Empty cup flew through the room and crashed on the wall, adding another stain to the ancient wallpaper.

It didn't do much to scratch the itch to scream, to tear something down, to destroy. She clapped down on the couch, gripping her thighs to stop herself from throwing another item at the wall. The only thing within her reach was her phone and she still needed it.

Fuck!

She looked at the screen and reread the message, the last of the contacts she got in touch with informing her that they dug up nothing solid about the mysterious cryptonym.

There was nothing left. Loki was gone. The safety net of SHIELD protection no longer existed. Clint was her enemy. Hanima got snatched and might not even be alive anymore. And now the only scrap of information she was able to get in all those weeks turned out to be a dud, too.

Her laptop pinged a new alert, then her phone did too, a second later. Then again. And again.

She looked at the notifications popping up, as one after another official database updated with her wanted notice and arrest warrant, naming her an enemy of the state, armed and dangerous. She stared at the screen numbly.

It wasn't like she didn't expect that to happen, sooner or later. It was inevitable. Yet seeing it finally come through was a blow. It was real. There was no going back.

You knew that already, Natasha, she told herself. You knew there's no going back to your old life. You knew that the moment…

She wasn't sure when it was, exactly. Was it the moment she kissed him? Or was it even earlier, when she heard Loki laugh for the first time?

She pulled up her legs and closed her eyes. The trace of their connection floated to the foreground of her consciousness almost on an instinct now, its faint gleam warming up her insides, scattering her doubt, calming her nerves, blowing the frustration away. It was still there and so was hope.

Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months and, despite all odds, she fell into a routine.

She didn't stay in one place for long, swapping cars, spending nights in motels and seedy Airbnbs. As tempting as leaving the country might sound in her situation, she stayed. SHIELD was in the heart of this and – despite their activity spanning all across the globe under international treaties and World Security Council overview – they were based in US, which meant finding a way back inside would be easier here.

It would be easier, but it didn't mean it was easy.

Her initial contacts led to more contacts. Ex-agents turned mercenaries, deflectors, double spies who didn't really care who they sold the information to as long as the money changed hands. Intelligence was an asset, and it had its worth, and money was money, and it smelled the same at the end of the day, no matter when that came from. And the kind she looked for was the priciest of them all.

She had some resources, but that pool was not infinite, and she could see the bottom from where she stood. So, she started running jobs. Smaller, low-profile side activities at first, but soon bigger offers came. Her name still meant something in the right circles and her reputation preceded her now just as much as it used to before, even if the context now changed.

She wasn't fooling herself she was making allies. Her new paymasters were ought to be as willing to collaborate with her enemies if the offer was right. So she never disclosed her main objective, gathering small bits and pieces of intel like a paranoid magpie.

They were frustratingly scarce.

Hydra had people everywhere, including the criminal half-world, it seemed.

She had a thievery job gone sideways because someone remotely activated the security system, bringing law enforcement and forcing her to flee the scene within an inch of capture, even though she checked and rechecked the site beforehand and her plan was solid. A bodyguard gig ended in a disaster when her client was shot with a high caliber, military-grade sniper rifle projectile, through two layers of reinforced glass. It would be her if she didn't dive out of the way at the last possible moment. She had potential contacts set up meetings and not show up, never to be heard from again.

She could never be sure that it wasn't a coincidence. There was never any evidence, but she felt their eyes raising the fine hair on her neck all the same. She was asking too many questions and made herself a nuisance.

There was a consolation in that – if she got this kind of attention, it meant she ruffled the right feathers. She was moving forward, even if it was a slow march.

The end line was set, and she was getting there. She just hoped it won't be too late.

A smack across his cheek knocked Loki out of the stupor.

The machine was turned off, for a good while now. Perhaps days, even. The cooling was off too, but no new forms of torment were brought in to replace it yet and Loki was left alone, adrift in the dark, able to fall asleep without immediately being jerked back awake by Odin's magic, and to think, and nothing hurt as long as he didn't try to move. It was bliss.

"I asked you a question," a voice hissed, and its owner slapped him again.

It was nothing compared to what the spell or even the electric current could do, so Loki disregarded it. He didn't register the question anyway. He promised himself to pay more attention from now on.

"Are you ready to talk? Or do you want me to turn the cooling on again?"

Oh. That would be… unwelcome. But there was nothing Loki could do about it, was there?

