Avengers (2012): "Shot in the Dark" (1/6) (Clint/Natasha)
Title: Shot in the Dark (1/6)
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Pre- Clint/Natasha (UST)
Rating: R (mostly for violent themes and language)
Warnings: language and some violence
Spoilers: None
Type: Completed
Word Count: 2,695
Summary: In her life there comes a moment. A moment when survival is no longer enough. A moment to say "I choose to live. A moment that changes everything.
Author's Notes: I cannot thank all my cheerleaders and beta readers enough for this. This exists because of y'all, and your input. In particular (and I hope to god that I don't forget anyone!): kadollan, anuna_81, SidheRa and lar-laughs.
I had all these rambly thoughts about how this came about, but they've all left my brain. This is my headcanon, and is the cornerstone of a much larger story (I hope). This stuff doesn't happen in a vacuum though, and I'm really, really blessed to have an awesome community of people at be-compromised who have absolutely helped me shape this story. So everyone at the comm? This is for you. :D
I always work with music, and that's no exception here. I strongly suggest/urge/beg of you to go listen to this: Shake it Out ~ Florence + the Machine - this song, the original album version in particular, is very much Natasha's voice for me, at this point in her life. It's her redemption song, because this is her redemption story. It's the voice of someone who wants a life she can truly live, instead of a shadow life and a shadow self.
Many, many thanks as well to my awesome artist, nessataleweaver for the amazing mix (found here.)
February, 1998 ~ Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas, USA
The suit wasn’t an unusual sight in such a place, although he was more used to seeing JAGs dressed in uniform. But normally the people wearing them didn’t move like that, like Clint himself did. Like they’d had training, way above and beyond standard military or FBI issue. This guy was dangerous, even though he looked completely unassuming.
“28564, you’re up,” the guard called, and Clint assumed the position to wait for the manacles to be snapped on and the cell doors to unlock. The guard kept eying him sideways as if he expected him to go off at any moment. They didn’t know what exactly he was or why he was there, but they knew that the prisoners with numbers instead of names were extremely dangerous, and not to be underestimated.
The room he was led to was a standard interrogation room, but as soon as he was chained to the bolts on the floor and table, the suit nodded at the MPs who reluctantly left the room. The door shut behind them with a resounding clang, and Clint narrowed his eyes at the guy, because that was absolutely not approved procedure.
“Specialist Clinton Francis Barton, previously serving with Special Operations unlisted unit number 5, primary focus the former Eastern Bloc. Am I correct, so far?” the man smiled, very pleasantly, completely at odds with where the were and who he had to be to have that kind of information. It was the first time in two months that Clint had heard his name spoken aloud.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, tight lipped. “And you are?” He saw no reason to afford this guy, or anyone else any particular respect at this point, except possibly for the judge if he ever had an actual court martial. Which wasn’t likely.
“Agent Phil Coulson, of SHIELD. That’s Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. It’s a mouthful, I know. We’re working on that.”
The guy was positively grinning without actually changing the set of his mouth, and Clint had no idea what to make of it.
“Never heard of it.”
“I didn’t think you had. Few people have, until they have reason to. Which you now do.”
Clint just arched an eyebrow.
“Do you have a problem with killing, Mr. Barton?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you have a problem with killing? Other people, I mean.”
“Is this a trick question? You’ve obviously got my file - probably my whole file, right there. You know what I’ve done, officially and apparently unofficially.”
“I suppose the better question is, do you enjoy killing?”
“Not as such.”
“But you don’t mind it.”
“Not if it needs to be done. Some people need to be neutralized,” he settled on finally, falling back on their unit’s official terminology.
“But not everyone?”
Clint wasn’t sure what the guy was getting at, or if this was just another attempt to try and interrogate him about what his unit had done. In either case, he was tired of it, tired of being in limbo about his future, and just plain tired of his fucked up life. “Look, mister-”
“Agent Coulson will be fine.”
“Agent Coulson. Whatever. Do I lose sleep at night if I kill a guy who was selling biologics to some two-bit warlord in a backwater town of Estonia? No. Do I mind being told to take out a Ukrainian drug lord who’s probably responsible for hundreds of dead bodies and thousands of addicts? Again, no. Do I think there are innocent people out there who should be protected and kept the fuck out of it? Hell yes. I'm not willing to take innocent civillian lives. I wouldn’t have triggered the damn charges if I’d know there were still kids in that building, but it’s too late now. Is that what you wanted to know? Is that enough information for you? Can you fucking suits and brass just go ahead and make up your goddamn minds about what you’re going to do with me, and get it the fuck over with?” The weeks of confinement, of not being able to get out of the damn cell were finally getting to him, he decided.
