AN: Revised as of 9/19/20
AN: Hello, I'm back. Please leave me your thoughts and comments, even if it is just to point out an error I made somewhere. Enjoy!
Natasha had to fight hard to keep the smile off her face. As one of the world's premier spies, if she had any weakness at all, it was her feelings of pride on a job well done. It bordered on conceit, even she could admit that. But when you stand at the summit of your field, the prime example others brought up when a comparison was needed, your pride is less hubris and more fact.
Everything had gone precisely as she had arranged. Like good little marionettes, her targets had danced along willingly into the palm of her hands. Of course, it wouldn't do to let her "captors" know that this was all going according to her plan.
For anyone else in the world, being tied to a chair in a dark abandoned warehouse in a former Soviet satellite state well known for its shady mobsters and legions of ruthless underworld crime bosses would hardly be considered going to plan. The spy found herself several floors up from the ground, perhaps somewhere in the range of 20,000 square feed judging by the echo of their steps. The burlap bag they had over her head had prevented her from seeing much else.
The building smelled of mold and rust, an odd combination of zinc and organic decay. Old abandoned furniture caked thick with dust littered the surrounding adding to the haunted house atmosphere. A cracked full-length mirror was the first thing that caught Natasha's eye when they had removed the bag over her head.
Besides the dubious surroundings, there was also the fact that three men were leering at her slightly undressed form. That made it even harder to believe that anything was under control.
These poor fools were already dead; they just hadn't ceased breathing yet.
Natasha had poured herself into a slinky black dress for her evening out, knowing exactly what the dark translucent fabric did to her form. The silky material barely passing off as decent due to how it hugged and clung to every curve on her body, leaving little to the imagination. A less classy woman would have been mistaken for a prostitute in that sort of outfit, but Natasha had worn it like a queen's royal attire.
Confidence was just as necessary as sex appeal when it came to manipulating men. It had been so long since Natasha had first been taught how to project self-confidence that she could hardly remember a time when she could not call upon it at will.
The spy had strategically decided against wearing panties and bras, suffering through a long night of ogling, and one or two coped feels from her target. It was more self-restraint than most men probably had in them. Despite the leers and occasional pats to her bare rear, Natasha had endured it all with grace and dignity.
Well, up until now, anyways. Even Natasha couldn't quite pull off elegance when tied to a chair after having spent half an hour in the back of a car's trunk bouncing down barely civilized roads.
Currently, she found herself tied to a rickety wooden chair, her hands bound behind the seat. The fools hadn't bothered locking her feet to the legs of the chair, so she still had quite a bit of mobility. It wouldn't be much of a challenge if it came down to fisticuffs.
But the redhead wasn't here for a fight; she was here for information. The Black Widow had gained her fame in the espionage field not solely through her combat skills, though doubtless, she would be one of the most skilled in her profession. No, what made Natasha deadly as an infiltrator was her ability to slip into any role. She could pass herself off as someone from all walks of life, effortlessly charming, seducing, or threatening even the most well-kept secrets out of unwitting marks.
Currently, the master was busy at work despite how it might look to an untrained eye.
It was almost too easy.
The eldest of the trio of men took a foreboding step towards her, his sinister expression promising pain. A former three-star general of the Ukrainian military turned weapons smuggler, Yaroslav Kazimierz cut an intimidating figure despite his advanced age. Standing slightly over six feet tall and built large enough to make a man in his prime think twice at crossing him, Yaroslav had made for a surprisingly pleasant date. A bit handsy, but Natasha had suffered through worse. That was before he had ordered her tied up and dumped in the back of his limousine.
Natasha had no idea where she had been taken, but she wasn't really that alarmed. It helped that she knew for a fact that the tracking implant buried in one of her false molars was transmitting her exact location to SHIELD headquarters. Doubtless, Fury had commandeered a government satellite to provide detailed imagery over her current position and had an entire team of special forces waiting to bust the doors in on a given signal. Say what you will about the Director's personality and ruthless operating methods, but he backed his field agents up with the best he could get his hands on. The long arms of SHIELD could afford to get them the best of the best.
