Chapter 2
October 15th, 2012
Sara stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, turning her head from side to side. Her shoulder-length hair felt lighter after the cut, exposing the nape of her neck in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. The stylist had suggested layers to frame her face, but Sara had insisted on something simpler, more practical. Now, the straight edge of her dark hair brushed just above her shoulders, making her look older, sharper somehow.
"Are you planning to stay in there all day?" Natasha Romanoff's voice called from outside the bathroom. "We've got training in ten."
"Coming!" Sara called back, running her fingers through her hair one more time before stepping out.
Natasha leaned against the wall, her expression unreadable as she assessed Sara's new look. "Nice haircut," she said finally, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. "Practical."
"That's what I was going for," Sara replied, trying not to sound too pleased by the Black Widow's approval. Over the past month, she'd found herself increasingly seeking the spy's validation, drawn to her confidence, her precision, her unapologetic competence in a world dominated by men with superpowers and super egos.
They walked together to the training room, Natasha moving with silent grace while Sara tried to match her stride, conscious of the way her new boots (also practical, also chosen with perhaps too much attention to what Natasha might think) sounded against the polished floors of the tower.
"Tony tells me you've been mastering thermal regulation," Natasha commented as they entered the elevator. "Impressive for someone your age."
Sara shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant despite the pride swelling in her chest. "It's just physics. Heat transfer, energy conversion, basic stuff."
"Basic," Natasha echoed, her tone dry. "Right."
The elevator doors opened to reveal the training room already occupied. Steve Rogers was working with a punching bag in one corner, while Clint Barton was perched improbably on a beam near the ceiling, adjusting something on his bow. Bruce Banner sat cross-legged on a mat in the center, apparently meditating.
And there was Tony, suited up in the lightweight Iron Man armor, talking animatedly with Master Chen.
"Ah, there they are!" Tony called out when he spotted them. "Romanoff, did you approve this?" He gestured at Sara's hair with mock disapproval. "I told her she should keep it long enough for a proper ponytail."
"Not your head, not your call," Natasha replied simply, moving past him to begin her warm-up stretches.
"It looks nice, Sara," Steve offered politely, pausing his workout. "Very... modern."
"Thanks, Cap," Sara replied, fighting back a blush. Even after weeks of training alongside the Avengers, it was still surreal to have Captain America complimenting her haircut.
"Alright, enough about the kid's style choices," Tony clapped his hands together. "Today we're doing paired combat. Sara, you're with Romanoff."
Sara's stomach flipped. Training with Natasha always left her feeling simultaneously elated and demolished. The spy never held back, treating Sara like a serious opponent rather than a teenager to be coddled. It was terrifying. It was amazing.
"Hand-to-hand first," Master Chen instructed, stepping into the center of the room. "No powers, no weapons."
Sara nodded, moving to face Natasha on the training mat. She assumed the fighting stance Chen had drilled into her, keeping her weight balanced, her breathing steady. Across from her, Natasha looked completely relaxed, almost bored.
"Begin," Chen announced.
Natasha moved like water, flowing around Sara's first strike with such casual ease that Sara nearly lost her balance. A swift tap to her exposed ribs served as both correction and warning.
"You're telegraphing," Natasha said quietly, resetting her position. "Your eyes give away your next move."
Sara nodded, recalibrating. This time, she kept her gaze fixed on Natasha's center mass, letting her peripheral vision track the spy's movements. She managed to block the first counter-attack, even landing a glancing blow to Natasha's shoulder before finding herself suddenly, inexplicably, flat on her back on the mat.
"Better," Natasha offered her a hand up. "But you're still thinking too much. Trust your body to remember the training."
From his meditation spot, Bruce chuckled. "That's rich coming from someone who calculates trajectories mid-flip."
"I never claimed to follow my own advice, Banner," Natasha shot back with a rare smile.
They continued for another thirty minutes, Sara gradually finding her rhythm, occasionally landing meaningful strikes but more often ending up on the mat. By the end, she was sweating profusely, her new haircut plastered to her forehead, while Natasha looked as composed as ever.
"Not bad," the spy assessed as they took a water break. "You're getting faster."
Sara gulped her water, trying not to appear too pathetically grateful for the praise. "Still nowhere near your level."
"I've been training since I was younger than you," Natasha replied, her voice taking on the flat quality it always did when referencing her past. "Trust me, this is the better path."
Before Sara could respond, Chen called out the next phase of training.
"Powers and abilities now. Controlled demonstration only."
