Femme Fatale

“Sniff, sniff, cries, I done slayed your whole entire f***ing life!

Oh oh, you got some Epsom Salt?

I done balled all day you ain't touched the court!

What? What you tired? You need a break? You was hot when? Ricki Lake!”

Nicki Minaj’s verse pumped through the training facility’s state-of-the-art speakers as you stared down the most unlucky of your handlers, who noticeably cringed as Britney Spears started singing. You took the opportunity to take out his legs, sweeping them out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. In the split second after his body slammed on the mat, you launched yourself forward, planting one foot on his shoulder and shoving your opposite knee into his solar plexus while your hands deftly pinned his arms to the floor. He struggled under you, trying to twist into a position where he could flip you over. With a bored sigh, you applied slightly more pressure with your knee, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain from your unfortunate sparring partner. He managed to hold out for about 3.5 seconds before he was desperately tapping his fingers on the mat, signalling that he’d had enough. You rolled your eyes and leaped to your feet, offering your hand to help the poor guy up. The entire match had lasted less than forty seconds. It would have been half that time if you hadn’t been given explicit orders not to maim or injure any of your coworkers. You desperately needed a challenge soon, or you might end up going soft like the rest of these goons.

You missed Agent Ward. The guy had annoyed you to no end with his victim complex, lack of proper emotions, and blind loyalty to John Garrett, but at least he could hold his own against you. He’d even beaten you a few times. Of course, you’d had a lot more training since then. You’d bet you could now take him down in three minutes, tops. Unfortunately, you had no way to test the theory since Ward had been deep undercover and, for obvious reasons, out of contact for quite a while now. You were willing to bet that he was having more fun than you were.

You sighed and made your way over to the training dummies (which you liked because they were just as capable at fighting back as your human partners, and much less fragile), shaking your hips to the music as you walked. You were aware that every single member of your all-male team of handlers was staring at you. Not that you could really blame them. You were the only woman they’d seen for a long time. (What was up with that? Did Hydra not employ women for field work? How very 1950s of them.) A couple of them also seemed to be seriously judging your taste in workout music, especially when Britney’s “‘Till The World Ends, Femme Fatale Remix” (featuring Ke$ha and your beloved Nicki) ended and switched over to “S and M” by Rihanna. Clearly, these guys did not know how to appreciate motivating workout jams. Not that you were surprised. Hydra seemed to have a strict “No Fun Allowed” policy, which you were just barely allowed to avoid.

That was your arrangement with the organization that had practically raised you for as long as you could clearly remember. They let you play pop music during your training sessions, eat junk food whenever you wanted, and have one day a month off (although you were completely aware of the undercover agent who tailed you on those outings), and you followed their orders without the need for one of those creepy robot eye things. Which seriously grossed you out. No thanks. It was a pretty good setup, considering the circumstances.

You were busy humming along with Rihanna and practicing all the various different ways you knew to incapacitate someone without using your hands when one of the newer members of your team cautiously tried to get your attention. The poor kid couldn’t have been older than twenty, and you imagined that he was a bit terrified of you. Good. People who didn’t have a healthy fear of your abilities really got on your nerves. You smiled sweetly and asked him what he wanted.

“We just got our orders for a new mission. We need to leave in the next twenty minutes.”

You muttered a curse and punched the nearest training dummy in the head, leaving an impressive dent in the reinforced plastic. You were going to have to skip your post-workout shower, which was totally gross. You could handle being covered in blood and dirt, but you drew the line at body odor. Plus, last-minute orders usually meant that the mission was urgent. Which meant that there was a significant threat the needed taking out. You grinned. Maybe you’d get that challenge after all.

You sat on the back wall of the helicopter, half-listening to your team leader going over your orders (again) as you suited up. You zipped up your state-of-the-art bulletproof bodysuit, strapped your trusty handguns to the outsides of your thighs, mounted your favorite wrist-canon (which shot mini-darts loaded with a sedative that could knock out an elephant in less than ten seconds), and slid your emergency taser into its hidden holster. What could you say? You liked to be prepared.

The mission was fairly simple, although you were right about it being urgent. What was left of S.H.I.E.L.D. had been attacking Hydra bases around the world for a while now. What made this particular base special was the fact that it housed a research lab that had been trying to reverse-engineer alien weapons stolen from a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility several months earlier. From what was said in the report. It sounded like they were close to achieving their goal. You and your team had orders to defend the base, at least long enough for the scientists to escape with their research. Oh, and there was one more tiny, annoying little detail.
The people attacking the base weren’t just S.H.I.E.L.D. forces. There were reports of several superhumans as well. No one had specifically identified them as the Avengers, but you knew that your supervisors were worried.
Finally, some excitement. You might even break a sweat on this one.

The helicopter hovered while your team got their parachutes ready. You finished before them, leaning out of the open door, wind from the rotors blowing in your face. You looked down at the ground several hundred feet below, where you could see the occasional explosion lighting up the sprawling gray buildings that made up the base. Being so high up made your stomach drop as your senses heightened with the beginning of an adrenaline rush. Unable to wait any longer, you turned to face the team.

“See ya on the ground, slowpokes.” With that, you launched yourself out of the chopper, laughing as several of your handlers spewed curses and the team leader yelled at you to stop. Too late.

You screamed with excitement (okay, yes, and a little bit of fear) as you plummeted towards the ground. This was always your favorite part of a mission. The feeling of flying and falling at the same time, the wave of adrenaline that made you feel truly alive and primed for battle.

You engaged your parachute at the last possible moment, going over the mission in your mind as you drifted towards the ground. Essentially, you were supposed to go in with guns blazing and take down everyone who wasn’t wearing standard issue Hydra uniforms. Your kind of mission. You hated the stealth approach.

You took out three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents before you even hit the ground, with the help of your trusty wrist canon and its tranquilizer darts. You literally landed on top of the fourth agent, knocking him out with a swift blow to the head before whipping out your guns and taking off towards the base at a full run. You took no pleasure in killing people, and tried to avoid it unless absolutely necessary. You figured that these agents, like you and your team, were just doing their job.

Someone had been thoughtful enough to break down the base’s door for you. How considerate. Whoever -- or whatever -- it was, they were strong; they’d have to be to rip through reinforced steel doors and take out the two dozen armed guards positioned in the immediate area. You made sure both of your guns were loaded and ready to fire, just in case they were still nearby.

You cringed as you stepped around the crumpled bodies of incapacitated guards. Talk about a bad day at the office. You imagined most if not all of them would need medical attention. You considered calling it in, but decided against it. You weren’t quite ready to give away your location and be rejoined by your handlers.

You saw the projectile out of the corner of your eye and barely had time to duck. If you’d been just a fraction of a second slower, you’d definitely have gotten a concussion. Whatever it was, it was fast and shiny and bounced off of the wall behind you. You managed to catch it, wincing as the solid metal slammed into your palm. Yep, that one was gonna leave a bruise. You looked down at the object, eyes widening as your heart rate instantly picked up.

You were holding a very familiar looking shield, even though you’d only ever seen pictures of it. Solid metal, lighter than you’d imagined, with the iconic red, white, and blue pattern. And you were willing to bet that whoever threw it would be eager to take it back from you.

“Damn it.” You quickly turned your communicators back on, speaking into the tiny microphone clipped to your collar. “Guys, this is (Y/N). We’ve got a problem. And it’s big, muscle-y, and has a thing for star spangled spandex--”

You were cut off by all the air leaving your lungs as someone attacked you in a full-body tackle.

Damn it, indeed.