"You're new here, aren't you?"

The girl mumbled something into her drink. When she realized the asker hadn't heard, she startled and lifted her head back up, nodding vigorously. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at the crowded bar. As if anyone else here cared who she was or where she spent her babysitting money.

Natasha Romanoff, sweater-clad and off-duty, sighed like a blacksmith's bellows. "Just a little. You stick out like a sore thumb, honey." Her own glass sat untouched by her elbow. She'd had intentions of seriously drinking an hour ago but clearly her conscience wouldn't let her onto the path toward getting shitfaced. She glanced at the girl again. Even now, confronted by a vaguely maternal, older figure she should have recognized, should have shrunk from or stared at with big longing cow eyes like all the other teenagers around here, she stared sullenly into her beer, her cheeks slightly red with the cold from the open door and a touch of intoxication.

She didn't take care of strays. That was her first and only rule since coming to New York. Not enough room in her apartment. But something about the profile of the girl's face, the angles and lines, the hard corners, the long eyelashes so out of place, long white-striped hair raked back savagely from a dirty neck- all of it hit home. She reached across the empty stool between them and tapped the girl on the shoulder.

"Hey." The girl looked up, blinking slowly. There was an age to her eyes that Natasha hadn't noticed before. The circles beneath them had been there for years. "Do you need anything? Money, food-" - a bed?

"I'm fine." The girl stared at her a moment longer before looking back down. "Thank you though." Her foot was beginning to tap, gloved hands clutching her glass tighter and tighter- that anxious anticipation before a run that she recognized from her own days of running from place to place. Sleeping behind dumpsters. Hell, eating out of dumpsters. She did a lot with dumpsters back in the day.

"Well, if you change your mind…" She leaned back into her own space and picked up her glass. She really needed to stop reaching out to strangers. Someday she would end up inviting an assassin into her apartment meaning to give them a free bath and then what would happen next? Well there would be a dead assassin in her apartment, that's what would happen next.

She drained her glass. The wine was warm, but it went down smooth all the same.

The next few hours passed by in a blur. She had a few more drinks, talked to a couple of regulars she knew, signed some postcards for a couple of Indian tourists- by the time two a.m. rolled around, her mind was pleasantly fuzzy and she felt ready to go home and roll right into bed. She stood, thanking the bartender and throwing a ten dollar bill in the tip jar. Her tab was always covered by one of the others, but the tips were the least she could do, when she had the money.

The night air was cool and refreshing. She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her coat and trudged through the snow to the curb. Her little Toyota was modest, and blended in to the streets relatively well- unlike Tony's unbelievably gaudy vehicles of choice. The latest that sprang to mind was one styled after the old Batmobile from some animated TV show. He couldn't drive that one everywhere but the splurge alone was enough to rile her up.

She was thinking up new ways to insult the damn thing, fumbling her key in the lock, when she heard a muffled shout from the alley behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She looked back. The alley was pitch black, the only point of light the tiny flame of a cigarette lighter being held under someone's nose. Lit up in the light of that flame was the streak of white hair on that girl she'd seen in the bar.

Slowly, she put her key away and put her hands back in her pockets, and headed for the alley. As she got closer, she could see four men surrounding the girl, two with guns. The guns didn't worry her, but the blatant rage in the girl's eyes did. She slipped a hand into her purse, intending to draw her own gun to threaten the bozos- but the girl was quicker.

She stuck out both hands, somehow ungloved and extended in less than a second, and clapped them on to Lighter's face. He shrieked with pain and collapsed, bringing her down with him. The guy closest to her on the right tried to kick her, but she let go of one of Lighter's cheeks and grabbed his ankle, and he fell down too. Both men were convulsing but the girl seemed to be fine, if breathing a little heavily.

The other two men fled.

Natasha raced into the alley and knelt in the snow beside the girl. She was lying on her back, panting, her face flushed and glazed with sweat. She gazed unseeing at the sky. The men lay on either side of her, veins standing out on their skin. Neither were breathing.

"Oh, god," Nat whispered, reaching to touch the girl's arm but thinking better of it. Instead, she took out her phone and called the first number in her contacts. "Tony? I need a favor. I'm afraid it's an emergency. No, don't send a helicopter- I just need a faster car. And three body bags."

###

Thankfully, there wasn't anyone else in the Tower when they arrived except Tony, pacing in the living room and tapping his chin with the end of his cell phone. When the door opened he turned around, throwing his arms out. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded, striding forward. "One call, a cleanup crew, a van, body bags? Who did you kill this time? I-" He paused, seeing the covered figure in the redhead's arms. "Is that one of the bodies?"

"No." Natasha put the girl down carefully on the couch. She didn't move. She'd put her in one of the body bags with the top unzipped, just so she didn't touch her skin on accident. She didn't know if the power was channeled through skin or just her hands, and she wasn't sure she wanted to find out on accident which one it was. "This is the girl who killed them."

"She did that?" Tony glanced through the pictures Nat had up on her phone, just a cursory glance before returning to stare uneasily at the girl on his couch. "How?"

"I don't know. She just touched them and it was like… she sucked the life right out of them."

"Sick." At Nat's disapproving look, Tony shrugged. "What? It's something I've never seen before, have you? I'll have to look into it. Where are you sending her?"

"She's staying here."

"What?"

"At least until we can figure out what's wrong with her and if she's dangerous to anyone else." Yeah, Romanoff. That's why you're keeping her here. Not to protect her from herself. From that empty look on a dusty barstool.

"If you say so. Make sure to leave a… sticky note or something on her so Thor doesn't think she's furniture or something and try to put her away." With that, Tony headed back upstairs, leaving Nat alone in the living room with the girl. She was still staring straight up, eyes locked open. Maybe it wasn't a reaction. Maybe it just happened.

Whatever it was, better she did it in here than out on the road.

Nat patted the outside of the bag and went into her own room that adjoined the living room, closing the door to just a crack. "Jarvis," she said softly, and a corner of the room lit up with a soft blue light. "Make sure she's alright tonight."

"Will do."

Satisfied, Nat kicked off her shoes and dropped onto her bed. Her last thought before she fell asleep was whether she should have left more money for the bartender.

:: Just an idea that came to me that I'm going to roll with! Right now I'm trying to find the rhythm for this story and the character of Rogue. Any tips or criticisms would be greatly appreciated! ::