A/N: So last night I watched the Avengers for the hundredth time, and it got me thinking about Natasha's past. She's a really interesting character (to me anyway), and I see a lot of ways her personality can go. Anyway, I thought of this at school today and the idea kind of grew on me, so here it is. Somewhat inspired by Until It Sleeps by Metallica and We Die Alone by Lamb of God. Sorry about any mistakes in the spelling or grammar. :) Enjoy!

Now that I think about it, it's almost funny. I have escaped from far worse situations than this unscathed. And here I am, bleeding to death in a gutter. I can hear the bated sound of my blood dripping between the rusty grates, collecting in a dirty pool down below. It's the only sound I catch; not even my heartbeat. Maybe I'm already dead, who knows. If I had the strength to move, I would probably drag myself up onto the sidewalk, where it's a little more comfortable. My parched lips crack in a twisted grin as I think about the irony of my situation. For once, I try to help someone instead of killing them, and this is where it lead me. Clearly I wasn't meant to have a heart. At least they left me here with my thoughts. I'd much rather die alone than in the custody of some sleazy mobster or angry organization. Now I have time to reflect on everything that's ever happened around me. Not that I want to, but to be honest I'm getting bored here, waiting for death. The pain isn't even clear anymore; it's more of a dull haze pulling at the corners of my consciousness. I can ignore it easy enough, that's one thing I have been trained to do.

I crack open my eyes, almost wincing at the moonlight. Even thought it's little more than a sliver hanging in the dark sky, it's enough to irritate my vision, which is going blurry again. Briefly, I wonder how long I'll be laying here, and then my eyes focus on my empty gun, tossed carelessly aside several feet away. I'm not one to get all sentimental about anything, but that gun was the best one I've had. I have carried it around for almost three years now without losing it, which is probably some kind of record for a spy. It's been with me through the darkest moments of those three years, and it's the closest thing I've got to a friend. I remember several months ago when I almost took my life with it. Probably should have, it would have been easy enough and then I wouldn't be going through this. I'm not really sure what it was that stopped me, I guess I just changed my mind and decided to get back to work. Kind of sick that it's so automatic for me to take a life, even my own. Wow. I am a monster. He was right. But it's not entirely my fault, I never chose this life.

"Your name is Natasha Romanov, and you will be living here now. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Now, can you tell me how old you are, and where you are from?"

"I don't know. Alexey says I am about four years old now. He found me when I was a baby."

"And your parents?"

"Dead, sir."

"Very well. Can you shoot a gun?"

"What kind?"

"Excellent answer. I can see that you are much farther along in your training than the others your age."

"Thank you, sir."

Even if I did have a choice, I probably wouldn't be much better off. After all, I do- well, did have a very specific skill set. Say what you want, but I think at least some of that runs in my blood. Who knows?

I slowly lift my arm, the only part of me that seems to not be broken. Pressing my fingers into a jagged cut, I squeeze some blood into my mouth, for some reason determined to live a little longer. The blood is harsh and metallic against my dry tongue, but I swallow it anyway. I turn my head to the side and close my eyes, trying to blot out the returning pain caused by my hand falling and jarring some broken ribs on my side. My eyes water as I struggle to breathe from the burning ache in my ribs. i trace a finger across the loose bones, wincing in agony. One or two of them are sticking out at an awkward angle and I wonder again how long I've got to lie here. Pretty soon it's going to be quite humiliating if anyone sees me in this state. I doubt anyone would be walking these streets at this hour, though. At least I won't know what's going on anymore by the time they find my mangled remains.

When I open my eyes again, the stars have shifted, making it somewhere around three or four in the morning, but I'm probably wrong. I'm really in no condition to judge the time correctly. With every breath I take, the pain becomes more tangible, so I try to focus on something to force myself to take my mind off of it. My gaze falls on a bullet shell a foot from my face. Dammit, why did they have to miss? If that thing had gotten inside my head I would be well on my way to Valhalla by now.

This just goes to prove my theory that surprise is man's best friend. I'm living- well, dying- proof of that. I look down at the dark liquid collecting around my still form. The only indication that I'm alive is my rasping breathing. I shift my arm carefully and stick a finger inside a bullet hole in my chest. So close to the heart. My reflexes saved me from death then, but now I wish they hadn't. Oh well. I deserve this, after all it was foolish thinking to believe that luck would stay on my side for this long. I find myself fighting the unconsciousness creeping from the shadows of my mind. How poetic. Even though I really do wish for death, some primal instinct is telling me, forcing me, to fight it. And I can't disagree with it. I was trained to live, not to die, and especially not in a pathetic heap who knows where.

Now that I think about it, it was strange of them to leave me for dead, instead of making sure their dirty deed was done. Too bad Tony's not here, he would have gotten that one. They definitely were not amateurs, they knew what I was capable of. And yet, in some way I think I almost let them do this to me. It's as if part of me knew what a monster I was, and this is exactly what I deserved. For some reason, another part of me still wants to live, even after all this. All the wounds I have are dangerously close to vital organs (for a civilian anyway; I can handle it), but somehow I managed to dodge the worst blows. Strange. Now, a larger part of me feels that death would be a friend, a balm, after all this torture. The sickening crack of my own bones echoes in my ears, along with the screams of the other agents. To be fair, I did take out at least twelve of them, not to mention the fatal wounds inflicted with the business end of my trusty Beretta.

I wonder how long it's going to be before SHIELD notices I didn't make it back, and if they'll send someone after me. Probably not for a long while; they'll figure that I can take care of myself. I take a deep breath, eyes watering at the pain and threatening to roll back into my head. I squeeze them shut, determined to last a little longer. The darkness laps at my mind, and with a pang of regret, I realize that it's closing in. I don't even know how long it's been. For a moment, I think about the last non-hostile conversation I had, wondering if anyone will miss me. I don't have long left; the darkness is already seeping into my senses, shutting them off one by one. The last one to go is my hearing, and in the distance I can almost make out muffled footsteps and voices. Maybe they've come to finish me off, or maybe SHIELD's found me. That's my last thought as I drift into a comfortable, painless, grey silence.