Origin

Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading this first entry. This happens to be my first story here on fanfiction, and I hope you all enjoy it. I plan on writing this as a very long chronicle of events, starting from the time presented in this first chapter, all the way to the period when the Avengers film came out, possibly beyond. I have not read the comics, but I do know the storyline, so if anything is incorrect, please do not call me out on it. This is meant to be part comic-verse and part movie-verse. Please review; it really helps the author gauge the reader's reactions. I will be updating sometime in this next week, if the response is decent.

Thanks again,

Saoirse

Anything you recognize, I do not own.

Natalia Alianovna Romanova was perched upon a low settee in the corner of her family's living quarters. For her quite young age, Natalia wore an expression of unnerving concern. Her plaited auburn curls had come loose due to her active lifestyle, and miniscule tendrils of brilliant red were wisping about her delicate face. Natalia had her knees pulled into her chest, and her olive tinted eyes were patiently scanning the front drive for any sign of her father's homecoming. Although Natalia possessed a rare patience, her childhood curiosity and mild unease were currently winning her internal battle.

"Momma, when will papa be home?" Natalia questioned her mother in fluent, lyrical Russian.

A quite beautiful, slightly-aging woman came around the wall separating the sitting parlor from the kitchen. She was attired in loose, yet well-fitting jeans and a white blouse. Her feet her bare, and her long auburn waves were hanging loose; her hands intertwined with a red-checkered dishtowel.

"I don't know dear. Your father said he would be returning tonight. But when, I do not know." The woman flashed a gentle, calming smile in the direction of her daughter. "Do not fret Natalia; I do not think that any harm has befallen him. The young girl nodded in acknowledgement, and the woman shook her head in mild bemusement, her mind abuzz with the words of her husband; Natalia is not like the other children. I believe she possess a set of rare talents. What these…abilities' purpose is, I do not yet know.

Natalia, oblivious to her mother's mental turmoil, continued to stare consciously out the bay window, desperately searching for a sign of the father she loved.

As night befell the peaceful residence, the sound of a car engine broke through the still, night air. Natalia, awake at the first crunch of gravel, shot from beneath the sheets, flying down the ornate stairwell. Her slippers skidded against the polished chestnut flooring, and Natalia came to halt, her petite form lurching with unexploited momentum. The keyhole turned as her tall, dark-haired father let himself into the kitchen, removing his hat and coat before flipping on the lights. His aristocratic features broke into a wide grin as he spotted his young daughter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed into slits, huffing at his tardy arrival. He opened his long arms wide, beckoning for Natalia to squeeze him, and she let the tough demeanor fall, pouncing forward into his outstretched embrace.

"My dear Natalia, you've grown! I honestly thought you were your mother, you are so very mature!" The man faked a grimace as the young child swatted his arm affectionately. "Natalia, Natalia, you wound me!" He cried this dramatically, for an increased affect. "You know what happens when you upset Papa…tickle monster!" The man released the now squirming child, and raised his arms, wiggling his fingers in a menacing way as Natalia attempted to escape his grasp. She giggled hysterically as her papa tickled her senseless.

"Papa... Papa stop it!" She squealed as he hoisted her into the air, twirling the child around his head. An authoritative cough resounded against the plaster walls of kitchen. Natalia's mother, attired in a plain white nightgown, was attempting to cover a smile as she placed her hands on her hips commandingly. "Upstairs now Natalia… It is much too late for such a young child to be awake." Natalia groaned, dragging her slipper laden feet, as she trudged to her bedroom, throwing playful glances over her shoulder.

Long after Natalia had retreated to her chamber, the man and woman sat together, the steaming cups of coffee remaining untouched as the couple eyed each other with hesitation. Something was bothering the husband. His eyes never left those of his wife, but his hands had a nervous twitch and his left foot had developed a rhythmic tap.

"Vladimir, what's happened?"

Vladimir ignored his wife.

"Vladimir…" She pressed.

"It is none of your business, Klavdiya!" The man's previous, tender behavior vanished.

Klavdiya Romanova reached out towards her husband, placing a slender hand upon his forearm. "Vladimir, I understand that the line of work that you are in is difficult. But, if something is wrong…if you…if we are in danger, you must tell me. I am begging you." Her light green eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Vladimir Romanova sighed, and cleared his throat." I...I suppose you should know." Then, without warning, the man switched to heavily accented English. Klavdiya arched a single, red eyebrow, but did not question her husband. Instead, she took his hand in hers. Vladimir then began his account. "A case, a few weeks back, involved a child trafficker. He was untraceable, at least, at first. The man, who we later identified as an Ivan Petrovitch, had a focus on young girls, mostly orphans, some runaways, but all, essentially, without a family. We didn't receive any leads until an American Colleague of mine, Charles Redbay, had a violent run-in with the perpetrator. His three year old daughter, Rebecca, was taken last week from his home in Moscow." He paused as Klavdiya covered her mouth with her hand, obviously disturbed by the tale thus far. "We attempted, in every way possible, to trace the man, but he was like a phantom, indiscernible and troublesome. Then, three days ago, the man turned himself in, under odd circumstances. He wanted to speak with me, alone. So, we were set up in a private conference room, the man handcuffed and secure. The man revealed many things to me; his name, his profession, the university in which he earned his doctorate degree. He was…very open, too exposed. Then the man began his true work. He knew about Natalia, commenting on how beautiful she already was. Ivan made gestures in conversation about her, stating her near outlandish potential, and how she could become famous throughout nations. This was all very disturbing. He knew about our four year old daughter Klavdiya!" Vladimir's wife was shaking violently. Vladimir's voice had reached the peak of a crescendo. He sucked in a deep gulp of air, and rubbed soothing circles against his wife's tense back. "The most disturbing piece is that the night I left Moscow, Ivan escaped. He murdered Charles, and many other international associates of mine. There is no evidence pertaining to his location. This is why, Klavdiya, I have returned so late. I took my time in checking that Ivan had not followed me home. I took several different trains, and used an old car parked in front of a local bank to return." He sighed, and buried his head in his hands. Klavdiya sighed, coughed, and discreetly wiped the tear drops from her ivory cheeks.