Sara moved to the center of the room, taking a deep breath as she prepared to showcase the skills she'd been developing. The flames came easily now, dancing along her arms as she moved through the forms Chen had taught her. She created shields of fire, concentrated beams that could slice through target drones, even a sustained flame hot enough to melt the special alloy Tony had designed for her practice.
"Your control has improved significantly," Chen noted, circling her as she maintained a complex pattern of flame whips. "But you're still relying on emotional intensity to fuel your more powerful moves."
"Isn't that the point?" Sara asked, directing one flame whip to snare a training dummy. "The fire comes from within, from passion, from—"
"From discipline," Chen corrected firmly. "Emotion is the spark, yes, but control is the fuel that sustains the flame. Without discipline, you're just a walking fire hazard."
From his perch, Clint snorted. "Walking fire hazard. I'm stealing that for your official Avengers profile."
"I don't have an Avengers profile," Sara retorted, extinguishing her flames with a sharp exhale. "And I'm not an Avenger."
"Yet," Tony interjected, stepping forward. "But you're on the right track. Which brings me to today's special exercise." He gestured, and a holographic display appeared in the center of the room. "Tactical scenario planning."
The display showed a three-dimensional model of what appeared to be a warehouse complex. Sara studied it, recognizing elements of previous training simulations combined into a more complex environment.
"The scenario is a hostage situation," Tony explained, expanding the model. "Multiple civilians held in this central building, heavily guarded perimeter, unknown number of hostiles inside. Your objective is to formulate a rescue plan that minimizes civilian casualties."
"And property damage," Steve added dryly. "Since we seem to have issues with that."
"Says the man who crashed a plane into the Arctic," Tony shot back.
"Focus, please," Chen interrupted their familiar bickering. "Sara, how would you approach this?"
Sara studied the model, her mind racing. This was the part of training she excelled at—the strategic planning, the puzzle-solving aspect that engaged the same parts of her brain as her engineering studies.
"I'd start with reconnaissance," she began, gesturing at the hologram. "Barton on high ground here, providing visual confirmation of hostage locations and hostile movements. Romanoff could infiltrate through this ventilation system, gathering intelligence from inside..."
She continued mapping out a detailed plan, incorporating each Avenger's strengths while accounting for their limitations. As she spoke, she found herself unconsciously assigning herself a role in the operation—creating diversions with controlled fire displays, providing cover through strategic wall breaches, even considering how her flames could be used to temporarily blind hostiles without causing permanent damage.
When she finished, the room was silent for a moment.
"That's... actually not bad," Clint acknowledged, dropping down from his perch to examine the model more closely. "Though you're overestimating how quietly I can move through those roof panels."
"And underestimating how many hostiles I could take out before they raised the alarm," Natasha added, but her tone was approving.
"The point," Tony said, "is that you're thinking like a team member, not just a solo player with flashy powers. That's progress."
Sara felt a flush of pride, quickly followed by confusion. "But I'm not—I mean, I don't actually go on missions. This is just training, right?"
The adults exchanged looks that Sara couldn't quite interpret. It was Steve who finally answered.
"For now, yes. Training only. But the world is changing, Sara. After New York, after the Chitauri... we need to be prepared for threats we can't yet imagine."
"And having a fire-wielding teenager on standby isn't the worst idea," Clint added with a shrug.
"Absolutely not," Bruce spoke up, his voice firm. "She's fourteen years old. This isn't some... child soldier program."
"No one's suggesting that," Tony said quickly, but Sara caught something in his tone—a hesitation, a consideration of possibilities that made her both excited and uneasy.
"Training's over for today," Chen announced, sensing the brewing tension. "Sara, remember your evening meditation exercises. The rest of you... take it outside if you're going to argue policy."
The group dispersed, leaving Sara alone with the holographic model still rotating slowly in the center of the room. She stared at it, thinking about Bruce's words—about child soldiers and responsibilities too heavy for teenage shoulders. About the Battle of New York, and the guilt that still haunted her dreams.
If she'd been better trained back then, could she have saved Arun? Would she have made a difference? Or would she just have been another casualty, another name on the memorial walls that had sprung up across the city?
"You're thinking too loud," Natasha's voice startled her. The spy had returned silently, now leaning against the doorframe. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
Sara sighed, collapsing the hologram with a gesture. "Just wondering where all this is going. The training, the scenarios... what am I preparing for, exactly?"
"Life," Natasha replied simply. "A life that will never be normal, not with your abilities. The question isn't whether you'll use them—it's how, and when, and for what purpose."
"Did you ever get to choose?" Sara asked, instantly regretting the personal question when she saw Natasha's expression shift subtly.
But to her surprise, the spy answered. "No. My choices were made for me, long before I understood what they meant." She pushed off from the doorframe, moving into the room with fluid grace. "That's why this matters—giving you time to decide who you want to be, not just what you can do."
