NATASHA

"You're my safety net." Clint said that. He meant it. He meant it more than I could have know.

I lean back in my seat on the plane and read his note for the thousandth time.

Hey Natasha,

So, this probably seems weird, right? Well you found this stuff, so that's good. (Bad?) Sorry it couldn't be more help. Then again, blame Fury, because this is all he gave me to go on. (Oh, if you're not sure where I am, your necklace will, um, point you in the right direction). I really hope none of this is true, but if Nick's right, then S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't safe. Please be careful Nat.

If you do have the unfortunate occasion to find this file and have to act on it, best of luck saving my butt, and thanks in advance.

Clint

And then, for the thousandth time, I turn the index card over in the paperback novel where I've concealed all of Clint's notes and read the other side.

P.S. Hey, sorry, back again. Listen, the more I think about this mission the more it seems, well . . . huge. I'm sort of freaking out. And so, you know, just in case, even though you know this, I thought I'd say, and I'm sorry if I butcher this, and I'm even more sorry if you hate me for it, yah loo-bloo tbyah.

I couldn't hate you for that, Clint, no matter how hard I might try. For butchering my native language, possibly. For probably being in the process of getting yourself killed, definitely. But for leaving me a (very poor) transliteration of the Russian phrase for 'I love you'? Как я мог обвинить вас за это? How could I fault you for that?

And then, because Clint is Clint, there's one more line:

Oh, and if something bad happens, can you take care of my dog?

I've lost track of how many times I've read over his note, and I'm still not sure if it makes me want to laugh or cry or scream. He's such an idiot, but he's so sweet. And so scared. Sure Clint wears his heart on his sleeve, but fear isn't usually in he repertoire. And knowing that he's scared, or he was, doesn't make me feel any better. He seems to have had a sense what he was getting into, and he barely knew anything at all.

I read the letter over one more time, and I am dead certain of exactly one thing: I need him back. It's not so easy for me to admit. I don't need people; I'm not like that. Am I? Was I ever, really?

Thoughts swirl through my head like I'm shouting with myself. Part of me thinks I'm brave for not needing people, part independent, part, — I don't know — forbidden from that sort of thing. Incapable? Broken? Someone who can't accept that she might actually be human?

Clint is human. I know I've said it before, but that's the only way I can think to describe him. I change my mind and my excuse every second, but every variation seems to agree that I need him. I could use a little more of that.

With a breath I flip the page of my paperback and go over the rest of the information Clint left, painstakingly cut up to match the milk label. Apparently, Clint was sent by Nick Fury personally to investigate a 'dead zone' in S.H.I.E.L.D. satellite imagery that Nick believed was being caused by someone inside S.H.I.E.L.D. itself.

Another point to Fury.

Obviously Clint couldn't use S.H.I.E.L.D. resources any more than I can, so Fury had set him up with a commercial flight, then with a local pilot who sometimes flies supplies to the island. As far as intel goes, that's it. Clint's mission was to infiltrate and assess, but infiltrate what, they had no idea. All either of them knew, apparently, was that something was wrong. Unfortunately, I know a little more.

HYDRA was working within S.H.I.E.L.D. and if they wanted an entire island hidden from the likes of Fury, then it's clearly important to them. I'd be willing to bet it's some kind of base. Talk about poking the hornets nest, Clint.

I also know that, as of yesterday, Clint has something HYDRA wants.

I just hope it's important enough to keep him alive a little longer.

By the time we touch down in Port Moresby, I'm grinding my teeth with the agony of not being able to help him. I know statistically, and instinctually, that the longer I take the less chance he's got. Work quickly, but accurately, I remind myself over and over as I make my way through the airport and out into the steamy tropical air. Go slow, avoid mistakes. With my time frame closing rapidly, I'm afraid I might not heed my own advice.

The one benefit of having so much time to fret on the plane is that I am Arianna Gabrialli. All that time sitting there staring at a book, it was like being in the dressing room before a show. Now the curtain's up, and I am my character. I walk like her, I talk like her, I appear at ease like her (or so I hope). And little tourist Arianna wants to see the city.

I sling my little suitcase into the back of a taxicab. As we roll out of the airport's long drive, I fumble for Arianna's secondhand camera. Lens nearly pressed up against the glass, I snap pictures of the city as we pass, all the while asking excited questions of the driver, who answers as best he can in broken English.

My fingers twist on the zoom dial as I spin the focus in and out. I planned my destination so the cab would take me past this street, but I'll only have a few seconds to look. Where is it? Green awning, red door, aboriginal skull symbol pasted to one of the panes.

Before I left, I had to get rid of the body of that HYDRA agent somehow. I couldn't help rolling my eyes, because, as much as I had wanted the time before my flight to come and go, this little detour was going to cut it close. Especially once . . . well, you'll see.

I heaved the body into the trunk of Clint's Challenger. He's kill me if I left it there, but it wouldn't fit on my bike. I snatched the keys Clint left by the door and wound my way further through the streets of Brooklyn.

Clint has a guy. He has many guys, actually, that help him with his Avenging. Most of them staff the ERs at local hospitals, or else work (worked?) for S.H.I.E.L.D. A few though are genuine shady characters, including this guy, who built a couple of trick arrows Clint had designed. When he talks about that boomerang arrow, you'd think it just sprung into being, but his design was, er, challenged, and it almost cost Angelo his eye.

I parked outside the little metal pod that Angelo calls home, tucked in wall to wall with his body shop garage. There was no answer at the door, and though I thought I saw a flicker of movement through the huge rolling doors of the garage, when I turned it was silent. Suspiciously so.

