Chapter Three: "Blasting Past Expectations" Is My Middle Name.
"My persistence to make a difference
Has led me safe into your hands
...
I was put here for a reason
I was born into this world."
In This Life, Delta Goodrem.
.oDARKo.
Natasha ducked inside the diner hesitantly, half expecting to be ambushed as soon as she set foot inside. Damn, how she hated drawing the short straw; last time had seen her standing in line for schwarma for an hour.
Though, of course, this was a very different case.
She surveyed the restaurant until she spotted a delicate hand waving at her, accompanied by a wide, beaming smile. Anastasia. Without returning the gesture, Natasha wound between the tables with a stoic expression.
The other girl stuck out like a very, very sore thumb, dressed in a brilliant cerulean dress layered with lace the color of midnight. Her hair was piled atop her head in an intricately tangled nest of braids, and atop the nest sat a shiny blue top-hat no bigger than Natasha's palm. Anastasia's lips were painted a vibrant red that shimmered in the dim light. Glitter tumbled from her lids like teardrops.
Natasha cocked a brow, nonplussed. "What's with the Gaga-esque outfit?" she asked briskly.
"Normalcy is boring. Besides, I tend to let people think what they want. My opinion about myself is the only one that matters in the end." Anastasia pulled a chair closer and patted it. "Sit. Socialize."
After a moment of consideration, Natasha stiffly perched in the chair, feeling uncomfortable and out of place.
"And it's Annie," Anastasia corrected as an afterthought. She folded her hands in front of her, leaning forward eagerly. "So, did I make the cut?"
Natasha blinked at the blinding force of the girl's charisma. Annie was like a miniature sun, a dynamo; it was as though she absorbed all the brightness and beauty in the room and reflected it outwards, enveloping any soul in her path.
But beneath the brilliance lurked an edge – a knife obscured in smooth satin sheets – that made a shiver leap up and down Natasha's spine. This girl in front of her…she had her fair share of secrets. They hovered so close to the surface, teasing the Black Widow with their closeness. She wanted to pluck them out and examine them, for any secrets that hid from her were dangerous, threatening, liabilities.
Leave her be, her common sense admonished her nature, the revelation of secrets comes with time. For now, she can keep them.
"Well…" the red-haired assassin began hesitantly, metering her companion's reaction with care. Tasha's curls quivered like tongues of dancing flames. "S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to run some tests first, to make sure you can walk the talk."
Annie melted marginally, her smile drooping like a flower that had just begun to wither. She nodded somberly. "Don't write a check with your mouth that your ass can't cash."
"Something like that." The corner of Tasha's mouth twitched in mild humor. "And eventually we'll have to be sure that we can trust you."
"You can," the brunette vowed, her petite features taking on a lofty expression. She raised her hand, folding her pinkie and thumb inward. "Scout's honor."
"I'm afraid it's going to take a little more than a promise to convince Fury." Tasha squirmed in unease, impatient to return to the tower and Clint.
"Fury?" The look on Annie's face was priceless.
"The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. He had a hand in creating the Avengers." Natasha stopped tactfully. "And that's all you really need to know, for now. At least until we're better acquainted. Be at Stark's Tower by noon tomorrow; you won't have to sneak in this time. We'll give you a ride to a designated location to take the tests."
Natasha stood, beyond ready to leave. Annie shot out of her seat inhumanly fast behind her, making her hand fly reflexively to her hip. The motion caught the attention of nearby patrons of the restaurant, who stared in alarm. Natasha lowered her arm tensely.
"There's a few other things I need to know."
"Like?" Tasha demanded.
"Like, which is bigger: Tony's extensive fortune, or his infamous ego?"
Natasha relaxed, cracking her first and probably last real smile of the evening. And because she found the question so amusing, she deigned it with an answer. "Right now, I'd say his fortune; his ego took a few hits after you infiltrated his tower."
Annie snickered smugly. "I figured."
Natasha chewed the inside of her cheek, deliberating, as a question weighed heavily on her tongue. It itched and bothered until she could bear it no longer. "How did you do it?" she asked quietly. "Jump out of the window, I mean."
Annie cocked her head to the side curiously, then winked. "Carefully."
Scoffing in annoyance, Natasha spun on her heel and stormed from the diner. She was not halted this time.
Spoken like a true smartass.
As if we need any more of those.
.oHOPEo.
"Name?" the agent conducting the interview inquired through gritted teeth.
Annie felt a flash of pride in her own skills. Only ten minutes alone with him, answering his trivial questions with the vaguest responses she could muster, and she already felt him creeping closer to an aneurism.
