AN: Kinda just wrote this and double checked it the same day, let me know if there's any glaring mistakes.

Natasha had been watching Ichigo Kurosaki for a week now and so far he had displayed nothing that indicated he had any unnatural abilities. Her daily reports back to Fury had been relatively sparse. Like most surveillance missions nothing tended to happen until something exploded. In which case the surveillance part of her mission would be over and it was time to put on her ass kicking boots.

Ichigo had proven to be a man of routine. One week probably wasn't enough to establish this as fact, but Romanoff was willing to bet her favorite pair of hand crafted throwing knives that the man had been following the same pattern for years. Someone might deviate from their habits occasionally, but it took iron clad discipline to follow the schedule Dr. Kurosaki did, and he managed to do so practically down to the minute. She would have to note a possible case of OCD in her next report, though it would be minor at best.

Every morning he would wake up exactly at 0500 without the aid of an alarm, head over to the sink and wash up. Downing a simple protein shake of milk, weigh powder, crushed oats and raw egg whites, he would be out the door at 0510 and would spend the rest of the hour jogging at a brisk pace around the block. Returning home at exactly 0600, he would spend the next half hour in the backyard practicing kendo with his wooden sword, performing exactly 500 strikes of each type in machinelike fashion. Breakfast would be made and consumed before 0700, and then he would be out the door again, dressed in a semi casual fashion, usually a suit top matched with dark faded jeans and utilitarian work shoes. It would have been an odd style, but it somehow suited the clinic owner who already stood out due to the shade of his hair.

Arriving at work precisely at 0730, he would park his car in the exact same spot underneath the willow tree despite not having any reservations placed to hold the position and then he would spend the rest of the day working in his health office. Lunch was always takeout brought to him by one of his staff members, the choice of food left up to the individual getting the meal, and dinner was a quiet affair that took place at home after a lazy drive back. After dinner, he would take the trio of newspapers he subscribed to and head on down to a little hole in the wall bar where he would sit with a pint of ale, watching the television, browsing the papers or simply quietly staring off into space in a detached fashion. No one ever joined him despite many giving him greetings.

He would return home at 2300, go to bed and the whole routine would start over again in six hours. His clinic was open seven days a week with the exact same hours, 8 a.m. – 6 p.m., so there was no deviation to his schedule even on weekends. It was like clockwork, both fascinating and utterly boring to observe.

Natasha carefully put on the last touch makeup and leaned back to observe herself in the mirror, the woman in the reflection staring back with an expression of satisfaction.

The apartment Shield had provided for her both as a part of her cover and as a place for her to stay was a cozy little one bedroom thing up on the second floor, comfortable but not exactly luxurious. Certainly the spy had stayed in much worst dives in her time as a field operative so she couldn't complain about her accommodations. A part of her wondered if this was what it felt like to take a vacation. She'd have to ask Clint when she got back, unlike her he actually had been on one on the account that he had a life outside of their work.

She frowned at the odd distracted throught.

This was probably why she was losing her mind barely a week into the mission. Romnaoff was a woman of action. Fury had given her no oversight for the mission, just ordering her to do what was necessary to determine whether or not Kurosaki should be recruited. She decided that after a week of watching, it was time to make contact with the target.

She'd dyed her hair blonde as a part of her cover, her naturally curly red hair straightened out so that they fell like cascading waterfalls down to her shoulder. The dark leather jacket she wore was kept open so that the rather tight red tank top she had underneath allowed her bosom to show enough to entice a peek but not to scream for attention. She had decided to pair the jacket with a pair of worn Levis and thigh high boots. All in all, it was a head turning look that would hopefully ease her transition into Dr. Kurosaki's life.

"Looking hot sweetheart."

The compliment would have been startling in the empty apartment had she not recognized the voice. A familiar hollow pang of sorrow filled her when she turned to face the speaker.

There was a young woman sitting on the couch in the living room, smiling brightly at Natasha. Her name was Angelina Grisha and she didn't look a day older than sixteen. She never would, mainly because she was dead. Natasha would know, after all she had killed her as a part of her initiation after graduating from the Red Room.

"Hello Angelina," the spy said softly as she joined her former comrade in the living room. "It's been a while since I've seen you. I had thought you'd finally moved on."

Now up close, the Shield agent could see that the blonde was in fact slightly transparent. If Natasha stared hard enough, she could make out the pattern of the couch through the ghostly woman's chest.

Angelina smiled sadly at her friend. "Oh Natalie, it's not so simple. We are tied to you in death, we all are."

Natasha looked away. When she first joined Shield, she had told Nick Fury that she wanted to erase some of the red on her ledger; she never told him why she had the sudden change of heart. Most killers didn't suddenly develop a conscious after years in the business, and Natasha was no exception. The only difference between her and others who murdered was that she could see the ghosts of those she killed following her around. No matter how well she was conditioned not to feel anything for her targets, it wasn't easy to forget them when their departed souls were drawn to her like moths to flame.

They weren't always visible, not unless she really concentrated, but at night when she lay awake in bed tormented by memories of her past she could hear them whispering, cursing her, hundreds of raging voices seeking vengeance. It had gotten to her, shaking her away from that cold disconnected place she had been conditioned into. Natasha couldn't bring those people she killed back and she had no other skill that could benefit the world, but she could ensure that the people she killed had more meaning than a simple paycheck.

Angelina was the only one of the ghosts following her that was not angry, perhaps because she too had been an initiate of the Red Room and under other circumstances their positions would be switched. All the girls who were placed in the Red Room program were paired up at the beginning, told by their handlers that the girl they were partnered with were their battle sister, the one they could always trust their life to in a world of deceit and lies.

