Hey hey! Look how fast I updated this time! (which means I was avoiding schoolwork again... *glances furtively at homework*)

Anyway, here's another action-packed chapter, full of espionage, betrayal, and One-seventeen's emotional ineptitude. Hope you all enjoy!

I DON'T OWN MARVEL. OBVIOUSLY.


I'm counter-clockwise,

And time moves forward.

I'm shying, pushing,

I keep running backward circles.

I'm reaching, shoving - nowhere to go.


"Hello? Who's this? This is a restricted number-"

"I don't have time to explain!" A feminine voice gasps. "I need you to connect me to the director!"

"I can't authorize-"

"Please!" The woman nearly screams. "It's an urgent matter! My handler has been compromised and they will find me if I contact SHIELD through official channels!"

"Then I must verify-"

"DO IT NOW!"

The man on the other end of the phone pauses to stare uncertainly at the speaker on the phone, before glancing around the control room. The rest of his coworkers are calm, likely unaware of his unusual situation on the phone.

It might be a bad idea, but if this woman really is a SHIELD agent, and she really is in trouble…

The man makes up his mind, quickly muttering 'okay' in the receiver before standing up and walking towards the stairs that lead to the control deck.

"Jim, you going somewhere?" His coworker asks him as he passes him.

"Yeah, just something I need to take care of real quick. I'll be back soon." He assures his friend as he walks quickly but calmly towards the door behind the deck.

The door slides open, and he breaks into a run the moment it shuts behind him, running up the stairwell and towards the door of Fury's office. He halts momentarily to knock on the door, pausing just long enough to hear Fury grunt 'come in' before rushing through the door.

"Did you need something, agent?" Fury asks him with an intimidating scowl.

"Sir, I have a phone call for you." He replies without preamble, holding up his cellphone and hoping this wouldn't get him demoted. Or killed. "It's urgent."

Fury frowns at the sight of the non-governmental device. "On your personal cell? That is not authorized."

"She says that she cannot contact you through registered channels." He quickly explains. "She implied it might compromise her position."

Fury's frown darkened, but he nevertheless nodded and held out his hand to accept the phone. With just a look, the director ordered the man to exit his office. When the door shut behind the agent, Fury brought the phone to his ear.

"Alright, who is this?" He asked.

At first the line was silent, as if holding its breath. Then –

"Hello Fury."

"You– !"

"Let's make a deal."


The air was filled with the smell of people, smog, exhaust, fast food, and perfume. Her ears rang with honking cars, idle chatter, the clanging of metal from a construction site, and someone's dog was barking to her left. There was color everywhere, contrasting with the gray of pavement, neon lights, advertisements, the various styles of clothing that the pedestrians swarming around her wore. The light was unusually intense for a location this far north, the sunlight reflected back and forth between the glass windows of the skyscrapers, extending into the sky and closing in around her like impenetrable walls.

It was all too much for her senses to handle. She fought back the panic of claustrophobia, her stomach churning.

Pushing past the crowds of the shopping district to enter one of the many malls built into the skyscrapers, she glances at the map at the entrance to confirm her destination. One look, and a snapshot of the image is burned in her mind, and she follows it robotically. Take a right, first elevator, get off at the third floor, and enter the café.

'Ma Petite Dame' is the name of the quaint French-themed café, the façade of the restaurant was toned-down baroque architecture, with curling scrollwork at the edges of the doors and windows glimpsing the interior of the café, the walls painted with a mural of the French countryside, pastel flowers swaying in an invisible wind.

She walks past the entrance of the café twice, carefully glancing through the windows to study the diners within, and also observing those who loitered outside the restaurant. Two suspicious figures were located outside, one just beyond the restaurant's walls casually leaning on a strip of brick which separated Ma Petit Dame from the store next to it and pretending to text on his phone. The other was posing as a pedestrian shopper, however they had walked down this particular stretch of mall four times already, and were on their fifth round, chatting on their phone and lugging around shopping bags that were probably filled with just tissue paper. She could tell just from the way they walked that they were also packing heat.

Sloppy. She thought. Still, he had her cornered, didn't he? She could not sneak into the restaurant, as he had specifically left orders for her to request a seat with his alias. One-seventeen walked slowly back towards the café, this time discarding the coat she had been covering up with onto one of the benches, pulling off her beanie and taking her hair out of its ponytail. Looking like a completely different person, she made her third trip towards Ma Petit Dame, head up and walking with a slight sway to her hips, plastering a carefree smile onto her lips.