"Vladimir, what do we do?" She posed the most reasonable question.

"We must leave this house at once. If Ivan knows that Natalia exists and exactly what she looks like, he must know the location of this home. It's not as though I publicly broadcast her existence, and Natalia rarely leaves the residence, and when she does, it's with you, not me. I'm always away."

"When?"

"Sunup would be best. There would be no use to rouse Natalia at this hour, as it is most certain that she has only just fallen asleep. Pack a bag containing clothing and your most valued possessions. Do the same for Natalia. We must make it seem as though we still live here, or that we are merely gone for a brief holiday. A few of my companions at the agency will create falsified passports and such when we arrive at our destination." Vladimir counted off these steps on his left hand.

Klavdiya grimaced, but offered no objection. "Is this how you relocate families at the agency?"

Vladimir refused to meet her eyes. "This is procedure only when the family in question is in dire need."

His wife nodded, her palms rubbing methodically against her clothed, upper thighs. As she stood to leave, Vladimir grasped her hand once more. "It is for the best Klavdiya."

As the chime of the grandfather clock struck two in the morning, chaos erupted. Doors of industrial vans and station wagons slammed, combat boots crunched against the gravel drive. Twenty-four heavily armed men arranged themselves in distinct rows, two sets disappearing to cover the rear and side entrances, while two more units dispatched to guard the front, oaken, double doorframes. A man, solitary in position, stood behind the combat teams, his face heavily concealed by a thick and rather conspicuous obsidian hoodie.

"Fire."

The exquisitely crafted chalet exploded in a fiery ball of shrapnel, a maniacal hailstorm of bullets, and a cacophony of penetrating cries. The teams stormed the house, the mysterious man following suit. A solitary order had been sent: do not kill the child. The explosives had been strategically placed by men dressed as plumbers, two weeks previous, and had been rigged as to not touch the girl's room. All other areas, however, were fatal.

The scene was a gruesome one. The father, the man discovered, lay strewn across his baroque writing table, blood pooling from various wounds splayed across his limp and now flaccid form. An industrial nail was spouting from his forehead. The maroon liquid covered a comprehensive map of Europe, of which several points were marked in equally vibrant ink. The man moved on, the gruesome scene no more disturbing to him than a rotting tomato.

The man took the stairs two-at-a-time, his long stride speeding his pace considerably. He needed to reach the girl. A column of flame spouted from the left side of the grand stair, and the man, sensing a soon demolishment, accelerated his gait even more. The bannister was now aflame, the once handsome oak scorching to ashes. As he reached the landing, his eyes found the immobile form of the mother, Klavdiya. Her body was nearly incinerated, but the man could tell the woman had died upon initial impact, a smoking crater of what was once her facial palette. He stepped over her corpse, treading careful as to not burn his trousers, as the frantic cries grew an octave louder. As the tall man arrived at the far hallway, the screams grew even more hysterical. He turned to the left, and raced along the twisting corridor, promptly busting down the appropriate door.

Her petite figure was crouched in the far corner, the mass of auburn locks frizzled and mussed from the sheets. She clutched a stuffed rabbit, clearly a home-made toy by the towel-like material. Her jade orbs were wide with horror, tracks of tears visible upon her flushed cheeks. She wore light lavender pajamas and fuchsia slippers which clashed horrendously with her flaming hair. She darted instinctively towards the stranger, fervent for a savior. She flew into his arms, and the man was stunned by her sudden attachment. Despite his brief daze, he turned and hurried from the chamber, leaping down the stairs. Natalia wailed at the sight of her mother's remains, and her father's gruesome corpse, yet the man carried her through the door as the chalet was engulfed with flames.

The pair leapt into the last station wagon, slamming the door with an utmost urgency. The police would come soon, it was obligatory to be the minimum safe distance to escape. He kindly set the previously wailing child down beside him, and pulled back his hood. Natalia gulped and attempted to remove the moisture stains from her cheeks.

"Who…who are you?" She inquired circumspectly between hiccups, her astute eyes analyzing him. She took in the high cheekbones, ebony hair, trimmed beard, and intense eyes with hesitancy.

He leaned towards her, smirking with pleasure and revealing an upper row of blinding, bleached teeth.

"My name is Ivan Petrovitch. I am your new father."