"Angelo!" I barked as I rapped again on the door. I was sincerely starting to wish I had looked for one of Clint's spare guns. I checked my watch and pressed my ear to the door. "Open up!"

Bolts scraped against the door, and they were not being loosened.

"Three seconds and I break down this door."

I distinctly heard a snort from behind the ribbed metal door.

"What, you don't think they teach that at S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

Suddenly there was silence behind the door, the eerie, unpleasant silence of one or more hearts choking up in their owners' throats.

Something fell to the floor, shattering with the soft tinker of glass.

Then there came the unmistakable click of the safety coming off a gun.

I pressed my ear closer still to the rusty door, struggling to block out the noise from the streets. So 'S.H.I.E.L.D.' is a threat word now. Good to know.

"Angelo, I'm not with HYDRA. My name is Natasha Romanoff; I'm an Avenger, and I helped take down S.H.I.E.L.D.. I believe you know a friend of mine. You've made some arrows for him."

I could practically hear the fear vibrating in the room. He didn't believe me.

"It might even be one of your creations that's hanging around my neck."

The little slit of a window slid open with a screech. I couldn't see anyone behind it, but I had a feeling the reverse wasn't true. I stood still with my hands in the air, making sure the silver charm was visible on my collarbone. The little door snapped shut, and after a series of clangs and creaks, the door opened a crack, and a spotted hand beckoned me in.

I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the dark, dusty light of the little shop. Every available inch of wall was hung with tools and lined with workbenches. Work lights clamped to this machine or that cast irregular shadows over the grit-covered floor. The little figure of Angelo stood near the back, surrounded by muscle in grease stained t-shirts. What was left of his hair was slicked back across his shiny scalp in neat strands, and his beady eyes studied me from behind his long, large nose. I kept my hands raised, but gestured to the necklace with a shrug of my shoulder.

"You made this for Clint, didn't you?"

His reply was a stiff nod.

"Did he tell you why?"

"Perhaps."

"Well he never told me. But once the Triskelion fell, I realized he'd left me a message on a silver chain. Beautiful work, by the way. With S.H.I.E.L.D. down, his mission will have be exposed, and he's in danger. I'm going to find him, and I could use your help."

"I am not much in a helping mood these days."

"I wouldn't be either if HYDRA was hunting me."

He stiffened. That's good.

"Aiding an Avenger hunting HYDRA, that must have put you on their radar."

Muscles tensed under the shirts of his guards.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Angelo in a very mechanical way.

"Funny, because you knew that was his mission, didn't you? At least as much as he did. You put two and two together, and you've realized you know too much."

"What are you offering me? Protection?"

"With S.H.I.E.L.D. dismantled? Not a chance."

His lip curled, and he lifted his hand to signal his grimy entourage that our meeting was over.

"All I can tell you," I cut in quickly, "is that if I can find Clint, they won't need to come looking for you. They'll have me, and that's all they'll need. I know everything you do, after all."

His beady eyes narrowed further as they swept back and forth across my face, which I kept cool and impassive. I had already spotted a crow bar in easy reach, should this not work, but I often find that words can be a particularly useful weapon.

"What would you require?" he asked.

"A little package in the trunk I need disposed off. From what I've heard from Clint, I though you might be able to make that happen."

"Of course I would!" he snapped. "But I don't do favors."

With two fingers I pulled a small stack of cash from beneath my jacket. "I wouldn't ask you too."

"Is it not a little presumptuous for the customer to set the price? Especially one so low?"

"Did I mention that not only is this money untraceable, but even S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't know it ever existed."

The greedy glint in his eye told me the deal was set before he even opened his mouth to say, "Ms. Romanoff, I believe we have a deal."

I smiled, and nodded in return.

"Franklin, José! Take the lady's car into the shop, it needs some . . . body work."

I tossed over the keys, and two of the little ring of muscle broke off. A minute later I heard the rev and sputter of the Challenger starting up out on the street.

"The rest of you, back to work! This is no way to treat a client."

They shuffled out, but Angelo did not move.

"It worked, I take it?" he asked, inclining his shiny head to the necklace.

"Beautifully."

"He's a strange one, Barton is."

"I couldn't agree more," I said, and I felt that familiar pang of loneliness that springs up now whenever I think of Clint.

A knock echoed on the door, and one of the beefiest guards appeared jangling the keys.

"Todo bueno, Patrón."

"Very good," said Angelo, and he turned to me. "Suerte, Ms. Romanoff."

"Gracias por todo, Señor," I replied , and I turned, but didn't take more than a step. I could hear the hesitation in his voice; I saw the carefully suppressed jitter when I said I knew more than he did. He did it again just then when I thanked him for 'everything.'

"Wait," he called before I had to feign another step. "I may have mentioned a man. Mr. Barton asked, did I know anyone of similar expertise, where he was traveling."

I turned on the spot to face him. "He told you where he was going?"

"Of course not. But he mentioned Papua New Guinea. I assume he was just passing through. As will you?"

He had tact, I'll give him that, but I was not about to let him flip the conversation around on me. "This man, who is he?"

"My contacts are extensive, but even I cannot reach halfway around the world."

I waited.

"I have heard, though, of a man. Okello Hetto. I gave Mr. Barton his name."

"Thank you," I said and I turned to leave in ernest. To my surprise, Angelo had one more thought to add.

"Mr. Barton has always been good to me."

I couldn't agree more.