"Can I help you, madam?" The hostess asked her as she approached the doors to the café, the woman's eyes flitting over her neat clothing and designer purse and already buttering her up.

"Yes, I am here to meet with a date." One-seventeen replied, giving a little giggle for effect, eyes shining with girlish flirtation. "A table with Mister LeBlanc, please."

The woman glanced over her list of guests, eyes locking on the requested name and nodding. Grabbing a spare menu, the woman smiled amiably towards One-seventeen. "Follow me, please."

They enter the café, passing small tables where young girls are chattering excitedly, couples are making goo-goo eyes, and the occasional family luncheon. The tables are littered with overly-priced small plates, miniature versions of various salads, quiche, and French pastries. It's all rather pretentious, really.

"Here you are. Have fun on your date!" The hostess tells her with false cheer, handing One-seventeen the menu before briskly walking back to her post.

It's a small two-person table seated in the corner of the restaurant, next to the windows which looked out over the New York streets below, the people skittering to and fro like ants, the cars colorful beetles, and the city their jungle. Her 'date' is sitting with his back to the adjacent wall, his face hidden behind a newspaper. Again, how pretentious. Yet how very like him.

"Monsieur." She switches to French as she takes a seat. "Je l'avoue, je suis assez surpris."

"Speak English, ma chère." The man sighed from behind the newspaper before folding them down and meeting her face to face. "We don't need to arouse the interest of others while we are here."

She hummed in agreement as she leaned back to greet the waiter as he approached. The young man poured them each a glass of water, and they quickly ordered two coffees and a plate of hors-d'oeuvres. She took that moment to study the infamous Francois Devereux, spymaster extraordinaire. He had aristocratic features, with a high forehead, thin face, and softly curved cheekbones. His lips were pursed in a thin line, nose slightly hooked, and close-cropped black hair slicked with gel and combed to the side. He was a passingly handsome man, if a little plain at first, wearing a designer suit, a coat draped over the back of his chair, Italian leather shoes tapping the floor. What made him unique, however, was the cunning glint in his eyes, and a knack for pushing all the right buttons. He was a puppet master, hidden in the shadows and pulling all the strings.

"I'm surprised you came all the way to America. I know you hate leaving your beloved France." She mused, encircling the rim of her water goblet with her finger.

"Ma chère," Francois Devereux drawled in a bland tone as he accepted a cup of coffee from the waiter and began to measure the appropriate amount of crème. "It was the least I could do."

"You came out of your little hidey-hole just for little 'ole me? I suppose I should be flattered." She touched the goblet of water to her lips, allowing the water to hit the tip of her upper lip and pretending to swallow. She glanced up through her eyelashes to catch the direction of Francois' gaze.

"I'd do anything for you, ma chère." He responded dryly, finally taking sip of his coffee with all the delicacy of an experienced wine taster, savoring the flavor for a second before swallowing and nodding approvingly. She almost rolled her eyes at his fussiness.

"Now then," One-seventeen murmured, lowering her voice and leaning her elbow on the table and cupping her cheek. "Why are we here, Devereux?"

"I think you know the answer to that." The Frenchman replied in a posh tone.

Now she really did roll her eyes. "How many times must I reject your offer, monsieur?"

"You owe me, ma chère." He told her pointedly.

Now she scoffed. "Not enough to warrant my loyalty. I may help you out with a bit of information, maybe even a mission, but not a permanent placement in your network."

"You were the best agent I ever had," Francois stated with a serious look, glancing at her from the corner of his eye while sipping from his coffee cup. "And –"

"And my betrayal inspires no ill-will whatsoever?" One-seventeen asked with a raised brow.

"It can be overlooked." He sniffed in response.

She smirked. "Oh I doubt that. I know you too well, Devereux. You're a cunning bastard."

"Then perhaps you never should have betrayed me in the first place." He bit back with growing irritation, his tone short.

Ah, and so the mask slips. She chuckled inwardly. "Oh please. As if you ever could have held off the Soviets if I had defected. Don't be a fool."

"While true at the time," The Frenchman nods, "It is no longer the case now. Your deceit can be overlooked in light of the Soviet problem, but –"

"I already sold my soul to one devil." One-seventeen drawled in a bored tone. "I'm afraid there is nothing left for a second. My final answer is 'no'."

"Do you realize the consequences of your choice?" Francois asked her with a darkening expression, and her eyes caught his fingers tapping the spoon.

A signal. She hummed and nodded. "I do."