A hand grabbed his throat, fingers digging into his ailing flesh and only then Loki realized the manacle around his neck was off. He didn't remember it being removed. He jerked his arm to check if those were gone too and was rewarded with a sharp ache shooting up his nerves. They were not.

"Well?"

Loki shook his head, slowly and cautiously, but the movement still hurt, the tendons in his neck protesting every bit of the way, the mortal's fingers rubbing against his sore skin. He wasn't even sure which question he was answering. Again, it didn't matter.

It was just another trap. They ordered him to talk, but they knew he couldn't. They just wanted another excuse to punish him and make him think it was his fault.

He didn't need that. He knew that already.

"Let's see about that," the mortal snarled. "Boys?"

The cuffs on his wrists and ankles clicked open then and there were more hands on him, grabbing him and pulling him up. The layer of cloth on his back, where his body was touching the freezing metal of the table for what must be months now, peeled off the frostbitten flesh, opening new wounds. Loki stole a hiss through the slits of the gag but managed to stop himself from crying out. It was so much easier to control his reaction with his mind back inside his skull.

He couldn't keep his head up and didn't even think about trying to stand up on his own, lest struggle, just allowing them to drag him wherever it was they were taking him to. He savored the moment. He was outside of his cell, outside of what he was convinced was going to be his final resting place, sooner or later. The air in the corridor seemed fresh in comparison and the harsh chemical smell was not as pronounced. It felt good in his lungs and taking it in full, unrestricted gasps for a moment cleared his mind and made him dread what was to follow a bit less.

The room they took him to wasn't far away.

"Set him down in the chair," sounded another voice, one that Loki didn't recognize. It didn't say much, of course, but the tone was different to the one they usually used around him, so it made Loki suspect it was someone new, someone who not yet knew how things were done in this place.

They sat him down. They didn't even push him or jabbed their fists into his ribs before removing their hands, as was their custom.

"We will take it from here," the same voice added. "You can wait outside."

The guards murmured in affirmation and followed the order, their feet shuffling out of the room.

Someone important then.

"Sergeant?" the voice prompted and there were new hands on him, binding him where he sat. Whoever this new gaoler was, they were uncharacteristically measured in their actions; the straps were tightened just enough to hold him in place and not much beyond that, even allowing Loki some leeway to shift and find a position that wasn't torture on its own.

His right wrist was left unattached to the armrest for a moment, then there was a ratchet of handcuffs as the bracelet clasped shut around it. Loki wiggled his hand and tried out the new range of movement and got his arm up halfway through to his face before he ran out of the attached chain's give. The guard stepped away without punishing him for exploiting the opportunity.

It seemed like they truly intended to allow him to answer their questions this time.

"I'm sorry that this is the way we have to do it," the man said and there was something that sounded like a true concern in his tone. "I hope you understand why this is necessary?"

Loki didn't answer. Both because he knew that his response did not matter and that it wasn't.

"Allow me to…" the voice sounded closer this time and the man reached behind Loki's head, untied the knot and pulled the cloth away from his eyes. The room was dimly lit, letting him slowly adjust to the light.

"Better?" the man asked and Loki just stared at him. He was older than the timbre of his voice would suggest, spreading an aura of flawless presentation, with the thick thatch of fair hair combed perfectly even and with a well-fitted, light gray suit that went well both with the color of his tie and his eyes. Definitely someone important. Someone in power.

The man noticed Loki's stare and smiled amiably. "I've been told you're not to be underestimated and now I can see why."

Loki crooked his head.

"You must be wondering who I am," he said. He wasn't asking so Loki felt even less inclined to deigning it with an answer. "But it's not important. What you must know is that I'm the person who can make your life a lot easier."

The man turned away and grabbed a small rolling side table from the corner of the room, pushing it into Loki's hand reach. There were a notepad and a pencil on it.

"We can start small," the man continued, picking up the pencil and holding it up. He ran his perfectly manicured fingernails along its length. "No more cold, no more drugs, fresh air."

Loki's fingers furled around the armrests.

"A cell with a window?" the human droned. "Entertainment? Books? You look like the type." He smiled knowingly. "And, if our cooperation goes well… Who knows? If you prove you can be trusted with it, perhaps even freedom, in time."

Loki narrowed his eyes.

