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Sick of my small heart, made of steel, sick of those wounds that never heal
The packet contained a tightly-wrapped evening gown as well as an invitation to tonight's gala. After refreshing herself on the research, she tried on the dress, which was a black slip gracefully draped with blue lace. Smirking, she wondered who had chosen it. A slit in the fabric showed off her legs as well as allowing her access to the Glock she strapped to her thigh. Her Widow's bites would be harder to conceal, but she had one that could pass as jewelry. A knife strapped to her other thigh completed her arsenal, and she contemplated whether or not she could fit her other Glock in the small matching clutch that had been provided. Her phone buzzing delayed the decision, and she leaned over to the nightstand to pick it up.
"Hey, James," she said, his name being one of the few programmed in this cell.
"Nat, how's it going?" he asked, his tone just casual enough for her to know he was worried but didn't want her think he doubted her abilities.
"Good. Made my contact, looks like a good location for preliminary questioning. I don't know if Fury will ask me to stay past that or not."
There was a pause as she adjusted her jewelry in the mirror, not all of it weapons-based. "Alright. Well, keep in touch."
"Is everything okay there?" she pressed.
Another pause, and she resisted the urge to sigh. "I'm fine – we're fine, Natalia. It's just, you know, useful to have a super spy around," he explained lightly. "But I'm sure Sam and I can handle it."
She snorted, putting a hand on her hip. "Send me what you're working on and I'll see what I can do."
"Thanks, Natalia. Talk to you soon?"
"I'm undercover, James. I have to go, but I'll call you when I have the time. I love you," she added sincerely.
"I love you, too," he answered, matching her tone.
She turned the sounds off and tucked the phone into her clutch. No room for a Glock after all. Shrugging, she checked the time. The gala didn't start for another hour, and she should probably show up fashionably late. She decided to use the opportunity to do some more investigation on the case.
"Hey, Pepper."
"Natasha, what a surprise," Pepper Potts answered her phone, clearly not exaggerating. "I didn't know the number – " she began in explanation.
"I'm on a case. Listen, could you look into something for me?"
"Well, I don't – you know what, yes. What do you need, Nat?" Pepper said after a moment of hesitation.
Smiling a little sadly, Natasha sat back to determine how to frame this without potentially leaking something important. "Anything you can find out about Vassily Ilyich Ulyanov would be much appreciated."
"I'll look into it," Pepper promised.
"Thanks, I owe you one, Pepper," Natasha replied before hanging up. Taking a deep breath, she typed in another number.
"This is Hill."
"Maria, good to talk to you," Natasha began pleasantly.
"Romanoff, where are you?" Maria cut her off.
"I'm sure that's not relevant. Listen, I need you to send any information you can find on Vassily Ilyich Ulyanov or Ian McMasters to this number, if you have the time. If not, I'm sure we'll see each other soon enough," she replied placidly.
Maria made some noises of annoyance before sighing. "Fine."
"Thanks, Maria."
"Goodbye, Natasha," Hill said forcefully before hanging up.
Smiling to herself, she put her phone back in her clutch and went to play with potential hairstyles for a while.
Fashionably half an hour late, Natasha drove over to Schloss Belvedere, somewhat surprised to find that it looked quite different from the sleepy antique it had been in the morning. A train of cars, most fancier than her own, were dropping people off at the brightly-lit front entrance. She joined the line and reviewed her plan in her head. Once she was close enough to be visible to the valets, she adopted a carefree attitude, smiling broadly when her door was opened.
Stepping out carefully, she brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear while her smile took on a more demure appearance. "Danke shön," she told the young man shyly, handing over her keys. He smiled broadly at her, tipping his hat as she moved out of his way. Then she headed toward the doors, keeping her arms close to her as if nervous.
There had been many galas, dances, balls, etc., where Natasha had been sent to question or manipulate the elite, and they all seemed the same. Nothing new here, and she was blind to the carefully crafted opulence on which someone had surely spent a great deal of time (and money). Perhaps it was her upbringing, but she tended to avoid anything particularly luxurious. At least in her personal life. This was much better than crawling through sewers or rifling through warehouses, as missions often involved, though, so she wasn't going to complain.