Out of the corner her eye, she noticed various customers within the café begin to shift and tense, their hands reaching for purses and pockets. She locked eyes with the Frenchman and smirked. "Which is why I brought back up."

Francois froze. "W-What?"

And then his phone rang.

He glanced down at his coat that hung behind him on the chair. Glancing up at the falsely cheerful smile on the girl's face, he reached back and pulled his cellphone from the inner coat pocket.

"Go on, answer it." She encouraged him with a friendly wave of her hand. "I'm sure it's quite important."

A suspicious look on his face, Francois taped the answer key and held the phone to his ear.

"Monsieur Devereux," Another overly friendly male voice speaks up. "I wouldn't do anything rash, if I were you. Several of our agents have infiltrated the restaurant, and we have two snipers currently trained on your position."

The Frenchman's eyes dart over to glare at One-seventeen.

"Y-You…"

She hummed and leaned back into her chair victoriously. Then Francois pauses, a dark smirk sliding across his lips.

"You think I wouldn't factor this into my plans?" He taunted her, holding the cell away from his ear but the phone line still active. "You a slippery woman, ma chère. I knew this might happen."

"Which is why you attempted to poison me, no? Thinking that you could blackmail me into joining you in exchange for the antidote." She cut him off, holding up her water goblet, her eyes also flickering to her coffee and the appetizers.

He froze.

"My dear Francois, I am well aware of your talent with poisons." She shook her head at him but kept an amused smile on her face. "You didn't think I actually ingested anything while in your presence?"

"But…" His shocked face was far too entertaining. Then anger took over, and he leaned forward, the hand not holding the phone gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles went white. "You sold me out to SHIELD?! B-But they – you –"

"Well, we aren't exactly buddies, no." She shrugged. "However you are worth a lot of money. And they were very eager to speak to you. How could I say no?"

Francois stood up in anger, and suddenly the entire restaurant was on their feet, SHIELD agents and foreign spies alike filling up the café, like an old-fashioned western saloon standoff. The Frenchman looked around him in surprise, noting that his men were nearly outnumbered by the American agents. Meanwhile, One-seventeen remained unfazed, her finger still circling the rim of her glass of water, glancing up at Francois with a bored expression.

"You haven't changed at all." She sighed, sounding almost disappointed. "Your tactics are good, but outdated, my old friend."

"Excuse me, Monsieur Devereux."

Francois growled as the voice on his phone called out once again. "What?!" He barked into the receiver.

"I suggest you tell your men to stand down. If you don't call them off within the next sixty seconds, we will have our snipers kill you. No doubt your men will surrender once there is no longer an employer to pay them."

Francois made a 'tch' sound in annoyance and frustration. He glanced back over to the Black Widow sitting across from him, her body still relaxed and unconcerned as ever. Her elbow sat on top of the arm of her seat, knuckles pressed against her cheekbone, leaning to the side and slouching ever-so-slightly as she gazed out the window. If he didn't know her better, he might even describe her expression as wistful, although it was always hard to judge with that poker face of hers. It always pissed him off how unfazed she remained no matter the situation.

"Fine…" The Frenchman growled into the phone, looking back over to his men and holding up his hand. "Stand down everyone." He closed his eyes and a self-deprecating smile slipped onto his face. "You outmaneuvered me again, ma chère. How embarrassing."

One-seventeen hummed, but he could not tell if she was agreeing with him or simply amused. She finally pushed back her chair and stood up in such a way that she seemed to flow like liquid into an upright stance, somehow slouching and standing in one lazily graceful movement. It had been one of the traits that had originally taken his interest when they had met so long ago: her ability to appear lazy and uncaring, all the while making one's instincts scream in terror.

"Monsieur Devereux," Francois grit his teeth as the annoying voice on the phone spoke up once more, "Put the woman on the phone, if you please."

Stiffly, the Frenchman handed the phone over to One-seventeen. She accepted without even a blink of surprise, holding the phone up to her ear with the delicacy that one might hold a fine porcelain tea cup.

"Hm?" She asked wordlessly. Her gaze once again slid to the windows, her eyes immediately glancing up at the rooftop of the building on her ten o'clock, no doubt guessing the location of their voyeur with unerring accuracy. "Mister Coulson, I assume?"

The voice on the phone chuckled, both surprised and amused. "You really are a Widow, aren't you?"

"What kind of question is that?" It didn't really sound like a question given how flat her tone fell.

"I guess Romanov was right. You are very good." The agent Coulson said to her. "You are looking right at me, aren't you? Even from this far away."