“Yes, thank you. I was hoping you would say that.” At Clint’s startled expression, he continued, now smiling a true smile from ear to ear. Clint felt a bit like he’d somehow ended up through the looking glass. “Mr. Barton, on behalf of SHIELD, I’d like to offer you a job. You have a particular skill set we’re very interested in.”
“Really. Because the army’s short on snipers these days?”
“No. Because you have a unique combination of abilities, including but not limited to your accuracy, along with a personality profile that exactly matches what we’re looking for. We know what you can do with a bow and arrow, as well as with a variety of firearms, about your affinity for languages, your high IQ, and most importantly, that you have a remarkably stable psychiatric profile for someone who is willing and able to kill. SHIELD isn’t in the business of collateral damage, Mr. Barton.”
“What business are you in?”
“Espionage. Global monitoring of various types of threats. Both long term and short term missions ranging from the occasional "smash and grab" to more lengthy, deep cover operations. Our goal, as our name describes, is to keep the world safe from as much and as many of the dangers out there as we can. We think you would make an excellent agent, Mr. Barton. If you’re willing to leave all of this behind you.”
He looked down at the chains around his wrists and ankles, then back up at the smiling man in the suit.
“Why the hell not. On one condition,” he continued, as Coulson started to hand him a folder.
“We're not in the business of making bargains.”
“Tough. One condition, that’s it. When it comes down to it, I decide whether or not to take the shot. Period.”
Coulson looked slightly surprised, but also still pleased. “I think that can be arranged. Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton.”
*****
Early August, 1999 ~ Odesa, Ukraine
She heard the rattling click of a an old fan, struggling fruitlessly against the hot, sticky air. It niggled at the back of her brain like an irritating gnat buzzing in her ear and she burrowed her face further into the pillows, but sleep had already slipped too far away to reclaim.
“Bozhe moĭ,” she cursed softly and slid her hands down from her pillow and underneath her chest to push herself up onto her elbows.
It was wet and sticky.
Something was not right.
It was as if feeling that odd sensation allowed her brain to process other things that didn’t fit with the proper order of the world, like the smell. Sweet and coppery, with a sickly undertone. The light didn't seem to be coming from the right direction, and there was a weight in the bed next to her but she had no idea who it could be. There was the fuzzy recollection of being in the hotel lounge the night before, and a man trying to be charming...
She opened her eyes.
The man lying next to her on the bed was very, very dead. His throat gaped at her in a gruesome parody of a smile and blood had spilled from the wound and soaked through the sheets. It had seeped into her nightgown and she could see red staining part of her hair.
The screams were somehow lodged in her throat, and wouldn’t make it past her clenched teeth. She made no sound at all. It felt like an eternity until she could force herself up onto her knees to scuttle across the bed, then she didn't stop moving until her back hit the far wall. She dragged her knees up to her chest and tucked her forehead against them so that she wouldn't have to keep looking at him.
She started to shiver, but it wasn't from the fan cooling the room. It was the same man she'd seen, who'd talked to her and bought her a drink the night before. She could remember his hand on her arm, her cheek, dancing with him to the piano and some song she didn't know. She could even remember thinking that spending the night with him would be a pleasant diversion and he might have information she could use, and that she'd nodded when he'd invited her upstairs. She could not remember how he'd died, or what they'd done. Her hands were stained red. She shook and wondered if she was going to fly apart at the seams.
It had happened again.
She'd made it a full four months this time, just long enough that she'd foolishly begun to think Kharkiv was the last time. Apparently not.
She gave herself twenty seconds. Twenty full seconds to sit, and shake, and scream inside the confines of her mind before bringing herself back to her center and directing her cold, clinical attention back to the problem at hand.
Her clothes were laid neatly over the back of a nearby chair, well away from the blood. Based on how her skin felt she was covered in gore and in need of a shower before she could get dressed. She propped a chair under the door knob as an extra precaution and then stripped off the slip, tugging at places where the blood stuck fabric to her skin.
The water wouldn't get to the scalding hot temperatures she craved, but tepid got her clean just as quickly. She dressed with precise, efficient movements, then made sure she'd retrieved anything of hers strewn around the room. There wasn't much, just her shoes and a small clutch that contained a false ID and her hotel key.