"All you have to do is answer a few questions." With that, he pushed the pencil into Loki's fingers then tapped the notebook. "We can start nice and easy. Why did you attack Earth?"

Loki looked down at his hand, his pasty skin covered in cuts and bruises, the frayed edge of the rags he was forced to wear, the weeping wound around his wrist where the manacle froze his flesh, over and over, his bloody, broken fingernails and bony digits holding the pencil.

"You can use your language," the mortal encouraged. "We have tools to translate it now, thanks to the old texts your people left behind and the samples you and your brother so kindly provided."

Loki had nothing to lose. There was nothing stopping him from telling the man the truth. Revealing his shame and defeat at the hand of The Mad Titan couldn't make his standing lower than it already was, for there wasn't any further he could fall. And if that could make the pain stop…

He pulled the notebook closer.

Mortal's smile turned a degree warmer and he gave Loki an encouraging nod.

Loki pressed the pencil to the spotless page and squeezed his fingers tighter around it, to keep his hand from shaking.

FUCK YOU, he wrote.

The mortal studied the page, smacked his lips and shook his head with discontent. "I thought you're smarter than this," he said and sighed. He pushed his hands into his pockets and stepped away. "Well, I tried to play it nicely... Guards!"

The door opened and four soldiers flocked inside, lead by Dreadlocks. He was the worst of them all and Loki learned to recognize him even by his footsteps.

"Take the prisoner back to his cell," he ordered, "and make sure he reflects on his mistake."

"You told me once you don't know your real birthdate. Well, I never got the opportunity to tell you that I don't know mine either. The official day of birth in my papers is most likely fake, just like the year or my last name. I never bothered to look for the real one, if it could ever be found. You know why? Because it changes absolutely nothing. We are taught to give significance to those dates, like they mean something. It's just a day, like any other. Unless you count being a day closer to death a great occasion to celebrate.

"The same with other days the culture claims are significant. Take New Year's Eve for example. We celebrate another time our planet made another full circle around the sun. But it's not like the circle started on the first of January, it's just another authoritarian date we agreed means something while in truth it signifies absolutely nothing.

"Okay, I might be a bit bitter today. Cause, look at me. Here I am, sitting alone in some basement, talking to my phone again. I'm trying to focus on what's important, on finding my way. I just…"

Her voice grew unsteady and she took a deep breath before she continued. "So, yeah, happy New Year, I suppose."

She stopped the recording. The screen of her phone turned dark, then flashed back on and displayed an animation of fireworks as the clock jumped from 23:59 to 0:00. There were faint popping sounds in the background too, neighborhood kids blowing their allowance on sparky things that went boom.

She brought up her palm and closed her eyes and when she opened them again there was a small spark of light, hovering an inch above her palm, glimmering pale green.

They didn't wait as long before they tried interrogating Loki again. The boss wasn't there this time, just some agents, but they still had the same empty promises for him and started with the exact same question. Loki didn't bother with writing, just flipped them off.

He was really fond of the gesture, seemingly so small yet conveying so much meaning. Someone should steal it and make it popular in Asgard. They didn't have problems with taking whatever they wanted from other cultures, after all.

They punished him for his obstinance by suspending him by his wrists above a metal plate. Each time his toes touched the surface the circuit closed, sending electricity through his body, leaving it for him to choose between the strain in his shoulders and arms that soon became hard to endure and the pain of electrocution and by the end, a few days later, he still couldn't pick the favorite.

At least the wounds on his back got a chance to scab over and start healing. It made the next prolonged session with the freezer a bit more bearable.

Loki caught up to the pattern quickly. A couple of days of elaborate tortures, a short period of respite to allow his mind to return to its rightful place, then questions. He wondered why they went that particular route. Dangling the promise of stopping the pain as it was happening would make it a lot more difficult for him to say no. But perhaps that wasn't the priority. They wanted his suffering to go on undisturbed and whatever information they could squeeze out in the process would be the additional value.

He wasn't going to give them that satisfaction.

No matter how inventive their approach to breaking him got, the cold was still the worst. They were using his own dominion against him in a way that he would never conceived possible. Even the Other, with all his creative methods, never figured that out.

Besides, it was pointless. He was already broken, before they even laid their eyes on him.

"You have to find another way," the mortal healer said (they are called 'medicine doctors', Loki reminded himself), prodding his gloved finger into a sore on Loki's back. "At least for now. Let him recover a bit."