Then, on the day before they graduated, they were ordered to fight to death. One final test prove that they had truly killed their hearts, to see if they could take the final step to remove the only connection they had left in the world. Most failed, consigning both partners for termination due to failure. Natasha hadn't.

"Crowd's gotten a bit bigger since we last talked," her pseudo sister commented lightly. "Getting hard to find elbow room around you."

Natasha turned to look at her friend, frowning at the reference to those she had killed. It had been almost a year since she had last seen Angelina, a year where her body count had risen by twenty seven. A drop in the ocean compared to the numbers of lives she had ended in the almost two decades since she had first left the Red Room.

"Where did you go?" the spy asked out of curiosity.

The ghosts while tied to her did not explicitly have to stay by her side from what she had observed. They could wander off for periods of time, travel the world unhindered by mortal limitations. But ultimately they would be drawn back to the cause of their death.

"I went to France for a little while," Angelina said with a soft airy smile. "Beautiful place, I think I stood on the Eiffel Tower for a few weeks. So many sunsets. They were so pretty, I couldn't' stop looking at them. Maybe it was months. It's hard to tell time when you're dead, especially when I'm far away from you. I can't seem to focus as well."

Romanoff frowned at the unfocused look in her friend's eyes. Angelina always seemed a little off after being away from her, and it took a while for her to return to normal, but she appeared more disconnected than normal.

"Angel," Natasha said using the old nickname she had given her. "Are you ok?"

Dull eyes seemed to focus as they looked at her as if seeing Natasha clearly for the first time. Gone was the lost and jumbled glint in her sapphires, they burned hot with hate and rage.

"YOU!" the ghost suddenly shrieked, leaping to her feet. "IT WAS YOUR FAULT! YOU KILLED ME! WHY DID YOU GET TO LIVE?! WHY DID I DIE?! YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!"

Natasha took an uncertain step back, shaken by the sudden outburst from her dead friend. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, anything. But nothing came out. What could she say against the truth?

The ghost girl's shoulders heaved with exertion, her fingers curled up in twisted claws, reaching out as if she might strangle the living woman before her. Her pale face seemed to peel, the skin flaking away to bleed a milky white substance.

"Angel," Natasha pleaded. "Please Angel, it's me Natalie. Please snap out of it."

A single tear rolled down her cheek as the spy watched the rage filled form of her dead partner. The sight of the lone tear seemed to draw Angelina back from whatever depths she had been trapped in, and the naked animal rage left her eyes.

"I'm sorry Natalie," Angelina said with a confused shake of her head. "I did it again didn't I?"

The spy wanted to reach out and hold her friend, but she knew from experience it would do nothing but chill her flesh to come in contact with a ghost. They were separated by the barriers of life and death.

"No, I'm sorry Angel," Natasha whispered.

The ghost of a girl gave a watery smile, her skin slowly returning to the pale translucent white it normally was. "Well I guess we can both be sorry then. It's getting harder to focus lately, harder to think. Ever since…"

Natasha frowned as she looked at the chain her dead friend was fingering. Every ghost seemed to have one of those chains attached to their chest. She'd never bothered looking too closely at any of the spirits that followed her, but she was fairly certain that Angelina's chain had been much longer than the single fist worth that was now left.

"What happened?" the redhead asked worriedly.

She'd never seen a ghost with such a short chain before.

"I don't know," admitted Angelina hesitantly. "I tried asking some of the others who have been around longer than me, but most either don't know or refuse to talk to me when they see my chain. They all say that I don't have much time left, that I will become one of them soon. I don't know what that means."

It was odd seeing the fear in her dead friend's eyes. One would think that death was the end to all fears, after all what more was there to fear? But it seemed even the dead were bothered by the same uncertainty of not knowing that the living suffered through.

"Angel I…"

But what could Natasha say? There were no words that she had that could comfort the spirit of her friend, she had no more answers than the dead girl before her did. She couldn't even provide physical reassurance.

"It's ok Natalie," the ghost said with a sad smile. "What will happen, will happen. We must all face it in the end. I just thought that death was the end of all uncertainty."

Natasha grimaced as she looked away. Her emotions that she normally kept locked away tight was bubbling to the surface, and with it sharpened the clarity she had in seeing the dead. Already the living room seemed to be filling with faint outlines of ghosts she normally happily ignored.

Angelina must have noticed her discomfort, for she quickly changed the topic.

"So who's the target?" she asked eagerly. "Can I come with you?"

"It's not like I can stop you," Natasha said with a small smile.

Pulling out the image she had of Ichigo Kurosaki, she showed it to her dead friend.

"Oh he's cute," Angelina said with a cluck of her tongue as she leaned forward to examine the photo. "I hope you don't have to kill him, though maybe that would give me someone new to talk to."

"I'm not here to assassinate him," Natasha replied as she briskly began to prepare herself for her upcoming self-imposed mission. "We're just going to have ourselves a friendly little chat."

A swift glance at the clock showed that it was almost 1900. She would have to move quickly if she wanted to arrive at the bar before Kurosaki. He'd be less suspicious of her if she was already present when he came in.

Romanoff frowned as she considered the glossy photo of the scowling man in her hand one more time before pocketing it. Perhaps he might have some answers if Fury's suspicions proved accurate.

AN: Probably a bit of deviation from her character, but hey it's fanfiction for a reason right? If I wanted to I can add spongebob into my story =D Though it would be pretty sick if Ichigo showed up in Avengers Infinity Wars…