In the creeping August heat, she knew it wouldn't be long before the smell of the body attracted attention, and she wanted to be as far away as possible before it did.
*****
March, 2000 ~ Marrakech, Morocco
On a good day, she knew that she was Natalia Alianova Romanova, a former agent of the Red Room, now an independent contractor. She could remember that she was a spy, and an assassin, even if most additional details on either of those points were at least blurred (or completely non-existent).
Her memories of the last two years were fairly clear (minus a few very notable moments she tried not to dwell on but which might've been becoming an obsession). She could remember the last "official" mark she'd killed on the Red Room's list and how she'd made it a point to do so bloodlessly. She didn't object to the blood in theory, but she hadn't had a change of clothing and wouldn't have gotten very far painted gore red.
So she'd killed the drug lord by breaking his neck and letting him fall from the balcony to the alley three stories below, to rest among the trash waiting there. Then she'd searched his offices for whatever cash she could find and slipped out the front door, rather than the back door her handlers had told her to use.
The streets in that part of Kaunas were well lit and crowded, even at that time of night because it was the weekend, and it had been easy enough for her to blend in.
Then she'd started running.
He hadn't had much money, not enough to get her past the border, so she'd quietly put herself on the market in rougher circles than what she'd been accustomed to dealing with. A gun runner in Brno who wanted a temporary enforcer to crowd out the competition, a smuggler in Kazakhstan who needed to make sure a shipment got from point A to point B without his business partner finding out (and she'd pointed out to him the easiest way to accomplish that was actually to be rid of the business partner) - she was careful with the money she received and made sure that she had the resources to vanish any time she thought the Red Room might be getting too close.
She sought out more and more powerful targets the more distance and time she put between herself and her former employers. She allowed herself to keep her name and her title because they gave her an in with the upper class clientele she preferred, and she grew to like the idea of letting her former owners know she wasn't afraid of them anymore.
Even though she very much was.
When a mid-level player HYDRA operative named Dmitri Strauss put out a bid on a SHIELD facility just a week after Odessa, she'd weighed the benefits against the risks and decided that the two million they were offering would put a great deal of distance between herself and her demons even if it did add SHIELD to her dance card, so she'd taken it. Like most of her operations, it had been textbook, flawless, and effective.
In retrospect, she might've underestimated SHIELD. Slightly.
The first two agents they'd sent after her had been jokes. She'd picked them off from a distance without even getting her hands dirty. The third and the fourth had required more finesse, some carefully administered drugs, and a fair amount of bloodshed.
The fifth through seventh had come at her at the same time, and it had turned into a cluster-fuck that took out part of an office building in Belgrade. They'd left her with a gash in her arm, a significant dent in her supply of explosives, and she'd made an unexpected trip out of Europe and into Morocco to hide until the furor died down.
It had certainly made her reevaluate where she put SHIELD on the world stage. They'd moved from a distant fifth to a close second on her list of major players, right beneath the Red Room itself. They had a reputation for being thorough, but not one for being particularly cruel. They weren't known for the kind of programs she'd been raised in, and tended to avoid some of the messier routes to get what they wanted. Which got her to thinking about what her next move ought to be.
It was ridiculous.
It was improbable.
It was probably suicidal.
She had an awful lot of information on an great many people SHIELD was interested in. She just had to get a word in edgewise before the next agent pulled the trigger.
Staring out the window of her hotel room watching the sun set, she thought long and hard about what she was doing and about what she had done. She couldn't remember all of the things that her owners had ordered her to do. She suspected that she'd gone willingly enough at the time, but she couldn't even remember if she'd had regrets or concerns about ethics or morals - blunt truth said she probably hadn't.
Everything she'd done since was seared into her mind. She guarded her memories more closely than any riches because she understood they could be taken away just as easily. Even her regrets were precious because they were hers. In the back of her mind she replayed each and every moment she could remember since the day she escaped and paid the closest attention to each face and body she'd killed. She looked down at her hands to see if there was any sign of all the blood but they'd been scrubbed clean for the time being.
The Red Room was closing in on her and she'd been cocky and foolish to think she could cope with them on her own. She needed someone backing her with enough power to make them stay their hand, someone they might even be afraid of. Her best chance would be with SHIELD, and the worst case scenario with them was that she would be dead. Possibly a prisoner, but most likely dead.
That was infinitely better than what would happen if the Red Room recaptured her.