Loki could feel the fever burning his insides, overwhelming the cold that numbed his skin. It's been going on for a while now.

They were talking as if he couldn't hear them, but that was nothing new. The fact that they called somebody to look at his injuries was. Perhaps it got so bad that they noticed and were afraid he might die before they were done with him. They arranged for someone to come over and fix their favorite plaything.

"We should consider moving the subject to the infirmary wing, at least until the infection clears. We might try some antibiotics, see if that would work on him…"

"That's out of the question," Dreadlocks' voice said. "Can't you give him something to fix it right now?"

"I'm not a miracle worker, Rubis! We still don't know what works and what doesn't work on his physiology. If Strucker allowed us access earlier, as we requested, we wouldn't be grasping at straws now! If you leave it like this he will die!"

Yes, please.

Dreadlocks – whose name was Rubis, apparently – snarled something in a language Loki couldn't name but heard enough times already. Most of the guards spoke it between themselves, switching to English when their bosses were around. Loki tried learning it, but it was hard without knowing the context or even seeing their faces, so he got only a couple of words so far. The doctor responded alike. They argued, back and forth, until it turned into a shouting match. Loki found himself cheering for the doctor, not even sure why. He was trying to mend him just so his colleagues could continue to break him apart.

In the end, the doctor was allowed to cut away Loki's clothes, clean the oozing sores and inject something into the port in his chest. Then they dragged his limp body to a different cell and bound his elbows, knees and calves – his wrists and ankles needed to heal as well – then left him on the floor.

The blindfold was still over his eyes but he didn't bother with trying to slip it off. He just curled up on the ground, right where they left him, pressed his burning up forehead to the cold concrete, and let his own fluttery heartbeat lull him to sleep.

The doctor visited a while later, perhaps the next day, or the one after. Loki was lying flat on his stomach with his cheek pressed onto the floor, as it was the most comfortable position he could find. He did manage to get the blindfold off in the end, so he was able to see the source of the ruckus just as the door opened. The doctor was bringing the damned machine in. Loki rolled to his side and made an attempt at groveling away and into a corner, as far as possible from the apparatus. It was pointless of course, if it was decided, then it was decided and there was nothing he could do about it, but buying himself even a few heartbeats of clear mind was worth it.

"Hey, it's okay," the doctor said, noticing his panic, or maybe just guessing the reason of his behavior correctly, "no happy drugs for now. Just fluids and some nutritional formula. You need the energy to heal. Okay?"

Loki stared. His opinion wouldn't matter in the slightest and he wasn't going to make it easier for the man by complying.

The doctor stayed in place, seemingly still awaiting his approval.

Loki yielded and nodded.

The mortal started with cutting the plastic ties that bound his legs and arms, then examined his wounds.

"You seem to be healing all right," he said, "just a couple more days and…" He sighed, then reached for his bag. "I brought you some fresh clothes to wear, it should be fine if you don't move around too much."

Loki glowered at him.

"Right…" he muttered.

He allowed Loki to put on the clothes on his own. It took a good while. Only then he connected the machine to the tube in Loki's chest and powered it on. He turned to leave, stopped before he reached the door, and looked back at Loki where he was still sitting on the floor, with what must be an extremely confused expression on his face.

"I'm not going to tie you up. Just don't do anything stupid, all right?"

Loki nodded.

The doctor took his leave. He even left the light on.

Loki waited a few heartbeats, snapped a piece of the plastic cover that protected the roller the machine sat on and stabbed it into his wrist, as deep as it would go. Then again. And again.

The guards stormed into the cell not long after, even before Loki lost consciousness, the doctor close at their heels.

He wrapped Loki's wrists in bandages and the guards wrung his arms behind his back then snapped shackles on them, each connected with a short chain to a bolt in the floor. They replaced the blindfold and left without a single word.

Loki lay there in the dark, his arms going numb already, thinking of only one thing. If he weren't such a coward, he would have gone for the throat.

After that incident, they used the cold treatment a lot more sparingly. Of course, they tried different other methods, but nothing was as convenient as having Loki's own innate gift torment him. Loki knew they would find a way, in time. And it was a resource they had in abundance.

He wasn't wrong.

The day it happened he sensed something was about to transpire. He was more alert than usual, which meant the last portion of the formula had a lower dosage of the drug and that in turn meant they needed him aware for something. It was too early for another round of interrogations, so it had to be something else.

