind of attention makes you want to duck into your safe haven of shadows. One more job becomes several. “Why are you following me?” You noticed him several days back, perched high above everyone else. You glance over his uniform and run the symbol though your head. S.H.I.E.L.D. You only know of them in whispers. There’s as good as you when it comes to lurking in shadows. When you ask again, he offers a joke of a reply. A frown tugs at your lips as you slam your knuckles into the bone in his nose. It cracks, but he recovers quickly. It’s almost troubling how he can match your blows. Before now, you were only thrown onto your back if you wanted it to happen. He’s slower than you. You see an opening and you take it, wrapping around him and forcing him to the ground. When he’s finally out, you take his gear. But not before leaving behind a token. You write ROBIN HOOD in lipstick on his forehead, kiss his cheek, and go back to your mission. Making a fool out of Agent Barton doesn’t deter him. Later, you’ll ask if he’s into that sort of thing. This time you’re close. Your mark has left you alone in his luxurious apartment. You root through his things, looking for the file money that has been keeping you under the mafia’s thumb. He doesn’t know your real name yet. It’s almost pathetic how far you can get with a wink and a smile. Men are easy, this one in particular. It was almost too easy to worm your way onto his arm. Now all you need is to erase yourself. There should be a safe around here somewhere. You heave a bookshelf aside to reveal the small box. You should be a bit more careful. The rooms look torn apart, as if you’re nothing more than a common burglar. You’d be fine with him believing that, really. Pressing an ear to the door of the safe, you turn the lock carefully. You hear Barton behind you, already aware of how he moves. You have the envelope in your hand when there’s the click of a gun at your head. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, no doubt. That’s what you used to think. You know how it works. Then you realize something. If Barton was going to kill you, he would’ve done it by now. “Do you know what a ledger is, SHIELD?” You ask, looking at him over your shoulder. You still have a grip on the envelope in your arms. He’ll have to pry it from you. “It’s a way of keeping track of accounts. Debts, credits.” You turn to face him, expression as neutral as you’ve been trained to keep. “This balances out the red.” He does what you want, finger releasing the trigger. You almost thank him. “I have people who can help.” You look up, searching for the ulterior motive. There’s nothing written on that face that’s been through maybe as many battles as you have. You draw back, almost confused by the gesture. Perhaps he’s really not like you at all. You’re not sure why you accept an offer from a man sent to kill you. It’s all the ingredients for a disaster. But for once in your life, you extend a small amount of trust to someone other than yourself. _____ “You can’t just bring in strays.” You can hear them talking about you in the next room. Agent Clint Barton (you looked him up as he slept on the plane) is vouching for you and you’re not quite sure why. He barely knows you. Or maybe he does. Maybe somehow he was able to get a read on you. Maybe you’ve gotten sloppier with your covers. There are a thousand reasons floating around in your head. He opens the door, face flushed slightly in frustration. Behind him are two others, Coulson and Fury. You answer to both. And if you put a toe out of line, they will kill you. This time you can hear the truth in their words. Barton leads you down the hall to another room and puts the keys in your hands. He has a set too, along with your new employers. Just to be safe, he assures you. You lean against the doorframe, giving him a feline grin. “Want to come in, Barton?” “No, Natasha.” It’s not so much the quick rejection that bothers you. You were expecting that much. It’s the use of your nickname that causes you to bristle. As if you’re already on familiar terms with him. Then again, you can’t argue with the man who saved you. must be some kind of mistake. It’s hard for you to settle in at first. Barton sticks to you like a shadow. You can’t go off on your own like you could in Russia. At first you wanted to run. When backed into such a tight corner, your first instinct is to get away. You stay because of the way Barton looks at you. He doesn’t see the Black Widow. He’s never called you that once. He insists on calling you Natasha. And you get used to it. A caged animal is not supposed to see the sun and yet here you are. You stay quiet for a long time, offering only professional comments. You have a web of contacts, and S.H.I.E.L.D knows how to use it. When they send you out on missions, you’re never alone. Agent Barton is usually with you, or Agent Coulson who remains an enigma even to you. They don’t trust you and you don’t blame them. You barely trust yourself anymore. Nightmares come in waves. You wake up in the middle of the night, your mind clear