*****
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Author/Artist: Koren M. (cybermathwitch)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, there'd already be a Black Widow/Hawkeye movie.
Pairing: Pre- Clint/Natasha (UST)
Rating: R (mostly for violent themes and language)
Warnings: language and some violence
Spoilers: None
Type: Completed
Word Count: 2,695
Summary: In her life there comes a moment. A moment when survival is no longer enough. A moment to say "I choose to live. A moment that changes everything.
Author's Notes: I cannot thank all my cheerleaders and beta readers enough for this. This exists because of y'all, and your input. In particular (and I hope to god that I don't forget anyone!): kadollan, anuna_81, SidheRa and lar-laughs.
I had all these rambly thoughts about how this came about, but they've all left my brain. This is my headcanon, and is the cornerstone of a much larger story (I hope). This stuff doesn't happen in a vacuum though, and I'm really, really blessed to have an awesome community of people at be-compromised who have absolutely helped me shape this story. So everyone at the comm? This is for you. :D
I always work with music, and that's no exception here. I strongly suggest/urge/beg of you to go listen to this: Shake it Out ~ Florence + the Machine - this song, the original album version in particular, is very much Natasha's voice for me, at this point in her life. It's her redemption song, because this is her redemption story. It's the voice of someone who wants a life she can truly live, instead of a shadow life and a shadow self.
Many, many thanks as well to my awesome artist, nessataleweaver for the amazing mix (found here.)
February, 1998 ~ Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas, USA
The suit wasn’t an unusual sight in such a place, although he was more used to seeing JAGs dressed in uniform. But normally the people wearing them didn’t move like that, like Clint himself did. Like they’d had training, way above and beyond standard military or FBI issue. This guy was dangerous, even though he looked completely unassuming.
“28564, you’re up,” the guard called, and Clint assumed the position to wait for the manacles to be snapped on and the cell doors to unlock. The guard kept eying him sideways as if he expected him to go off at any moment. They didn’t know what exactly he was or why he was there, but they knew that the prisoners with numbers instead of names were extremely dangerous, and not to be underestimated.
The room he was led to was a standard interrogation room, but as soon as he was chained to the bolts on the floor and table, the suit nodded at the MPs who reluctantly left the room. The door shut behind them with a resounding clang, and Clint narrowed his eyes at the guy, because that was absolutely not approved procedure.
“Specialist Clinton Francis Barton, previously serving with Special Operations unlisted unit number 5, primary focus the former Eastern Bloc. Am I correct, so far?” the man smiled, very pleasantly, completely at odds with where the were and who he had to be to have that kind of information. It was the first time in two months that Clint had heard his name spoken aloud.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, tight lipped. “And you are?” He saw no reason to afford this guy, or anyone else any particular respect at this point, except possibly for the judge if he ever had an actual court martial. Which wasn’t likely.
“Agent Phil Coulson, of SHIELD. That’s Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. It’s a mouthful, I know. We’re working on that.”
The guy was positively grinning without actually changing the set of his mouth, and Clint had no idea what to make of it.
“Never heard of it.”
“I didn’t think you had. Few people have, until they have reason to. Which you now do.”
Clint just arched an eyebrow.
“Do you have a problem with killing, Mr. Barton?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you have a problem with killing? Other people, I mean.”
“Is this a trick question? You’ve obviously got my file - probably my whole file, right there. You know what I’ve done, officially and apparently unofficially.”
“I suppose the better question is, do you enjoy killing?”
“Not as such.”
“But you don’t mind it.”
“Not if it needs to be done. Some people need to be neutralized,” he settled on finally, falling back on their unit’s official terminology.
“But not everyone?”
Clint wasn’t sure what the guy was getting at, or if this was just another attempt to try and interrogate him about what his unit had done. In either case, he was tired of it, tired of being in limbo about his future, and just plain tired of his fucked up life. “Look, mister-”
“Agent Coulson will be fine.”
“Agent Coulson. Whatever. Do I lose sleep at night if I kill a guy who was selling biologics to some two-bit warlord in a backwater town of Estonia? No. Do I mind being told to take out a Ukrainian drug lord who’s probably responsible for hundreds of dead bodies and thousands of addicts? Again, no. Do I think there are innocent people out there who should be protected and kept the fuck out of it? Hell yes. I'm not willing to take innocent civillian lives. I wouldn’t have triggered the damn charges if I’d know there were still kids in that building, but it’s too late now. Is that what you wanted to know? Is that enough information for you? Can you fucking suits and brass just go ahead and make up your goddamn minds about what you’re going to do with me, and get it the fuck over with?” The weeks of confinement, of not being able to get out of the damn cell were finally getting to him, he decided.