Sara nodded, absorbing the rare moment of openness from the usually guarded assassin. "I still don't know," she admitted. "Who I want to be, I mean."
"You don't have to know yet," Natasha assured her, and then, with a hint of her usual dry humor: "Though I'd start by picking a better code name than 'walking fire hazard.'"
"Codename," Sara repeated, testing the word. "I hadn't even thought about that part."
"It'll come to you eventually," Natasha said with a slight shrug. "Something that fits who you are, not just what you can do." She glanced meaningfully toward the ceiling, where Tony's lab was located several floors above. "Just don't let Stark name you. You'll end up with something unnecessarily flashy."
Sara laughed, feeling some of the tension ease from her shoulders. "I'll keep that in mind. Though between you and me, it might be too late. I've seen him working on designs for a suit that would complement my powers. He's definitely thinking ahead."
Natasha's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "He's always seen the potential in you, even before he could claim it publicly. Whatever you become—it's about more than just the fire. It's about who you choose to be."
"Maybe," Sara shrugged, suddenly self-conscious about the weight of expectations—Tony's, the Avengers', her own. "Anyway, I should go. I promised my mom I'd actually do my schoolwork today."
"The online classes going okay?" Natasha asked as they walked toward the elevator.
"Yeah, I guess. I mean, it's weird trying to focus on algebraic equations when I've spent the morning learning how to create fire tornadoes, but..." She trailed off, realizing how bizarre her life had become.
"Balance is important," Natasha said, punching the button for Sara's floor. "Even for those of us with... unusual career paths."
As the elevator doors closed between them, Sara caught a final glimpse of Natasha's face—thoughtful, almost concerned. It left her with an unsettled feeling that persisted as she returned to her room, where her laptop displayed the half-finished physics assignment she'd abandoned that morning.
Sara sighed, dropping into her desk chair and pulling up her school portal. Three new messages awaited her—one from her instructor about the late assignment, and two from her friends in the online program.
Mei [11:45 AM]: Study group tonight? The chem unit is KILLING me.
Zara [12:30 PM]: Sara, did you see Dylan's new business pitch? He's presenting to actual VCs next week! Also, I may have written a violin piece inspired by that story you told about your fire training... in a totally metaphorical way, of course, haha.
Sara smiled, typing quick responses to both. These friends knew nothing of her powers, nothing of her training with the Avengers or her complicated family history. To them, she was just Sara Raavi, the engineering prodigy who'd been strangely distant since her father's death during the Battle of New York. It was refreshing, in a way—a connection to the normal teenage life that sometimes felt increasingly distant.
Her phone buzzed with a text notification.
Harsha [2:45 PM]: Surprise! Coming to NYC this weekend for Sesha's performance. Dinner Saturday? All of us, including Tony if he's not too busy saving the world.
Sara stared at the message, her stomach twisting with a familiar mix of love and guilt. Her relationship with her siblings had improved since the immediate aftermath of Arun's death and the revelation about Tony, but there was still so much they didn't know—about her powers, her training, her growing integration with the Avengers team.
Would they understand if they knew the full truth? Or would it just create another barrier between them, another secret weighing down their already complicated family dynamics?
Sara [2:47 PM]: Can't wait to see you both! I'll check with mom and Tony about dinner.
She set the phone down, turning back to her schoolwork with renewed determination. For the next few hours, she forced herself to focus on being just a student—calculating forces, analyzing chemical reactions, writing essays on historical technological innovations. It was almost meditative, this return to normalcy, to the kind of intellectual challenges that had defined her life before fire emerged from her fingertips.
Later, after completing her assignments and joining her friends' online study session, Sara found herself restless again. The evening stretched before her—Sandhya was working late, Tony was at some industry event, and the tower felt oddly empty despite JARVIS's constant presence.
"Hey, J," she called out, pacing her room. "Is anyone else around? Besides Dr. Banner, I mean." Bruce had made it clear he preferred solitude when not actively working, and Sara respected that boundary.
"Agent Romanoff is currently in the communal kitchen," JARVIS replied. "Would you like me to inform her you're looking for company?"
"No! I mean, no, that's okay." Sara felt her cheeks warm at the AI's perceptiveness. "I'll just... go get a snack or something."
She changed out of her study clothes into a comfortable pair of joggers and a loose t-shirt, running a hand through her newly shortened hair before heading to the communal floor. As the elevator ascended, Sara found herself oddly nervous, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from her shirt and checking her reflection in the polished elevator doors.
