AN: This is my portrayal of Natasha Romanoff's story. I kind of wish it could compensate for not having a Black Widow solo movie, but this isn't good enough. I do hope I do it justice, though (let me know in the reviews if you have any feedback please). Most of the stories that will be included are backstories true to the comics.
Also, here's an index of the Russian words that are used in this chapter. I literally pulled them off Google Translate, so no, I don't speak Russian, and I'm sorry if I used them wrong and some Russian speakers are offended. Bear with me, please. :)
[Index: 'glupyy' - stupid; 'sozhaleyu' - sorry; 'chert' - damn; 'plokho' - bad]
One frayed yellowing paper and one stark white document lie on the military-grade desk, accompanied by a half-eaten cheese sandwich and a glass of beer, each to their respective tableware. In a skewed position nearby, a bronze plaque giving ownership to the desk sits upon it as well, but the light is hitting in such a way that the letters are obscured. The drawers of the nearby dresser are open slightly, dust drifting and settling on it now. A suitcase lies on the bed pushed against the wall, navy covers pushed back and held in place by a collection of various items, a gun is one of them. Its ominous presence is diminished by the floral dress under it, it's blue and red pattern colours matching with that of a book titled "Places to See In Russia".
A toilet's flushing noise, and then that of a sink's rushing water ensues, and then footsteps.
The freshly printed white paper becomes the first item to be packed inside the suitcase as an unseen hand picks it up. It is carefully folded, but not before the unseen hand's unseen owner quickly scans over it once more.
"'Latrodectus' is the scientific term for the black widow arachnid. The black widow is shy in nature and sticks to solitude most of its life. Unlike other spiders, they produce a messy, irregular web. Baby black widow spiders, also called spiderlings, start off as white, and develop their black and red colour as they grow," it says. It is apparently a print-out of an informative website. There are a few notes written in the cramped margins that cannot be made out due to their size... or rather, perhaps, the fact that the words are written in a code, forming nonsensical sentences. It is almost certain, however, that the writing has nothing to do with the information printed in the article.
Then, the scruffy paper is lifted quietly off the desk by the very same unseen hand.
It reads:
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
CRIMINAL FILE: ROMANOVA, NATALIA A.
Subject Name - Last: ROMANOVA
Subject Name - First: NATALIA
Subject Name - Middle Name: ALIANOVA
Alias/es: "BLACK WIDOW", "NATALIE RUSHMAN", "LAURA MATTHERS", "MARY FARRELL", "NATASHA ROMANOFF", "OKTOBER", "YELENA BELOVA"
Home Address: 890 FIFTH AVE., MANHATTAN, NYC
Subject's Home Phone: UNKN.
Driver's License/ID Number: 13-192-4059
Family: NONE KNOWN TO CIA (CLOSE TIES TO CLINT BARTON, SEE FILE)
Martial Status: UN-AFFILIATED (TO CIA'S KNOWLEDGE)
Date of Birth: CIRCA 1985; OTHERWISE UNKN.
Sex: F
Ethnicity: RU (Russian)
Height: APPROX. 5'4"
Weight: UNKN.
Hair: RED
Eye: GREEN
Place of Birth: STALINGRAD, RUSSIA
Employer: SHIELD
Occupation: GOV. AGENT; EX-KGB AGENT; AVENGER; SHIELD OPERATIVE; BALLERINA(UNCERTAIN)
Marking Features: UNKN.
Criminal Charges: EVIDENCE REQUIRED
Here a sticky note has been applied to the document, handwriting scrawled upon the worn yellow square:
"to investigate further - M"
RUSSIA. | MANY MANY YEARS AGO. | 0600 HOURS.
Two nine-year-old girls ran through the crowded streets of Russia, deftly dodging the vendors and their carts loaded with cabbage, bread, and other assorted foods.
One girl dawdled every once in a while, slowing when the scents from the street vendors misted her face with steam. The other urged the lagger on, grabbing her hand, and pushing her forward when time wasted.
The sprightly red-haired child stopped once more, causing the raven-haired to turn and pant out, "Natasha! Hurry! We might miss it!" Spurred by the prospect of missing the free food that the local bakery always handed out, Natasha began to sprint, nearly running straight into the raven-haired girl, who was standing three feet ahead of her.
This caused Natasha to once more receive an admonishment from her friend. "Natasha! Stop being so clumsy! You're never going to become that ballerina that you're always watching," the girl said exasperatedly. "Besides, I think we missed it." Natasha hung her head, her straight red hair now falling into her small face.
"Glupyy," the black-haired child muttered in Russian, shaking her head and causing her short locks to become even more tousled.
"Sozhaleyu, Marina," Natasha sputtered. "I promise I'll make it up to you."
Marina sighed and put her gloved hands on her hips. "Yeah, well, I'm not the only one that's going to go hungry," she said pointedly. At that, Natasha's stomach promptly let out a loud gurgle, reminding her of how empty it was.
"Chert," Natasha said, pressing her cold hands on her hollow belly as if to somehow numb the pain.
"Hnngh!" Marina gasped. "Natasha, where did you learn that word? That's a bad word, that is!"
A laugh emanated from Natasha's hungry body. "Instructor Nikita is always saying it. I guess I picked it up!" she said cheerfully.
Immediately, Marina's mind conjured up an image of the blustery scraggly bearded instructor. She squinted at Natasha disapprovingly but tried out how the word felt on her tongue, eventually giggling with Natasha. Then they both promised not to use it again, agreeing that it was a curse, and therefore plokho.
They were now situated in front of an alleyway, both clad in an eclectic style of clothing, an amalgam of hand-me-downs and garish colours. An unknowing foreign spectator might have thought the layers of jackets odd, but then again, it was a Russian winter. And rather typical of Red Room trainees.
Marina tenderly re-wrapped Natasha's purple scarf around Natasha's pale neck.
"What are we going to do, Natasha?" She asked. "You want to see if the diner is throwing out it's leftovers from last night?" Marina scratched her head, then shivered as the cold morning air pierced the two of them. Bending over, Natasha zipped up Marina's threadbare blue jacket, pondering what to do next.
"In the Room, they say that hunger sharpens the mind," Natasha said slowly.
"Maybe," Marina said uncertainly.
A short pause ensued.
"Oooo!" The red-head bounced on her toes with enthusiasm. "I have a great idea!"
Marina raised her eyebrows, crossing her arms while she did so. "Please don't tell me you want to waste our day watching that ballerina practice again."
Natasha shuffled her feet, scuffing her worn pink sneakers. "Weeeell," she tried her hand at smiling winningly at Marina, who rolled her eyes.
"Fine," Marina said, unable to resist her best friend's charm. "Only to take our mind of our hungriness."
Natasha smiled, her green eyes shining, linking arms with Marina.
Both their stomachs growled, and giggling once more, the two dashed away, soon disappearing into the fog of the city.