“Yes, thank you. I was hoping you would say that.” At Clint’s startled expression, he continued, now smiling a true smile from ear to ear. Clint felt a bit like he’d somehow ended up through the looking glass. “Mr. Barton, on behalf of SHIELD, I’d like to offer you a job. You have a particular skill set we’re very interested in.”
“Really. Because the army’s short on snipers these days?”
“No. Because you have a unique combination of abilities, including but not limited to your accuracy, along with a personality profile that exactly matches what we’re looking for. We know what you can do with a bow and arrow, as well as with a variety of firearms, about your affinity for languages, your high IQ, and most importantly, that you have a remarkably stable psychiatric profile for someone who is willing and able to kill. SHIELD isn’t in the business of collateral damage, Mr. Barton.”
“What business are you in?”
“Espionage. Global monitoring of various types of threats. Both long term and short term missions ranging from the occasional "smash and grab" to more lengthy, deep cover operations. Our goal, as our name describes, is to keep the world safe from as much and as many of the dangers out there as we can. We think you would make an excellent agent, Mr. Barton. If you’re willing to leave all of this behind you.”
He looked down at the chains around his wrists and ankles, then back up at the smiling man in the suit.
“Why the hell not. On one condition,” he continued, as Coulson started to hand him a folder.
“We're not in the business of making bargains.”
“Tough. One condition, that’s it. When it comes down to it, I decide whether or not to take the shot. Period.”
Coulson looked slightly surprised, but also still pleased. “I think that can be arranged. Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton.”
*****
Early August, 1999 ~ Odesa, Ukraine
She heard the rattling click of a an old fan, struggling fruitlessly against the hot, sticky air. It niggled at the back of her brain like an irritating gnat buzzing in her ear and she burrowed her face further into the pillows, but sleep had already slipped too far away to reclaim.
“Bozhe moĭ,” she cursed softly and slid her hands down from her pillow and underneath her chest to push herself up onto her elbows.
It was wet and sticky.
Something was not right.
It was as if feeling that odd sensation allowed her brain to process other things that didn’t fit with the proper order of the world, like the smell. Sweet and coppery, with a sickly undertone. The light didn't seem to be coming from the right direction, and there was a weight in the bed next to her but she had no idea who it could be. There was the fuzzy recollection of being in the hotel lounge the night before, and a man trying to be charming...
She opened her eyes.
The man lying next to her on the bed was very, very dead. His throat gaped at her in a gruesome parody of a smile and blood had spilled from the wound and soaked through the sheets. It had seeped into her nightgown and she could see red staining part of her hair.
The screams were somehow lodged in her throat, and wouldn’t make it past her clenched teeth. She made no sound at all. It felt like an eternity until she could force herself up onto her knees to scuttle across the bed, then she didn't stop moving until her back hit the far wall. She dragged her knees up to her chest and tucked her forehead against them so that she wouldn't have to keep looking at him.
She started to shiver, but it wasn't from the fan cooling the room. It was the same man she'd seen, who'd talked to her and bought her a drink the night before. She could remember his hand on her arm, her cheek, dancing with him to the piano and some song she didn't know. She could even remember thinking that spending the night with him would be a pleasant diversion and he might have information she could use, and that she'd nodded when he'd invited her upstairs. She could not remember how he'd died, or what they'd done. Her hands were stained red. She shook and wondered if she was going to fly apart at the seams.
It had happened again.
She'd made it a full four months this time, just long enough that she'd foolishly begun to think Kharkiv was the last time. Apparently not.
She gave herself twenty seconds. Twenty full seconds to sit, and shake, and scream inside the confines of her mind before bringing herself back to her center and directing her cold, clinical attention back to the problem at hand.
Her clothes were laid neatly over the back of a nearby chair, well away from the blood. Based on how her skin felt she was covered in gore and in need of a shower before she could get dressed. She propped a chair under the door knob as an extra precaution and then stripped off the slip, tugging at places where the blood stuck fabric to her skin.
The water wouldn't get to the scalding hot temperatures she craved, but tepid got her clean just as quickly. She dressed with precise, efficient movements, then made sure she'd retrieved anything of hers strewn around the room. There wasn't much, just her shoes and a small clutch that contained a false ID and her hotel key.