She hadn't been there more than half an hour when she spotted Ian McMasters entering. He did not stick out from the other old white men particularly, and she was glad to have studied his face in advance. His young Russian friend was not with him, as far as she could tell. Pictures of him had been significantly harder to come by; his face was always obscured by hats, scarves, or sunglasses. Some scarring she'd been able to make out on his left side might have accounted for the unwillingness to be photographed bare-faced. It would not do to spook the old man, so she waited, making small talk with other patrons of little consequence for a while.
Impatience began to weigh on her, so she politely excused herself from her conversation and began heading in McMasters' direction. He separated himself slightly to pick up a glass of champagne, and she swept in to take advantage of the opportunity.
"Guten tag," she said lightly, bumping his fingers briefly as she lifted another glass from the tray.
He smiled at her. "Good evening, young lady," he answered.
"It's a lovely event, don't you think?" she inquired warmly.
"Yes, quite lovely." His response was a little distracted as she made a show of readjusting her skirt. She looked up with a blush and her demure smile returned.
"I'm Nadja Rothbauer. I spoke to your assistant on the phone," she lied. He had the decency to look concerned. "Perhaps we could talk somewhere more… private?" she suggested.
He coughed on his drink. "Oh, yes, my dear, that would be pleasant," he stuttered as he looked around the room.
Removing her card from her clutch, she pressed it into his hand and squeezed. "Call me when you get some free time, Ian," she recommended sweetly, and left him looking dumbstruck. Once out of his line of sight, she let a barely perceptible shudder run through her. His hand was clammy, and she did not look forward to making his acquaintance more thoroughly later. But that was taken care of, so she needed to look for any other Gynacon affiliates who might be available for questioning.
She retreated to a corner of the room and looked over the crowd carefully, searching for any of the faces she had reviewed earlier. No one seemed to match and she was starting to feel disappointed – how could she discreetly meet up with anyone else? – when she saw a familiar face. A real smile lit her face unbidden and she set off into the crowd.
"My friend, I didn't expect to see you here. Or anywhere," she said softly to a blond woman wearing a gorgeous dark red gown. Like Natasha's, it featured a slit up the side to provide access to weaponry as well as flexibility if needed.
The blond blinked in surprise, then smiled broadly. "Well, that's an important facet of my line of work," Yelena Belova responded in a bemused tone.
"Nadja," Natasha introduced herself, holding out her hand. "Love what you've done with your hair."
A smirk crossed Yelena's face. "Thanks. What brings you here?"
Natasha waved her hand dismissively. "Just questioning executives on their motives, the usual. You?"
"Oh, you know, finding people who need to be found, as always. Though my tip must have been bad, because I'm coming up empty-handed."
"I'm sorry to hear that. You want to head somewhere a little more private and we can catch up?" Natasha suggested.
Yelena glanced around the room once more, then smiled genuinely. "Sure, it's been a few years. I think you owe me dinner for the last time we crossed paths."
"I'd be happy to."
Natasha linked arms with Yelena and walked them toward the door, smiling sweetly at McMasters when he glanced in her direction. Stepping outside into the cool night air was quite a relief, and Natasha let out a sigh.
"I agree," Yelena laughed. "You still hanging around that guy you rescued?"
"Yeah. Anyone in your life?" Natasha asked as they stepped across the gravel, heading for her car.
Yelena stopped up short, frowning into the darkness. "Hang on, I think that's my guy now. Not in the same capacity," she added as she gave Natasha a sidelong look.
The man in question was dressed in dark clothes and looking around furtively as he headed down a pathway between two of the buildings. He was average build, appeared to be alone, and was not obviously armed – he didn't carry himself like he was, anyway. He hadn't spotted them where they stood in the midst of others who found it too warm inside, and there weren't any other patrons in his area.
"Let's go get him," Natasha said.
"You go around back, I'll follow him," Yelena replied, expression focused.
Natasha pulled her Glock out of her purse once she was around the corner, and took care to walk silently as she moved forward. She stopped when she heard voices speaking very quietly in Russian, and considered how to warn Yelena that the mark wasn't alone.
"She's following?" one voice murmured.
"Da, though she wasn't alone."
"Well, we'll get this Widow and her friend, and then we'll go find ourselves some more," a third, more authoritative voice said before shushing the others.
Yelena hadn't been a Black Widow in years. There weren't any that went by that name except for Natasha; she didn't know how many were still alive after the Red Room dissolved, but none had kept the codename except for her. So some Russians (clearly native-speakers) calling Yelena Belova a Black Widow was definitely something of concern. Natasha charged her Widow's bite and turned off the safety on her Glock before heading into the fray.