"I am simply observant." One-seventeen replied without any inflection, her earlier attitude falling away to reveal the blank expression that was her true personality – an emotionless soldier devoid of self. Her earlier acting had been to push Francois into losing his control, and with that done, she could discard her metaphorical mask.

If I had been observing this situation, I would have chosen the exact same spot. She thought to herself. It was how any Widow would have done it, and that other Widow no doubt advised their positions. "Now then, can we get this over with?"

"Ah yes. Leave our men to apprehend the hired men. You bring Francois to us. Do that, and the deal is sealed."

"Understood." She nodded, hanging up the phone.

There was a moment of pause, as if time held its breath as she met the Frenchman's gaze. Then his hand snapped to his pocket – where she knew he held his suicide pills. Too bad, she had no intention of allowing that to happen. The world narrowed down to just her and him, and before Francois was even able to touch his pocket she had jumped over the table, ramming into him and knocking him to the floor. She landed on top of him, straddling his body, her hand already grasping his forehead and slamming his head back against the floor.

He was knocked out instantly.

Francois' men put up little fight against the SHIELD agents, most of them realizing it was a losing battle and that if they cooperated with the Americans they might be able to escape jail time. One-seventeen hefted the man over her shoulder with little visible effort, walking past the curious faces of the American agents and the bitter faces of the thugs without a glance.

Exiting the restaurant, the mall was empty, SHIELD agents having evacuated the citizens and took temporary control of the building. She stepped into the elevator and selected the top floor, dropping the unconscious spymaster to the floor so that she could lean against the wall and cross her arms with a sigh.

Idiot got heavier in the past few years. She thought, glancing at the slight pudge visible above his belt.

The elevator dinged as she reached the final floor, the doors sliding open to reveal one very displeased archer. Which reminded her, she never did learn his name… The one that caught me, huh? Did they think I would be intimidated by him?

"Oh?" One-seventeen mused at the sight of him. "It's you, huh?"

He glared at her for a moment, before his eyes caught sight of Francois' body slumped on the floor, propped up in the corner of the elevator. His lips twitched in what might have been a smile.

"Heh," The agent couldn't help but chuckle. "Please tell me he's not dead."

"No." She replied stoically as she leaned down to grab his suit and haul him onto her shoulder. No doubt it was a comical sight, a petite woman carrying a full-grown man on her shoulder without concern.

The archer looked surprised at her move. "Uh, do you want me to carry him? He looks a little heavy –"

"Let's go." She said, ignoring his strange behavior, brushing past him.

"W-Wha… Hey! I was just trying to be nice!" He protested, catching up to her, muttering 'brat' under his breath.

"Don't bother." She told him curtly, approaching a door that read 'Roof Access – Restricted: Personnel Only'. She twisted the knob, not surprised that it was unlocked, and entered to begin making her way to the roof. She heard him grunt as the door almost swung shut on him.

"Could have at least held the door open…" She heard him mutter.

"Not when I'm carrying the body." She replied to him dryly. He was silent for a moment, perhaps surprised that she heard him. Then he began to mutter under his breath, usually something that had to do with 'brat'.

"You know I can hear you, right?" She drawled over her shoulder as she kicked open the door to the roof, taking in the sight of a helicopter, a familiar redhead leaning against the door, arms and ankles crossed, glancing up at her with a displeased look, very similar to her partner before.

One-seventeen walked confidently across the rooftop, leaving the archer to stutter to himself.

"Please tell me he's not dead." The Widow said when she came close to her, echoing her partner's earlier question.

"No." One-seventeen passed her without slowing down, throwing the unconscious Francois into the helicopter, seemingly unconcerned at the way he flopped onto the floor like a ragdoll.

"Not a very gentle person, are you?" The archer asked her as he approached from behind.

One-seventeen turned around to look at him with a blank face. "Why does it matter? He's a prisoner."

"Americans treat their prisoners very differently from Russians…" Romanov sighed and shook her head at the girl.

One-seventeen merely shrugged at that.

The three of them then climbed into the helicopter, Natasha was piloting, the archer in the co-pilot's seat, and One-seventeen sitting in the back, shaking her head in exasperation as she buckled the unconscious Francois into the seat next to her, as per the Americans' insistence.


"A mission assignment?" Clint asked in surprise as he and Natasha entered Fury's office, surprised to find Coulson already there.

"Shouldn't we be focusing on the girl?" Natasha asked in equal surprise. "Assign someone else to the mission?"