The door shrieked and multiple footsteps poured into the cell. There was the rustle of the guards' uniforms and shuffle of their heavy boots, but not exclusively, so it was a special occasion indeed.

"Take off his blindfold," the boss ordered. It was the first time he was here since that inept questioning attempt, but Loki still recognized his voice.

Taught by his previous experiences, he closed his eyes even before the guards moved to follow the order. By now he knew the cloth was only there to further his torment, nothing else. They weren't afraid of him recognizing them, they knew he was as defenseless as a newborn, with or without his eyesight. He wasn't going to play along.

No one spoke. They were waiting for him to open his eyes, so whatever they were here to do, they wanted him to see. He entertained the idea of keeping his eyes screwed shut and waiting to find out what happens, until he heard a click of an electric baton being powered on and relented.

One of the guards grabbed his hair and pulled his head up.

There were at least a dozen people inside the cell. Some soldiers, standing on both sides of the table, the big boss by the foot of it, with two agents backing him up. Then, in the corner, a kid. Loki wasn't an expert in judging mortals' ages, but he would be around twenty if he was Æsir and up to around that point Æsir and human development matched pretty closely, so perhaps around fourteen or fifteen in Earth's years? Loki studied him with curiosity and the kid lowered his gaze, abashed.

The kid wore similar nondescript garb to what Loki was forced to wear and there was a black collar around his throat. He was a prisoner here, just like Loki. Loki never met anyone but his jailers here and never really spared it a thought, but it made sense. They wouldn't keep the entire facility running just for him, would they?

"We have something special for you today," the boss said and waved his hand. One of the agents stepped forth and brought up the suitcase he was carrying, opened it, and presented the contents to the boss. From where he was lying Loki couldn't see inside but he still squinted his eyes. "It should fit right in with the gift you received from your own people," the mortal said and pulled up the item. Loki's brow furrowed. It was just a pair of shackles, made of some bright, shiny metal. It was plain and didn't look like anything that could come from under the hammers of Æsir blacksmiths.

"It might not look like much, but the material is quite extraordinary," the boss carried on with a smirk. "The strongest metal on Earth and – as I've been told – perfect for enchantments."

Loki's eyes went wide. What were they trying to do?

The boss inclined his head and one of the guards turned to the panel on the wall. The bands holding down Loki's ankles released and the boss stepped forth and reached to remove them.

Before he could convince himself of the futility of the endeavor, Loki kicked and his heel connected with the mortal's face. The man reeled backward as blood gushed from his nose. Loki didn't get to see whether he came down or not, because that was the moment one of the guards pressed the baton to his throat and fired. His spine arched and he fought back the scream, unsuccessfully; Odin's magic flared up and joined the symphony of pain sounding in his body. Then the world blinked off and there was only darkness.

When he came to, the new, unfamiliar weight was already clasped shut on his ankles and the bands were back, pulling the chain of the fetters taunt.

"Too bad you missed those going on," the boss slurred. His nose was swollen, he had a split lip and blood stained his white shirt. "It was a one-time event. You see, my RnD team is quite proud of those. The locks are designed so they can't be opened once they are shut. There are no tools that can cut through vibranium, it can only be melted. And I imagine that would be quite unpleasant to experience."

Loki's heart sunk. Then again, it didn't matter, did it? He was stuck here until he died. One more piece of metal locked on his body didn't change anything.

The mortal's face lit up at Loki's despair. "But wait, there's more," he said and his voice was drenched in satisfaction. He turned to the kid and reached for his throat, removing the collar. "No stupid moves," he warned, then pushed the kid forward, towards Loki. The kid stood there, his big, red-rimmed eyes shiny with tears, his lips quivering, his shaky hands hovering in the air above the shackles. He had handcuffs on his wrists.

"What are you waiting for?" the boss urged.

Loki met the kid's gaze and inclined his head ever so slightly. There was nothing either of them could do but play along. This was how things were here. For both of them, apparently.

The kid lowered his head and closed his eyes. Tears ran down his face and his fingertips touched the metal around Loki's ankle and Loki could immediately feel it warming up with the boy's body heat. Then thin tendrils of power sneaked around the kid's hands, down his fingers, and seeped into the metal. Loki couldn't sense the magic itself and the kid didn't use any incantations, but – whatever it was – it must have been something minor if it didn't rouse Odin's spell yet.