A train sounded in the distance, its warning horn a mournful wail of things to come. The setting would not have looked too far off from a Hollywood movie set about mobsters and the criminal underworld, a scene the Russian woman was more than passingly familiar with.
The ringleader gave his henchmen a nod. The closest thug strode forward, expression filled with sadistic glee. Natasha relaxed her jaw, knowing from experience what was coming. Personally, she preferred subtler methods herself when it came to information extraction. Sadly for most homegrown criminals and poorly trained terrorists, subtlety was at the bottom of their skillset.
The sound from the open-handed slap resonated loudly in the abandoned warehouse, her ear registering an odd ring from the jarring blow. She had kept her neck loose and flexible, turning her head with the hit to minimize the damage, but even then, it stung something fierce. Most people made the mistake of tensing up when they knew they were about to be hit. Resistance to oncoming impact tended to cause more damage. It takes years of training and many bruises to break that reflexive habit. Natasha had spent those years and nursed those bruises.
The seasoned spy slowly turned back to face her victims, careful to place just enough fear in her expression to pass off being more than a regular civilian. They thought they had caught a spy; it wouldn't be compelling if she broke down into a hysterical fit at the first sign of physical violence.
"This was not how I wanted our evening to go," commented Yaroslav with resignation.
He spoke to her in Russian, the course language echoing through the warehouse with ringing nostalgia to her ears. His thick accent indicated that while he had an impressive command of the language, it was most certainly not his native tongue.
"I know how you wanted this evening to go," Natasha replied evenly, ignoring the trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. "Believe me, this is better."
A cynical smile graced the old general's face. "Who are you working for?"
The other lackey stepped up, tilting the chair she was strapped to onto its hind legs, dangling her helplessly over the edge of the third floor. The illusion of danger was only believed by the men; even if she were to be tossed over, Natasha had more than one way to save herself.
"Lermontov, yes?" The retired soldier paced restlessly before her, his expression thoughtful.
The creek of the spindly chair leg sounded ominously loud in the silence that followed the old general's question. Natasha took a quick peek over her shoulder for good measure before returning her wide-eyed gaze back to the smirking thug who blew her a kiss.
"Does he really think we have to go through him to move our cargo?" Yaroslav asked in disbelief.
The spy turned her eyes back on the ringleader. Her chair was eased back onto the floor at some wordless command.
"I thought General Solohob is in charge of the export business," she said carefully, injecting confusion into the pitch of her voice.
"Solohob!" scoffed the elderly weapons dealer. "A bagman, a front. Your outdated information betrays you."
Natasha had already known that. In fact, SHIELD had the witless Solohob on a level 3 security cell back on the Helicarrier. The man had spilled his guts on everything he knew when he had woken up from the cocktail of drugs she had slipped into his drink. Solohob didn't have much knowledge about his employer or any operations beyond his own. The only useful bit of information they managed to get out of him was Yaroslav's name.
Twelve hours after SHIELD had gotten Yaroslav's name out of their prisoner, Natasha had been seated across from the old general having a candlelit dinner halfway across the world.
The old man snorted, pacing agitatedly in front of her. "The famous Black Widow, and she turns out to be simply another pretty face."
A smirk threatened to make its way onto her face. "You really think I'm pretty?"
The old soldier gave a mirthless chuckle, turning away from her.
"Tell Lermontov we don't need him to move the tanks," Yaroslav said as he strode purposefully towards a metal stand.
The thug that had threatened to throw her off the third floor reached a dirty hand out. Uncaring force was applied to her mandible joints from the pressure of his fingertips, wrenching her mouth open. He leered down at her splayed lips, his unscrupulous thoughts an open book through the lustful gleam of his eyes.
"Tell him he is out," the old general spat vindictively.
He picked up a pair of plyers from the tray, giving the tool a few experimental squeezes. Looking over his shoulder, he smirked cruelly at the bound redhead.
"Well…you might have to write it down," he said in perfect English.
