Budapest part one
She had noticed she was being followed approximately six days ago. From the way he had followed her, and the skill with which he did it, the man worked for some sort of intelligence agency. His accent while speaking Hungarian was admittedly not bad, but hints of American were to be found. He probably worked for SHIELD, and his mission was most likely to find out information about her, her training, and then kill her.
She knew she should’ve been upset, or tried to confront and kill him to save her own life, but she had found a sort of solace in the idea of death. She did not deserve, nor would she be able to obtain any semblance of a normal life. The things she’s done, the people she’s-
There. He was moving. Slowly scratching his ears. Turning on his comms, to talk to his superiors. And there he goes, his mouth is moving. Trying to disguise it by drinking coffee will do nothing, you American idiot. She knew he was following her, but from the way she was watching him, she was the hunter and he was the prey.
She was bored of this coffee shop, all the people indulging in sweet treats, something she was never allowed to nor she would ever do. Her mission was almost over, and then she could go back to Russia and lose this irritating American. She hadn't tried to lose him, found leading him into thinking he was being secretive enough to fool her humorous. She left, not having to pay a check as she never actually bought anything. She did not look as she went out the door, but the tell-tale sound of a chair being pushed back told her he was following her.
Her mission had supposed to have been a week long, but she had gathered the intelligence and killed the man without anyone noticing in three days. She could have gone back early, but was strangely curious about the man. No. Not curiosity, curiosity leads to death. One must never look too far into anything. She wanted to see if he posed any threat to her and the red room. If he did, she would take him out. It didn’t seem too hard.
She decided to make him suspicious, so she headed to the market and to the stall of a known arms dealer. To say thank you for the fruit he had sold her, she leaned in way farther than she needed to. Turning around to head back to her hotel, she noticed the American’s face twitch. He noticed her whisper and was now wondering what she had done. To make him even nervous, she decided to lose him. She ducked into an alley, expecting him to follow her, which he did. Except he did not know about the grate under the dumpster. She watched him, peaking out of the crack. He turned around, muttered something into his comms, and then walked away.
She waited, and then scaled the side of the building to get to the rooftop. She had always enjoyed the view from up high, loved how peaceful and simple the world seemed to be from far away. She jumped from rooftop to rooftop, climbing up fire escapes and drain pipes, her string shopping bag full of fruit slung over her shoulder. She got to her own rooftop and then dropped to the floor.
Walking through the apartment lobby, she headed towards the elevator. She wondered how long it would take the American to find her here. She had let him follow her home one time, so he knew which building she lived in. He was not so brave as to enter the building, so he had stalked which room was hers from the outside. She had seen his mop of hair barely peeling out over a rooftop ledge, from which her window was in direct view. Once the elevator reached her floor, she went over to her door. Shuffling on the other side. He was waiting for her. He had broken in. That little bitch. She pulled a knife out of her pocket, she could have used her gun, but at the close range with which they were fighting, her small and concealed blade would provide an advantage. She hid it on the underside of her wrist and opened the door.
She was met with the face of the American, with a bow and arrow slung over his back. She wanted to laugh aloud, but would not because outward expressions of emotion were not to be tolerated. But she really almost laughed at his expense because what idiot brings a bow and arrow to a close-range fight. He did not strike her as a complete idiot, however, and so she assessed that, from his form, he was apt at hand-to-hand combat, and going off the assumption that he worked for SHIELD, had a knife or other concealed weapon in his person.
She had been taught to never assume anything about anyone’s fighting style, so when calculating a plan to take him down (knock him out or kill him, she hadn’t decided, depending on how much he knew), she made separate plans for each possibility. In the time it took for her to do all of this, the second hand of the clock had moved five spaces. Meaning that while she had decided to kill him, and how, he had succeeded in turning his head toward her and blinking.
“Black Widow,” He greeted. He spoke in English, so it was easier to discern his accent. Definitely American, from the sounds of his accent, most likely from the midwest, maybe Iowa.
She made her accent match his. “SHIELD Agent.” She had not been sure that was who he worked for, but from the slight expression of surprise that crossed his face, she had hit it right on the nose.
“So you are aware of my mission?” He asked.
She shrugged. “Kill me. Torture me for information, then kill me.” The Iowa accent was weird, but it clearly was unnerving him, making him curious as to where she was really from. He would not be able to figure it out, however, considering she did not know herself. “If it is the second option,” she advised, “I would not even try it. I do not break.”
“I know. Even if you do break, I would still not try it. That’s not how we roll.” Nothing crossed her face but a vacant stare of disinterest, but a billion things crossed her mind. He’s a liar. Hiding secrets about SHIELD. They are not the benevolent gods they think of themselves to be. A split second and the barrel of her gun was pointed at his face. He barely flinched, so she had to give him a little credit.
“So you’re here to kill me.” Not a question. She knew why he was here.
“That’s what I’ve been sent to do.”
Just as she was about to respond, a knock sounded on the door. His eyes flashed to it. “Who is that?” he asked. She shrugged.