In the creeping August heat, she knew it wouldn't be long before the smell of the body attracted attention, and she wanted to be as far away as possible before it did.
*****
March, 2000 ~ Marrakech, Morocco
On a good day, she knew that she was Natalia Alianova Romanova, a former agent of the Red Room, now an independent contractor. She could remember that she was a spy, and an assassin, even if most additional details on either of those points were at least blurred (or completely non-existent).
Her memories of the last two years were fairly clear (minus a few very notable moments she tried not to dwell on but which might've been becoming an obsession). She could remember the last "official" mark she'd killed on the Red Room's list and how she'd made it a point to do so bloodlessly. She didn't object to the blood in theory, but she hadn't had a change of clothing and wouldn't have gotten very far painted gore red.
So she'd killed the drug lord by breaking his neck and letting him fall from the balcony to the alley three stories below, to rest among the trash waiting there. Then she'd searched his offices for whatever cash she could find and slipped out the front door, rather than the back door her handlers had told her to use.
The streets in that part of Kaunas were well lit and crowded, even at that time of night because it was the weekend, and it had been easy enough for her to blend in.
Then she'd started running.
He hadn't had much money, not enough to get her past the border, so she'd quietly put herself on the market in rougher circles than what she'd been accustomed to dealing with. A gun runner in Brno who wanted a temporary enforcer to crowd out the competition, a smuggler in Kazakhstan who needed to make sure a shipment got from point A to point B without his business partner finding out (and she'd pointed out to him the easiest way to accomplish that was actually to be rid of the business partner) - she was careful with the money she received and made sure that she had the resources to vanish any time she thought the Red Room might be getting too close.
She sought out more and more powerful targets the more distance and time she put between herself and her former employers. She allowed herself to keep her name and her title because they gave her an in with the upper class clientele she preferred, and she grew to like the idea of letting her former owners know she wasn't afraid of them anymore.
Even though she very much was.
When a mid-level player HYDRA operative named Dmitri Strauss put out a bid on a SHIELD facility just a week after Odessa, she'd weighed the benefits against the risks and decided that the two million they were offering would put a great deal of distance between herself and her demons even if it did add SHIELD to her dance card, so she'd taken it. Like most of her operations, it had been textbook, flawless, and effective.
In retrospect, she might've underestimated SHIELD. Slightly.
The first two agents they'd sent after her had been jokes. She'd picked them off from a distance without even getting her hands dirty. The third and the fourth had required more finesse, some carefully administered drugs, and a fair amount of bloodshed.
The fifth through seventh had come at her at the same time, and it had turned into a cluster-fuck that took out part of an office building in Belgrade. They'd left her with a gash in her arm, a significant dent in her supply of explosives, and she'd made an unexpected trip out of Europe and into Morocco to hide until the furor died down.
It had certainly made her reevaluate where she put SHIELD on the world stage. They'd moved from a distant fifth to a close second on her list of major players, right beneath the Red Room itself. They had a reputation for being thorough, but not one for being particularly cruel. They weren't known for the kind of programs she'd been raised in, and tended to avoid some of the messier routes to get what they wanted. Which got her to thinking about what her next move ought to be.
It was ridiculous.
It was improbable.
It was probably suicidal.
She had an awful lot of information on an great many people SHIELD was interested in. She just had to get a word in edgewise before the next agent pulled the trigger.
Staring out the window of her hotel room watching the sun set, she thought long and hard about what she was doing and about what she had done. She couldn't remember all of the things that her owners had ordered her to do. She suspected that she'd gone willingly enough at the time, but she couldn't even remember if she'd had regrets or concerns about ethics or morals - blunt truth said she probably hadn't.
Everything she'd done since was seared into her mind. She guarded her memories more closely than any riches because she understood they could be taken away just as easily. Even her regrets were precious because they were hers. In the back of her mind she replayed each and every moment she could remember since the day she escaped and paid the closest attention to each face and body she'd killed. She looked down at her hands to see if there was any sign of all the blood but they'd been scrubbed clean for the time being.
The Red Room was closing in on her and she'd been cocky and foolish to think she could cope with them on her own. She needed someone backing her with enough power to make them stay their hand, someone they might even be afraid of. Her best chance would be with SHIELD, and the worst case scenario with them was that she would be dead. Possibly a prisoner, but most likely dead.
That was infinitely better than what would happen if the Red Room recaptured her.
*****
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6