Natasha gave a desperate gasp, her panicked act absolutely flawless. Eyes darted between her captor and the plyers, her ample bosom heaving with each desperate breath she inhaled. There was even sweat building upon her skin, courtesy of the limited control over her passive biological functions.
She was on a roll, and if she were to be honest, it was actually quite enjoyable. Clint always accused her of being a bit of a drama queen, something she vehemently denied. Having been forced to repress her emotions at a young age, Natasha only allowed herself to express anything when working out in the field. Ironic that Natasha Romanoff wasn't allowed to be human, but the Black Widow was.
Her academy award-worthy acting was interrupted by the sharp ring of a cellphone.
All eyes turned to glower at the offending henchmen standing off to the side.
"Really?" asked Yaroslav in exasperated disbelief. "Boris…"
"Sorry, boss," the named henchman apologized sheepishly as he pulled out his cellphone.
The old general tapped his foot impatiently as his henchman took the call. There was a long awkward pause as the man listened to whatever was being said on the other end, his expression becoming increasingly confused.
"Well?" demanded the aged soldier.
The lackey hesitated a moment before shrugging and handing the phone towards his leader. "It's for her."
The old general stared at the proffered phone blankly before dropping the plyers back on the metal tray and snatching the phone out of his henchman's hand.
"You listen carefully…!" he roared into the receiver.
The rest of his threat came to an abrupt halt. Natasha felt her eyebrows creep up her forehead as his face rapidly lost color at whatever was being said to him. This was not a part of her plan.
Yaroslav shot her an uncertain look before stepping closer and pressing the device up against her ear.
Hand still tied behind her back and to the chair, Natasha tilted her neck at an awkward angle to hold the phone in place.
The familiar voice of agent Coulson crackled through the cheap disposable cellphone. "We need you to come in."
"Are you kidding me?" she demanded flatly, all pretense of emotional inflections gone. "I'm working here."
"This takes precedence," he replied calmly, no doubt staring at a screen showing her exact location.
"I'm in the middle of an interrogation, this moron is giving me everything!"
The said moron shared a confused look with his henchmen. "I don't give everything…"
Natasha shot the man an are you fucking kidding me look. They wisely chose to shut up.
"Look," she said in irritation. "You can't pull me out right now."
"Natasha," interrupted Coulson in his most serious tone. "Barton's been compromised."
Her heart plummeted into her stomach like a stone. Those three words had any number of meanings, none of them good. It all translated to the same thing, her best friend, the man who had given her a second chance at life, was in deep trouble.
"Let me put you on hold," Natasha bit out tersely after a long pause.
The general reached for the phone. The spy's leg shot out like a spear, her bare foot ramming into the man's left knee with enough force to snap the joint with a wet squelch. She gave him a vicious head-butt to the nose for good measure as he fell forward with a pained yell.
Bouncing onto her toes, she turned and rammed her shoulder into Boris, who had bulled forward, sending the larger man reeling back. The tip of her humerus bone connecting painfully against his sternum, the audible crunch indicating that something had been broken. She twisted her body, smashing the legs of the seat she was still tied to into the second man. One of the four wooden legs breaking off from the contact and sending him sprawling onto his back.
Seeing Boris recover and attempt to charge again, she pivoted on her bare soles, this time dropping backward with her full weight on the hind two legs of the chair. Her timing was perfect, the two ends of the seat slamming like spikes onto the man's feet.
His howl of pain was cut short as the Black Widow smashed the back of her head into his mouth, knocking him unconscious. Spotting the remaining thug struggling to his feet, she performed an armless backflip, her entire weight along with the chair slamming into his rising body.
Unable to take any more abuse, the poorly cared for furniture simply disintegrated from the impact. Flipping to her feet with catlike grace, Natasha grabbed the groaning man by the jaw and gave it a vicious twist. The oddly wet sound of neck cartilage snapping echoed in the abandoned room.
As she stood up, the click of a handgun's hammer being cocked back reached her ears. Turning slowly, Natasha kept her face expressionless as she looked at the old general. He had managed to struggle to a crouching position despite his broken knee and the river of blood pouring down over his mouth, a testament to the old soldier's toughness.