The kid broke the connection and stumbled away, right into the older mortal's welcoming hands. The collar was clasped back around his throat – a measure to contain his powers, Loki supposed – and two guards grabbed his arms and led him out of the cell. He didn't struggle, he didn't even peel his eyes away from the floor. Loki watched him go with growing anxiety.

The boss laughed. "You don't understand yet, do you? Well, let me explain." He picked a pen out of his pocket and jabbed it into Loki's hand.

A few things happened at once. The tip of the pen nicked his skin, drawing but a small droplet of blood. The protection spell the kid put on the shackles reacted and urged Loki's magic to fight the injury. Odin's magic activated, pushing back, locking his muscles in spasms and setting every nerve in Loki's body on fire. A scream jutted forth from his throat, only adding another layer to the agony.

The boss waited for it to pass before he spoke again and Loki had to concentrate to catch his words over his own ragged breathing. "Now you get it, right? This is just a small precaution in case you got stupid ideas again."

He turned to leave, his bodyguards rushing to open the door for him. He stopped at the threshold. "Have fun, guys," he said and left.

Loki didn't react as the guards closed in, eager to try out the new feature, his mind clouded with a grim realization. His last route of escape has been sealed shut.

It was an uncharacteristically hot afternoon for March in Detroit when Sarah called. Natasha held on to the sim card and kept her in the spare slot, while she swapped her main number. She wasn't even sure why, but it wasn't burned for all she knew and…

"Hello?"

"They found her body," Sarah said, "in the harbor."

"I… I'm so sorry."

"They said there were no signs of foul play." Sarah's voice was calm and collected. "She just drove her car into the bay and drowned."

"You know that's not…"

"I know. But it changes nothing. She is dead."

Because of me.

"How are you holding up?"

"Do not pretend that you care."

"I do."

"If you really did, you'd have kept away."

"I'm…"

"You can say that you're sorry till you're blue in the face. It's not going to change anything."

"Then why are you even calling me?"

"I just… Whatever it is that you're doing, Hanima thought it's important enough to risk everything. She sacrificed her life for your cause. You needed to know that. Do not throw it away. You owe her as much."

"I won't."

"Good. I won't call you again, so you can just as well lose the number. Now, there's…"

"No, wait!" Natasha interjected. "When's the funeral?"

"No. Do not come."

"Why? I'm not going to show up at your house, I just want to pay my respects at the service."

"It's not that, there…" Sarah hesitated, gathering her courage to speak. "There were people at our house. Soon after we last talked. They had NYPD badges, but I checked later and there are no officers with their names. They were asking about you, they had your photo. They know you were here, that you're connected to Hanima. It's too risky for you to come."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth. That I didn't see you and that I don't know who you are."

"Thank you."

"I didn't do it for you."

"Still."

"Goodbye, Natasha."

"Good…"

The call dropped. She threw the phone at the wall, missed and hit the window with the sound of shattering glass. Natasha didn't need to check if it survived the fall, it was a fifth-story flat. She still got up and put on her clothes. She needed a new phone.

The clerk in the small electronics shop talked her into getting a refurbished Starkphone. It had a good camera, he said. It wasn't as nice as the one Clint brought her, but would still do. She looked at Stark's name etched into the bezel for a long while before she shrugged and stashed the device in her pocket.

There was a memorial day on the twelfth of May, one year anniversary of the attack. She lasted five minutes of Mayor Bloomberg's speech about the power of unity and standing up to a common enemy before she felt sick and changed the channel.

At the end of May, she got a mission to smuggle a subject across the border to Canada. She didn't think much of it at first. It was an objective like any other, referred to her by a contact that never failed before and the pay was good.

Then red flags started popping up. The background check on the payer came up blank. Not clean, blank. It wasn't common, not even in that field. Sure, people didn't use their real names, she didn't do that for a while either, but they still kept consistent identities, because you can't stay in the business without a name. Yet there was nothing.

Then the customer vehemently refused any third-party participants, it had to be her and her alone. Only light gear, no contacts or pit stops on either side, just a straight drive thought, no extra precautions either – a simple job that could be done by anyone, for much less money. No, she was not the one to drive. No, they will use the client's car, she will get a replacement once they cross.

But the pay was good and she needed the cash, so she agreed.

