Embers of Red
All characters belong to Marvel Comics
I own nothing
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Colors faded into translucence of dimming aspects of light, the street was covered in a slick glaze of rain, holding the muted orange of street lamps in rippling puddles. Everything around her had grown deathly still, but the darkness beckoned to her, taunting phantoms of her past cloaked over her.
They swallowed her emotions, into a black ash of charred memories and she never could outrun her mistakes or vivid nightmares they always followed her like shadows in the doorways. Her scars were remainders of sin etched in her mortality; blood had become condemning color of her world.
Tonight, Natasha Romanoff was a lone wander, sloshing her spiked heel boots against the clusters of puddles, a slap of wind against her ivory cheek, forced an irritable hiss to escape from her pink lips once she stood at the crosswalk. The glow of red light reflected in the depth of her grayish-teal eyes as she fought against the pain twisting in her shoulder.
She had been shot, a sniper bullet managed to tear through the leather of her jacket, and penetrate her flesh in a fraction of a second the slug was discharged from the barrel. She had enough reaction time to dodge, but she also used her body to protect a little girl from the moment she listened to the crack of the sniper rifle echo in her ears and watched the glass shatter into pieces across her table.
She had vaulted over a table, grabbed the shivering child, and used her lithe body as a barrier when the bullet ripped through her muscle, and made pain jolt through her body. Instead of waiting for the paramedic to asses her wound, Natasha, dazed and laden in her right arm moved out of the restaurant, applying pressure on her shoulder vanished into the sheets of rain. Deep in the pit of her stomach, the lethal spy knew that she had to clear away from civilizations, and use the shadows as she asset for escaping from the watchful eyes of her demons.
The knots of pain brought her musing back to the drops of maroon departing from the hole in her shoulder, and she stared intently at the blood gathering over the leather. The light of traffic sliced through the sheets of rain and painted the area with dim squares of prismatic colors against vacant windows of buildings. She can see the distant reflections of red flashes from the obstruction of the emergency vehicles parked in front of the restaurant though the wavers and splatters of rain prickling against her cold skin as they warp the red she conserved her glaring eyes at.
Her throat became coated with a varnished of coppery tang, and heart beat pumped faster against her chest, as the cold relief of water saturated over her breasts.
A muscle spasm jostled her bones and stole her breath, but she leaned her frame against the cement pole, stroking her shaky fingers over the wound and snarled out an ireful breath when a massive contraction of pain created numbness in her shoulder. She forced herself to walk down the street, the warring sense of dread crawled through her veins, all she felt was the searing of the bullet being swallowed into the marred and compromised tissue.
Calculating her next step, Natasha gritted her teeth and advanced closer to area where an overhang blocked the down pour. She was drenched to the bone, her scarlet locks soak and frizzed around her shoulders, and her face dabbed with tiny droplets that sloped over the crease of her full pale rose shaded lips. She pressed her back against the wall, sliding down until her back felt the damp cement soaking through the leather of her jacket. She was drifting with the images of her whilst mind; thoughts wandered elsewhere. She felt the numbness ripple through her bones, tasted the blood trickling down her throat and winced against the dull throb pulsing in her shoulder.
She was lost somewhere in the deep and merciless realms of her scarred mind. It flowed back so many years, but the contortion of pain had grown vivid. She had felt the thralls of pain ever since she entered the metal doors of the asylum where demons ruled and blood had spilled. The Red Room.
Her bloodshot and throbbing grayish green chasms fluttered open and the haze of crimson light consumed her, suffocating and condemning as a painful sting of venom shot through her veins.
It felt like a pick of a needle, numbness entered her right arm within seconds.
Natasha caught a glimpse of her new form of torture, a small eight legged spider, crawling on the floor with a mark of red on its back. A Black Widow. She tried to scream, but red silk was smothering her lips and her breath was fading. She felt her heart pumped faster, fighting against the lethal poison drowning in her system. She managed to kill the spider, with her shaky hand, making it the blood smear over her fingers.
Death. That was the first thought that entered her foggy mind and it stroked over her heart. She looked frantically around the room. She managed to cradle her infected arm against her trim waist. Her throat was swelling shut, skin turned to ice and vision blurred. Fear welled deep into depth of her soul. It burned every thread of her mortality. She could feel her heart beat slowing and body functions shutting down. She could taste the venom, the sourness of blood encasing over her dry lips, the paralyzing sensation of being choked by an invisible noose. She was completely immobilized. Her life dimming away.