enough to remember the Red Room in it’s glory. Without the false memories keeping you from swaying too far from their path you allow yourself to become Natalia - no, Natasha. It’s bittersweet. Slowly, very slowly, you begin to smile. It’s usually when people can’t see you. You still have it in your head that it’s a weakness to be happy. Happy makes you stuck. Misery keeps you going. You keep your distance for the simple fact that you’ll feel like you’ll be reset at any moment. That Black Widow will give you that bite and drag you down to your deepest depths. Agent Barton is your anchor, even if he seems oblivious to that fact. He doesn’t allow you be alone with your own thoughts for too long, letting himself into your room with a stack of dvds, claiming you need to be educated on American cinema. The movies are bad, the beer is cheap. But when he falls asleep on your couch, you thank him. think you're clever. There’s a file on your table, along with a new name and passport. You’ll be sent toTony Stark, Figurehead and Head of Technology at Stark Industries. The mission is simple, so simple that it angers you. You find Fury in his office after a few wild goose chases. He’s easy to find when you don’t want to see him. Now that you need him, it’s a different story. “I’m not a babysitter,” you say, putting the file down in front of him. He barely looks up, instead pushing the file back to you. “If the time comes, we’ll need Stark on our side. I’m trusting you to put him there.” “Are you preparing for something?” “You could say that.” Above all else, you’re a good soldier and you’re not about to break that now. When you were still in Russia, you had heard of Stark – Howard Stark - the man who deported his partner Anton Vanko. The reasons were always muddled. When you were there, Stark was the enemy who stole from Vanko. It’s reversed here. You can’t help but remain slightly apprehensive. It’s merely ingrained in the deepest parts of your mind. Coulson gives you a resume, one that’s surprisingly truthful aside from the modeling. You look up at the other. "I'm a model?" “Knowing Stark, that’ll get you in.” When you get there as Natalie Rushman, Stark is in the ring with Happy Hogan – chauffer and friend. You’ve read up on everyone who works here, memorizing down to their details. It’s only Stark that provides a bit of mystery for you. You walk to Virginia Potts, clipboard in hand with paperwork that needs her signature. If Stark is the brain, then Potts is the spine. Once cannot exist without the other. Then you get called into the ring. Stark is looking at you and you can see the damage his arc reactor is responsible for. He leaves and you’re stuck with the driver, who asks you if you’ve ever boxed before. His naiveté is charming. “Never take your eyes off your opponent,” it’s an innocent thing to say, but you can’t help the reflex to throw him to the ground. You duck out of the ring to put your shoes back on when you see Stark’s amused face. At least your little stunt didn’t get you thrown out. Mom and Dad are fighting. That’s what you can hear some employees mutter under their breath. Instead of following Stark, you do much more secretarial work than you planned. You have no problem with it – you’re as skilled with business as Natalie’s resume says. Vanko’s son proves to be a problem, but you don’t see the battles until you need to. You stay as Natalie Rushman until the moment comes for you to slip into black. Your cover was good, but your assessment of Tony Stark isn’t what Fury was hoping. If Fury wants a group of people to come together, Stark shouldn’t be one of them. At least, not unless they’re desperate and have something Stark would find worth fighting for. You have little hope for him. are we human? “Barton’s been compromised,” Coulson’s voice is quiet, but there’s no less impact with his words. He doesn’t need to say anything else. It’s enough to make you drop what you’re doing and run after the man who gave you a thousand chances. The interrogation doesn’t last long after that. You got what you came for anyway. You pick up your heels and the phone and Coulson is still there. “Where’s Barton?” It’s more of a demand than anything else. Fury told you about the Avengers Initiative before you went to Stark. It was a half-baked idea then, and seemed even more implausible now. America’s golden boy, a scientist with a severe case of Jekyl and Hyde, Clint, yourself, a mythical god, and Stark. It was a rag-tag team at best, a time bomb at worst. You weren’t interested in those odds, but Fury was adamant. Get Banner. You think you’d have better luck trying to get Stark to trust you. You aren’t surprised when Dr. Banner is hesitant. You were expecting it, but you knew how to appeal to him. You don’t mention his other half; convince him that Fury is interested in his knowledge and not what he’s notorious for. You’d be happy if you never saw the Other Guy. That kind of primal power sends your head reeling back to Russia. It’s something you don’t want to revisit. Or course Coulson could get Stark. He didn’t