The Walther P99 pointed at her did not waiver despite the pain he must have been in, the seething hatred on his face unmistakable. She had seen it on the faces of countless people, usually right after having woken up in an interrogation cell she had thrown them into.
"You're dead bitch," spat Yaroslav, his open mouth missing a tooth. "Rot in hell!"
Natasha cocked her head to the side as she stared down the barrel of the 9 mm. There was any number of methods she could have used to get out of her current predicament, but she decided to go with something a little more interesting. Something she had not yet had a chance to test out in the field.
Not until now.
The spy allowed a full thirty seconds to pass before she finally let the smirk that had been threatening to break out all night make its way to her rosy lips.
"Performance problems general?" she asked lightly, her cold eyes watching as the man's face turned red with exertion. "I hear it's not unexpected of men your age."
The old general stared at his hand in disbelief, the expression of betrayal on his face absolutely hilarious given that it was his own appendage he was gawking at.
"What is this!?"
The Black Widow took a step forward and watched in fascination as the man was forced onto his feet. His motion mirroring hers exactly despite the pain it must have caused him to stand on a broken limb.
"The answer, like so many things in life, is right in front of you," she said mockingly.
Yaroslav looked down at his feet and recoiled in shock when he saw the black mass of shadows that formed a connection between them. The black tendrils stretched out from her feet and extended all the way across the distance separating them, the natural shape of their shadows having merged together.
"What are you?!" he whispered in horror as he was forcefully marched until he was close enough to touch the redheaded spy.
The woman stared thoughtfully into his face, raising her hands up to stretch languidly. The curiously predatory motion was parodied less gracefully by the larger man who trembled in pain.
"I am many things, I suppose," she replied with a tired smile. "But it is rude to ask a woman her secrets, don't you know? But you were a decent enough date, so I will allow you the privilege of knowing one little thing about me."
Natasha turned the hand holding the gun until the barrel was resting gently against his temple. The old general struggled in futility to stop himself. His resistance slowed the deadly motion, but ultimately did nothing to prevent it.
"I am your death," she whispered solemnly.
"You're a monster!" he spat venomously. "A hell-spawned whore! A cock sucking-!"
Whatever else he was about to call her was cut off with a twitch of her finger. The crack of the weapon reverberated loudly in the expansive room. The spy watched with morbid detachment as Yaroslav's head jerked slightly from the entry of the bullet into his skull but otherwise remained in the same position despite being very much dead.
She relaxed her hand that had been miming holding the gun. The standing corpse dropped the weapon onto the floor with a clatter. Cutting off her reiatsu to her shadow, the connection between them broke and withdrew back into its normal shape. Yaroslav collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, tumbling to the floor in a bloody heap.
Natasha stooped down and picked up the gun, ejecting the magazine to check how many rounds remained. The redhead paused to pick up the heels they had inexplicably kept for her, using the fingers of her free hand to hook onto the ankle straps of her six-inch stilettos. The bean counters back at HQ always gave her hell when the equipment was lost in the field, and those expensive Gucci stilettos were very much a part of her SHIELD issued field gear.
Almost as an afterthought, she put two rounds into the unconscious Boris for good measure, leaving her the only living witness to what happened here. Wiping her prints off the weapon with part of her dress, she arelessly tossed the gun aside. Snatching up the cellphone dropped in her brief tussle with the three hapless weapons smugglers, she checked to make sure the call hadn't ended.
"Phil, what the hell happened?" she demanded as she padded barefoot towards the exit.
AN: So, for those of you who watched the movie, you might recognize this as Natasha's introduction scene. I actually rewatched that clip on youtube to get the dialogue and most the sequences as close to the original as possible, but as you can tell, I gave it a darker ending. Avengers was a fun family summer movie, but I feel like Natasha's storyline is much darker than her other teammates, and I will continue to write in this direction. And yes, I did steal the shadow bind from Shikamaru. Hope you enjoyed this short update; please leave me your thoughts. Until next time!