"Anastasia. But I go by Annie."
"Your full name."
"I don't have one." And that was the truth.
The agent blinked deliberately. Annie could swear that his jugular was trying to pry itself from his throat. "You must," he insisted.
She shrugged. "Apparently not, because I don't."
"What name were you born with?"
"Don't remember."
"What was your father's last name? Your mother's?"
"Can't recall for the first, and couldn't care less about the second." Yes, his jugular was definitely bulging, and was his temple growing a new heart?
"Birth certificate? Where did you go to school?"
He was clutching at straws, and playing with him had gotten boring, so she decided to take pity on the poor agent. "Look, relax." Annie stared at him calmly. "I don't have any form of identification that I didn't pay to have fabricated by underground scum. I was born at home, and homeschooled. I ran away at a young age. I raised myself. That was so long ago that I don't remember any of the answers you're looking for. I'm sorry." Her tone conveyed no sincerity.
The agent massaged his forehead, lids shut tightly as if he thought that the gesture could make her disappear. "We'll dig up something." He waved his hand desperately. "Now move on. Through that door over there. Please."
.oSEEKo.
The director of S.H.I.E.L.D. watched the screen astutely with his remaining eye.
"She has a certain…impressive quality," Agent Maria Hill acknowledged from his right side. Agent Romanoff stood at his left in the otherwise bare and midnight-black room.
In the footage, a laughing Anastasia (Annie, whatever the hell her name was) ran through a complicated set of mazes meant to confuse S.H.I.E.L.D recruits, and yet she never hit a dead end. At every fork, every octopus-like tangled of branches, she pointed her nose in the air, sniffed, and took off in the right direction.
Every. Single. Time.
Fury could not comprehend it; rather, he could, but he chose not to. This untrained civilian had bested the best of his agents.
Each obstruction in the halls was met with unerring calmness and superhuman agility.
The screen flipped to a different scene. She sat in a white room, lounging in a chair like a sunbathing lion, while a man in lab coat opened unmarked containers.
"And this one?" he prompted.
"Vanilla. Duh," she answered, boredom etched in every line of her body.
He turned to a different jar.
The lid had barely been unscrewed when Annie's face contorted in disgust. "Uck. Oranges."
The situation wouldn't be extraordinary if the two hadn't been a football field away.
With the touch of a finger from Hill, the screen flicked to a different scenario: the hand-to-hand combat assessment.
Every touch of grace had all but disappeared as Annie knocked around a handful of his top notch fighting instructors like they were gnats who had gotten on her last nerve. She fought in the manner of a child on the schoolyard, using brute force and speed to take down her opponents. Gritty. Unrefined.
Fury's jaw clenched and unclenched. "What have we found on her?"
"…Nothing, sir," Hill answered finally. The verdict made his stomach twist with agitation. "We've checked all our records, and all of the government records, too. She has only counterfeit documents to even prove she's alive. She doesn't even show up in any surveillance videos countrywide until a few years ago. We're looking into other countries, now, but it hasn't been promising.
"She doesn't exist. It's like she dropped out of the sky, sir."
His eyes narrowed. Could she be another – god forbid, he'd had enough of them – extraterrestrial? "Any weaknesses to speak of?"
"None yet, sir."
"Well," Romanoff interjected, "I did see an anomaly."
Fury smirked inwardly. One could always count on the ruthless Black Widow to noticed the weaknesses of others.
"I saw it, back at the mazes – there."
Hill stopped at the portion that Romanoff allotted.
Annie rushed down the hall, whooping with exhilaration. She skidded to a sudden stop at the edge of a narrow trench, about six feet deep and twice as long. The trench was filled with clean, translucent water.
Most agents-in-training faced with the particular obstacle would simply leap into the water and swim the short distance.
Annie did not.
Her hesitation only lasted a moment, but a moment was enough. The flare of her nostrils, the widening of her eyes, the hunch of her shoulders, and the sudden rigidity of her muscles altogether screamed fear, fear, profound and crippling.
She jumped, rebounding from wall to wall above the surface of the water until she hit dry land on the other side of the trench. Only when it was far behind her did she relax.
The director felt a rush of elation. Yes, he lusted for power, but perhaps he lusted for control more so. As he watched the screen, he knew.
This newfound power could be controlled.
After feigning a moment of deliberation, Fury ordered, "Tell her she's in, but watch for this…evasiveness she has towards water. Keep testing her limits."
He turned and stalked out of the room, his leather coat brushing audibly against his calves.