Sweat poured off of young Natalia Romanova's forehead, though she strained away from the source of the heat, the radiator to which she was handcuffed. The metal cuff grew hot, searing into her wrist as it grew hotter and hotter. Ivan Somodorov watched as he smoked, the smell of his cigarette making her eyes water. She stared at him, her face passive, and he stared back, calculating. Natalia blinked carefully, evenly, so that the water in her eyes would not spill over and give the impression of weakness. If a single tear fell, her life would become much more unpleasant than it already was. The heat of the metal cuff became so hot that a faint hiss could be heard as it bit into her skin. Ivan's faded blue eyes flickered from her face to her wrist, which was visibly burning. He looked back at her face, searching, waiting for a sign of weakness.

Natalia internalized the pain, "You've felt worse," she thought to herself. "It can always be worse."

Seeming to be satisfied , Ivan sniffed, "That is enough for today moya zvezda." My star. He tossed her the key to her handcuff, not bothering to attempt to unlock her himself and touch the hot metal. Natalia waited, internally screaming in pain, until he got up and left. He looked back one final time before he went out the door. She was watching him, her face still unreadable. He smiled then, and nodded, leaving her to unlock herself, a puff of smoke trailing behind him.

Her hand shook as she hastily struggled with the lock, her hands shaking. Finally she came free, her blistered wrists red and angry. She scrambled away from the radiator trembling with pain and exhaustion, evident only now that Ivan was gone. Tears streamed silently down her face but she brushed them away, leaning against the wall with her arms wrapped around her knees, taking comfort in the cool smooth stone against her blazing cheek. Closing her eyes she focused on breathing, trying to calm herself. A gentle hand on her back made her jump up with fright, frantically dashing away her tears. A man she had never seen before knelt beside her.

"I'm sorry Natasha," said the man, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Natasha was braced for motion, ready to bolt or fight at the slightest move from the man. She looked up at him, he was so tall, and scowled, "That isn't my name. I'm Natalia."

The man looked pained, but he nodded, "I'm sorry. Natalia, do you know me?" He spoke gently, as though he might scare her just by the tone of his voice. She frowned, still in pain and highly suspicious, "Did Ivan send you? I'm not falling for his nice guy trick, not again. I'm better than that." She backed away, her burned wrist held gingerly at her side, her face the picture of distrust.

The man's blue eyes took in everything about her, and they burned with compassion. "Ivan didn't send me. Natash- Natalia, I need to you to know something-"

"Wait." Natasha's eyes grew wide, "I think I do know you." Her face flashed confusion. Conflicting emotions warred in her, frustrating her. She couldn't remember why, but she felt certain he was an enemy.

"Get away from me," the young girl said, her voice low. The man put his hands up before him, "I'm not here to hurt you."

Natasha snarled and held up her burned wrist, " No. You're here to train me, right? That's what HE always says. I am Natalia Romanova, and I am the pride of Mother Russia. I pass every test they throw at me, and I sure as Hell am not about to fail this one." A deep hatred bubbled up inside her then, surprising her with its intensity. Her breathing spiked, and she lunged…

Natasha's eyes flashed open. She lay on a cheap mattress in a trashy New York City motel. She had been tracking the Avengers team in the hopes of finding Rogers and making him pay for his crimes against her and against Russia. The motel was seedy, but had a perfect view of Avengers tower. She sat up with a frown. Every time she closed her eyes to sleep he haunted her dreams. He always appeared concerned for her, and it always ended with a sudden flash of rage. She shuddered slightly as she thought of Ivan, that had been real, hadn't it? She looked at her wrist, but no scar was to be found, no matter how closely she looked. It had been so vivid, she could almost smell the cigarettes, the singed skin, but there was no evidence, no scar. She frowned, it was still difficult for her to sort out her memories. She rubbed her head, she must have hit it extremely hard.

She shook her head to clear it. It was just a dream, one of many. But the dream nagged at her, and the man, Steve Rogers she knew now, didn't behave in the way she expected. She thought about when he had kissed her, not for the first time. How had her own target made her love him? How had she slipped so badly? She could practically feel him pressing his lips to hers, how strong he was, and how peaceful she had been. She stood stiffly, her battered body rebelling. These thoughts were traitorous. How could she forget what happened next? She lifted her shirt and saw the evidence once more, the remaining wound, now mostly healed, in her side from where he had stabbed her through. Her only remaining family, dead, slaughtered at his hand. He was good. She had made a mistake, but she would rectify it and no one would know.

She checked her weapons, securing them on her person. There were so many details that she didn't understand, the blow she had taken to her head still buried much of her understanding. But she knew what she needed to know. Taking out one of her throwing knives she pitched it into the wall in frustration. It buried itself deep into the wood. However he had done it, she would make him pay, and no one would learn of her embarrassing and nearly fatal mistake. Love was for children.