have the kind of manipulative tricks you used. Coulson was always so wonderfully honest. It was something you always admired in him. You sit back as the rest of the ‘team’ comes in. Steve Rogers, so out of place. You look to Coulson when you see the super soldier, see the minute twitch of excitement. If Clint was next to you, you’re sure he’d be sniggering. Your mind is focused on getting him back. You owe little loyalty to anyone but him. If Loki needs to die for you to get Clint back, then so be it. _____ “Is this love, Agent Romanoff?” You watch as Loki sits in his cage, still powerful even behind layers of thick protection. He knows what he’s doing. His tongue works as deftly as yours does, perhaps a bit better even. You’ve read the legends, and you have to admit he lives up to the stories. But there are cracks in him, cracks that go so deep you’re sure he’d break apart if you could find a weakness. You remember what the Winter Soldier told you, his words coming through you even now. “Love is for children.” You say it with conviction, knowing that he had been right all along. “I owe him a debt.” It’s an understatement. You owe a lot more to Clint than just a debt, but you’re not about to spill your heart to someone like Loki. What he says about you is true, but you’ve stopped being hurt by the truth. Facts can’t cut you when you know them yourself. But you play the game. “You’re a monster,” you choke out. “You brought the monster.” You have it. You straighten up, eyes as dry as ever as you whip around and touch your earpiece with instructions. Before you leave, merely because you know it's what Clint would do, you say, “Thank you for your cooperation.” _____ “This is Agent Romanoff. I copy.” You keep the fear out of your voice. Not from Banner, that was something you already pushed past. But from coming up against the very man you owe your life to. You’re both good at what you do. You’re maybe a little quicker, he a little stronger. It’s why you work so well. You complement each other. But you’re not sure if you can go against him like this. You remind yourself that he’s not Clint – not really, and you stand up. A fight between you could last hours. If often did when you trained together. Roles changed repeatedly. You could be on top one moment and then thrown to your knees the next. You don’t like Black Widow through. You fight as the woman he helped mold. You get the idea of cognitive recalibration from Loki, recalling the words ‘split his skull’. You think that maybe it isn’t in the heart like he made it out to be. It could be in the brain. “Tasha?” He’s coming back now, but you need to make sure with one more punch. You stand back as they carry him out. Then Fury’s voice is in your ear. “Agent Coulson is down.” The words would echo in your head for a very long time. Coulson, who you and Clint tormented mercilessly. Who always got saddled as your babysitter. Who acknowledged what you did and asked, ‘is that it?’ You don’t cry. You’re not sure if you know how to anymore. Instead, you shy away from everyone else, nursing wounds in a corner of the room you and Clint now share. You don’t leave his side as he pushes Loki out. You push back feelings. Duty comes first. Duty always comes first. everybody hurts. When Loki finally goes back with his brother, things don’t go back to normal. You move around apartments because you can’t settle. Clint always finds you. Even in the places S.H.I.E.L.D doesn’t know where to look. You open your door to see him checking the plants outside, looking for the spare key. You always tell him to call first, but he doesn’t listen. That’s never his style. He shows up when you need him, and he shows up when he needs you. It’s a quiet understanding between you by now. He shows up with a dog once, something that’s so complacent in his arms. You can tell what happened before he says anything. Always the hero. Of course he’d save a damaged creature. You’ve seen him do it before. When you finally concede, his face lights up like a child’s would. You tell him he’s keeping the dog and yet she’s at your place more often than not. Your missions are usually few and far between. The Avengers sent a message. People know who you are, and they’re not about to mess with that. You get sent back to Russia a few times, each more dismal than the last. It’s an all-too-painful reminder of what could’ve happened if Clint hadn’t been sent to kill you. Sometimes you see girls like you, entirely too tough too young. You sigh and keep going. That’s all you can ever do. When you come back to the states, you tuck yourself away, going into headquarters when you need to. Clint is never there. Hasn’t been there since you helped him pack. So you keep your distance, choosing homes further and further away. You go places where satellites can’t reach you, where Fury can’t even call you in. You feel free in your own recluse. It’s peaceful in the mountains. You run every morning with the crisp air making your lungs hurt. Nobody can see you here and that’s exactly what you want. |
WILLOW | 22 | PST | CAUTION