It's just Natasha, she told herself firmly. Just another training partner. Just a terrifyingly competent, impossibly cool, unfairly attractive... training partner.
Oh.
The realization hit her like a splash of cold water. This wasn't just admiration or respect she was feeling. This was a crush. A full-blown, heart-racing, palms-sweating crush on Natasha Romanoff, of all people.
"Great timing," Sara muttered to herself as the elevator doors opened. "Fall for the deadliest woman in the building. Smart move, Raavi."
Natasha was indeed in the kitchen, perched on a counter with a bowl of something that smelled strongly of garlic. She looked up as Sara entered, nodding in acknowledgment.
"Hungry?" she asked, holding out the bowl. "It's borscht. Old family recipe. Well, not my family, but someone's family, I'm sure."
Sara accepted the offer, taking a cautious taste of the deep red soup. It was rich and tangy, nothing like the foods she'd grown up with in her mother's Telugu-inspired kitchen, but surprisingly good.
"Thanks," she said, returning the bowl. "I was just looking for a snack."
"There's plenty more," Natasha gestured toward the pot on the stove. "Though fair warning, it's an acquired taste."
Sara helped herself to a small bowl, leaning against the counter opposite Natasha. She searched for something casual to say, something that wouldn't reveal the sudden turmoil of her thoughts.
"So... do you cook a lot?" she asked lamely.
"When I can," Natasha replied, seeming unbothered by the awkward attempt at conversation. "It's grounding. Something physical but peaceful."
Sara nodded, understanding the appeal. "Like engineering for me. Using my hands to build something instead of, you know, setting things on fire."
Natasha's mouth quirked. "Everyone needs hobbies that don't involve their work skills. Otherwise, you end up like Stark, building robot assistants to make your coffee."
"Hey, those robot assistants are awesome," Sara defended with a laugh. "I helped design the targeting system for the sugar dispenser."
"Of course you did," Natasha shook her head, but her tone was fond. "You really are his daughter."
The observation, casual as it was, silenced Sara momentarily. She still wasn't used to people acknowledging her biological connection to Tony so openly, even among the few who knew the truth.
"Sometimes I don't know which parts are from him and which parts are just... me," she admitted, staring into her soup. "The engineering stuff, sure. But the rest—the fire, the way I think, who I'm becoming—I don't know where that comes from."
"Does it matter?" Natasha asked, her head tilted slightly. "We're all made up of pieces—genetics, circumstance, choice. The combination is what makes you unique."
Sara considered this, finding unexpected comfort in the spy's perspective. "I guess. It's just complicated, trying to figure out who I am when everything keeps changing."
"Tell me about it," Natasha said dryly. "I've had six different identities since breakfast."
Sara laughed, relaxing into the conversation. For the next hour, they sat in the kitchen, talking about nothing consequential—favorite foods, books they'd read recently, the ridiculous training regimen Steve insisted was "just a light warm-up." Natasha was surprisingly easy to talk to when not in combat instructor mode, her dry humor and quiet attentiveness drawing Sara out of her shell.
It was only when JARVIS politely announced that Sandhya had returned to the tower that Sara realized how late it had gotten.
"I should go," she said reluctantly. "My mom worries if I'm not around when she gets home."
Natasha nodded, sliding gracefully off the counter. "Same time for training tomorrow. And Sara?" She paused, her expression softening slightly. "The haircut really does suit you. Very... practical."
The way she said it—with that hint of approval, that subtle warmth in her usually cool gaze—sent Sara's stomach flipping again. She managed a casual "thanks" before fleeing to the elevator, her cheeks burning.
Back in her room, Sara caught her reflection in the mirror again. Her newly cut hair, her flushed face, the slight smile she couldn't quite suppress. Who was this person staring back at her? Not quite the girl she'd been before the Battle of New York, before fire and grief and earth-shattering family revelations. But not yet whoever she was becoming, either.
A codename. Something that would capture who she was becoming. The thought had weight, had potential.
Sara raised her hand, letting a small flame dance across her palm. In its light, her reflection seemed to shift—stronger, more defined, more certain.
Maybe figuring out who she was didn't have to happen all at once. Maybe it was okay to exist in this in-between space for a while, collecting pieces of herself—student, daughter, sister, firebender, engineer, maybe-someday-Avenger, definitely-crushing-on-Natasha-Romanoff—until the full picture emerged.
For now, she had training tomorrow. Dinner with her siblings on the weekend. Physics homework due on Tuesday.
And somewhere in between all of that, time to discover who Sara Raavi—or perhaps a future Avenger—was meant to be.
The flame in her palm flickered higher, casting shadows that danced across her walls like possibilities waiting to be grasped.