She heard noises of torture echo through the four cement walls. A heart-rending scream of pain, two voices speaking in harsh, taunting in inhumane Russian accents. Within a few moments, everything fell into dead silence; she only listened to the straggled breathing patterns escape from her lungs.
There was a sound of metal dragging on cement, hinges humming and squeaking as Natasha dared herself to open her eyes, but the spider's venom took hold of every fiber in her battered body. Encroaching, heavy footsteps vibrated and jostled her bones, she flinched as another sharp prick under her skin, pumping smoldering liquid into a hard vein above her elbow.
"Расслабьтесь и делать вид, его просто дурной сон," the voice was unfamiliar and cryptic to her ears. A false lie to make terror and hatred flood through her, jabbing in her soul. It was cruel. She had been expecting more pain and the cold glare of inorganic eyes burrowing into her skull. Instead, the man's expression was vacant, and his dark eyes deaden from being a witness to the mindless horrors concealed with the walls. He almost looked human, but she knew he was a pretender, a butcher of souls and a monster under flesh.
He eyed her like a prize, and took a step back towards the door."Стенд," he barked out his order, his tone ragged. She responded with no hesitating, standing unbalanced on her bare feet. She didn't move, she waited for him to give the command, and he paced in front of her, grabbing her by the arm, pressing his strength into the area of the bite, and squeezed out a drop of blood.
She stood rigidly, keeping her face emotionless, fighting against the knots of dread churning in her stomach. Her eyes remained changeless, and lips neutral. She waited in patience, knowing that he was going to hit her. She took a deep breath, and regarded the red shadows with unbreakable defiance.
"Я не боюсь тебя," she spoke to him in sparse voice.
*Slap*
Her head jerked to the side, and neck cracked as the intense force of his large hand bruised over her pale cheek.
Blood leaked from her mouth as thoughts had become disjointed. Spitting up watery bile, Natasha clenched her eyelids shut, and face numbed. She choked on her breath, and he rammed his palms into her chest, making her fall off-leveled to her feet.
The man hissed, "Все вы это beautiful Русская кукла . Это может легко порвать с простым прикосновением руки."
Natasha felt her body collided to the ground, her blemished skin violated by coldness. She tried to lift herself, pressing her palms into the cement, and bending her elbows, but he yanked her scarlet locks with a violent tug, inclining her head upwards, while his fingers snaked over her pulse point. Feverish beads of sweat dripped over her temples, as her vision was swimming in pools of red.
She was immunized to the feeling of being compromised, rough, wet heat of stranger's lips searing her until she became damaged and empty. Her father bought her into his world as his own asset, stealing her childhood away, forcing her to fall into enslavement, slaughtering her innocence and living a life under the shadow of a gun.
When she swallowed down the bloody taste, pain swelled in her. She forced herself to spare a glance at the obscured shapes in the doorway, her teary eyes fixed on a two men clad fully in black armor, wheeling a metal like coffin rescued on a medical table. She blinked, and saw lingering ice cloaked over the secured glass, and stared intently at the frozen body trapped inside. Fear drenched her with sickness; she managed to clamp a hand over her mouth, and watched the sight of horror fade into the darkness.
"What was in that casket?" she asked, without using her Russian tongue, feeling a knife slice through her heart.
"A ghost."
A cloth swathed over her swollen mouth, she breathed into the fumes and drifted out of a nightmare into another one. She sunk into a tempest of crimson, drowning and fading.
Her skin turned to ice; blood became venom and heart coated with darkness.
Weaving threads spindling over her, trapping her into a web and cocooned her body like a spider's prey, except she was slowly turning into the deadly and seducing spider...
The Black Widow.
Russian translation to English
Расслабьтесь и делать вид, его просто дурной сон-Relax and pretend its just a bad dream.
Стенд- Stand
Я не боюсь тебя-I'm not afraid of you.
Все вы это beautiful Русская кукла . Это может легко порвать с простым прикосновением руки-All you are is a beautiful Russian doll. That can easily break with a simple touch of a hand.