It went smoothly until it didn't.

Her protectee – who told her to refer to him as 'Bill', a name so fake that he didn't even react when she called him by it for the first couple of times – pulled over to the side of the road. They passed the last signs of civilization a good quarter of an hour earlier and there was nothing but woods for miles in each direction. She checked her phone. No signal. He picked the spot carefully.

"Why are we stopping?" she asked, her eyes fixed on the holstered pistol at his side. His hands were still on the steering wheel, but it would take him just a fraction of a second to reach for the gun. She had to be ready, there won't be much time to react.

"Nature's calling," he said and turned to her, his arm draping on her seat.

"That bluff would work better if you got out of the car."

He leaned in closer. "You know damn well why we're here, Romanoff."

She smiled. "So, you know my name. Congratulations, to you and to millions of other people who saw me on tv last year."

He hit the door latch with his elbow, engaging the central lock. She reached for her gun. Her reaction was quick, but not quick enough. He grabbed her hair from behind, pulling her head back. She recoiled and brought her gun up. He snatched her wrist before she could fire. His massive hand went all the way around with quite a bit of overlap and squeezed. Bone cracked. She yelped. He wrestled the gun away.

He pushed the muzzle of the pistol to her stomach. "Talk," he growled.

She twisted her neck as much as she could with his fist still in her hair. She needed another haircut, it was getting too long for her own good. She bared her teeth in a snarl. "Fuck you."

He clocked her in the face. "Don't think I have any reservations about hitting a woman."

She swallowed the blood that pooled in her mouth and smiled widely. "You call that a punch?"

He pressed the gun to her stomach with force enough to leave a bruise. "Talk," he demanded.

"You usually start those things by asking a question, you know?" she breathed.

"You know damn well what I want."

She laughed.

He punched her again.

She spit in his face.

He roared an uncreative invective and grabbed her throat.

Her hand flew to his forehead the moment the gun was no longer aimed straight at her gut. He growled and tried jerking away, a surge of fear making his brain all that easier to penetrate. She pulled on that thread, multiplying it, twisting it into a ball of terror and pain and anguish. He wailed like a wounded animal. Sleep, she ordered. His eyes rolled backward, and he doubled over, crashing face-first onto the steering wheel. The horn blared, piercing the night.

She sat back and assessed the damage, sending the sparks of magic through her body. She couldn't tell whether 'Bill' had some sort of enhancement going on or if he turned as strong as he did naturally but he did some damage, either way. She had a broken bone, a split lip, bruises on her stomach and around her throat that were already starting to swell and he knocked out a tooth.

"Motherfucker," she snarled and decked him in the ear with the hilt of the pistol, knocking him off the wheel and finally silencing the horn.

She didn't have enough energy to heal all the injuries, so, after minute deliberation, she decided the broken arm was the most urgent. The tendrils of power ran through her limb, shimmering with starlight, prickling like an electric current. The bone snapped back into place and remerged, blood vessels knitted together, dissolving some of the swelling.

Her head drooped and sweat pearled on her forehead. She breathed a couple of deep breaths trying to ward off the dizziness. She couldn't faint, not right now.

She had to hold on to the hood of the car to keep herself steady. Her head was swimming with exhaustion and her legs were wobbly and she felt like collapsing and sleeping for an entire day.

Not yet though.

Bill was heavy and it took a lot of tugging to drag him out of the car. She regarded him, lying face first in the dirt. They must've been really afraid of her to send that mountain of a man after her. Guess what, that's not enough.

She dropped to her knees and pressed her fingers to his skull again. His mind was still reeling with confusion, scared and lost in the dark and it split open at the slightest touch. She raked through scattered memories and emotions dispassionately. There was a lot of violence there, a lot of blood, a lot of hate. He was a willing participant, but a low-level one. An enforcer who followed orders without asking questions and took pride in it, not a decisive body. There was nothing she could learn from there.

She sighed, pulled out the gun, aimed it at the back of his neck, and fired. Then she got into the car, turned around, and drove back, leaving the lifeless body on the roadside, with blood soaking into the gravel.

She did not look back.

She didn't pick up any new jobs for a couple of weeks after that, just to be safe.

The tooth cost ten grand to fix and another two extra for the dentist to lose her medical record and she promised to herself to steal something valuable from the next Hydra base she stumbles upon, before burning it to the foundations.