“Open it, and don’t tell them of my presence.” He ordered her. She did not move.
“I’m not in the habit of taking orders from those threatening to kill me.” A lie. That threat was always there, made for her every action, not always explicit, always dangling just between the words they uttered. Fail, and we kill you. The knock sounded again.
“Nikolette?” A small voice sounded from the other side. Her neighbor. Without warning she hooked her leg around the back of the American’s knee, sending him off-balance, and pushed him out of sight of the door. She put her gun and knife back in her belt and opened the door with a smile.
“Hello Daniella,” she said in Hungarian, “Is something wrong?”
“My mom isn’t back from work yet from last night.”
“Have you eaten?” Daniella shook her head.
“There’s nothing in the fridge. But that’s not what I came for, Mom said not to take advantage of the sweet young neighbor.” Nikolette laughed lightly, and motioned for Daniella to come inside.
“Your neighbor has plenty to spare,” she said and filled her the bag of fruit she had recently bought with some loaves of bread and spreads she found in her kitchen. “Take this back to your place, and share some with your brother, alright?” She handed the bag to the ten-year-old and sent her on her way. The door closed and she was alone with the American.
“Who was that?” He asked in English. The language swaps were going to give her whiplash.
“A girl.” Never divulge any more information than what is necessary.
“Does she live in this apartment?”
“Yes.” She did not mind giving away these answers, it was only going to distract him long enough to enact her plan, putting a knife through his skill.
“You often give her food?” She ignored the grammar of the so obviously native English speaker.
“Yes.”
“Why?” That was a question she did not like. Not yes or no. She had to speak.
“Her mother is often out and does not feed her and her younger brother.”
“You think it’s your responsibility?”
“No, but no one else will.”
“I didn’t take the Black Widow to have a soft side.”
“I didn’t take Hawkeye to be dumb enough to enter a fight in which his signature weapon is practically useless, but here we are.” Hawkeye. She had heard of him, mentions of a skilled marksman who specialized with a bow and arrow, recruited by SHIELD. An educated guess, once more right on the mark.
“How do you know who I am?” Now to terrify him.
“You thought it was you stalking me, following me, for the past week,” she said, walking over to him with grace, smooth and sure movements. “But you were wrong. As you were watching me, I was watching you. You thought it was your skill that allowed you to follow me? A naive little American.”
She was right in front of him, and so she took her chance and pounced. She looped her arms around his neck and swung around, so she was facing his back. She kicked the back of his knees, forcing his legs to give out, ut he swung one leg out and got back up again, facing her. Her gaze hardened and she blocked out all other thoughts but him. Complete focus, aware of every move. His hand inching towards his bow.
She dove for his feet, and he did not expect that, as nobody did, grabbed his ankles, and yanked them so he slammed down onto the ground. He rolled over and up, pointing an arrow at her, just before he released it, she moved so she was standing right in front of him, facing him, on the right side of his bow. He let the arrow fly out of the bow and right into the wall. She swung up so she was upside down, hanging from his neck with her legs, her back touching his.
She straightened her legs, forced them to bend towards her stomach, flipping him onto the ground, and her landing from what was essentially a backflip on her feet. This time she did not let him get up, and pinned him down on the ground, throwing his bow away, taking one of his own arrows, flipping him onto his back, and pointing it at his throat.
She was glaring at him, slightly digging the point into his neck so a small stream of blood started to trickle down his neck, meanwhile, he was looking at her with an expression of curiosity on his face. Strain inflicted his voice as he said “Natalia.”
She froze. No one had called her that since- No. No one ever called her that. Names were personal, forbidden. To belong everywhere you must belong nowhere, to be a spy, to play many roles, you must not be influenced by a personality you think belongs to yourself. You must be a blank slate, able to be molded into the perfect person. Marble to be sculpted.
“You don’t have to do this.” She dug the arrow deeper into his neck. “You finished your mission early, why didn’t you go back? You don’t have to follow them, you can be free.” Freedom. A made-up idea and word, intended to give people hope when there is none. What she wanted most of all. No. She was free, she was happy, happy to serve, happy to comply. Always would comply, always would be perfect. “Do you want to kill me?”
“Yes.” No. Not at all. She started breathing heavily, her arm slightly trembling. Weakness would not be tolerated. She forced herself to stop.
“It’s okay. You’re okay.” She looked him straight in the eyes, and, oh so foolishly, she believed him. Oh so foolishly, she let him go. She sat on the floor, head reeling, mind somewhere else, mind going back to old memories, old training sessions, everything she was doing now was wrong. Everything. She would be punished so severely when she returned. She had to kill him. She made no move to.
“Natalia-” He started.
“Don’t,” She said. “Don’t call me that.”
“What would you like me to call you?” What did she want? She had never thought about it. She did not answer.
“Why not Natalia?”
“Names are a privilege.” He was silent at that. And then-
“What about nicknames? Nat? Can I call you Nat?” A shortened version of her name, so American, too lazy to say the whole four syllables, yet she found herself nodding.
“Okay Nat, what would you say to some coffee?”