"I'm getting to that." Fury snapped at them, and the two agents closed their mouths and backed down.

"It's a capture and rescue assignment." Fury explained to them as a 3D map of New York flickered to life above the computerized table before them. The map zoomed in on a specific street, highlighting the third floor of one of the skyscrapers and outlining a box shape that was probably one of the offices within it.

"Your mission is to capture international criminal mastermind Francois Devereux –"

"Devereux?!" Both Natasha and Clint exclaimed in surprise, and even Coulson looked shocked.

"He actually came out into the open?" Natasha continued, then shook her head in amazement. "That man hasn't been seen in public in almost seven years!"

Fury frowned at them, an early warning that they all need to 'shut the fuck up now' before he got annoyed at them all.

"Yes, with the help of our little friend…" He replied.

The three agents glanced at each other in confusion.

"One-seventeen contacted me yesterday." Fury finally told them, ignoring their various exclamations of surprise. "She escaped with the help of Francois Devereux, however she tells me that he will likely attempt to blackmail her into working with him, or else keep her captive until she agrees."

"He came out for her?" Clint asked, his brows flying into his hairline.

"And she would betray her savior?" Natasha also spoke up in surprise, suspicion evident on her face. "Even after he helped her?"

"She tells me that their past relationship is a complicated one, but didn't go into detail." Fury shrugged, knowing that it was pointless to attempt to guess the inner workings of a Widow's mind. "Anyway, she was adamant that she would rather be our prisoner than his. Not to mention that helping bring in Francois Devereux would no doubt gain her favor from SHIELD and its superiors."

"Increasing her chances of being treated like an agent and not a prisoner." Natasha nodded in understanding.

Clint wrinkled his nose at that. He was never good at reading that far into people's actions. He may have been a trained assassin, but Natasha had been trained in psychology and manipulation, in addition to the art of torture and killing. He preferred people to just be blunt, instead of playing smoke and mirrors.

"So I take it she is the one we will also be rescuing?" Natasha asked their director.

Fury nodded. "Correct. They will be meeting in a French café on the third floor of Marlot Mall, which is this department here." He pointed to the outlined store on the third floor of the west side of the building. "She also told us he will likely sit in this corner, with his back to the wall and facing away from the setting sun. He will also probably fill the entire restaurant with his people, so we should be prepared to do the same."

"She knows him that well?" Coulson finally spoke up, his brows raised in amusement. "They must have known each other for quite a while, then."

"She requested two snipers," Fury continued to tell them, the map zooming out and placing two yellow markers on buildings opposite the mall. "Saying that one sniper would not faze him, but that two would make him hesitate."

"So are we going to take him out?" Clint asked, his inner sniper getting excited.

"No." Fury replied, and Clint visibly pouted. "She will bring him to us. You two will be her escape route." The map zoomed upwards, showing a hologram of a helicopter waiting on the roof of the mall.

"So we're her chauffeurs?" Clint nearly whined. Natasha elbowed him with a scowl and he winced. "Just sayin'. This won't be fun at all."

Natasha rolled her eyes at him.

"I need everyone to take this seriously." Fury reprimanded them in a scolding tone. "This may be our only chance to capture Devereux. If he escapes, not only will he take One-seventeen with him, but he will disappear like he did seven years ago. This is unacceptable."

All three agents straightened and nodded at that.

"Once he is in our custody, we can question him about the ambush from last week." Fury continued. "Even if he isn't behind it, I'm sure he'll have an idea of who was. Plus, if he has contacts within SHIELD, he no doubt has contacts within the other two groups that One-seventeen warned us about."

"A win-win, hm?" Coulson nodded, a small but pleased smile on his face. "I like that."

"And what about the girl?" Natasha asked, changing the subject.

All the three agents looked to their director.

Fury sighed and crossed his arms, his gaze distant.

"She will helps us for as long as it benefits her." He finally concluded. "We can use her, but we can't afford to trust her. So we'll play along… for now."


Character analysis: Don't be surprised by One-seventeen's seemingly bi-polar behavior. As she was raised to be a weapon, her sense of individuality was stomped out so that she would follow orders without question. And since she has been a spy since childhood, she lost her sense of self because she was constantly pretending to be someone else. To her, emotions are just another tool to use against others, so she has a hard time separating what she really feels from emotions that she is imitating. Her only constant in life is the need to survive.

Anyway, hope you all enjoyed the chapter. We'll find out more about Francois in the next chapter.

Please leave a review!