There was a fair amount of thrill that Natasha Romonov got out of seeing the fear in her target's eyes. Those heart-pounding moments where she slipped under their radar, testing exactly how blind someone was willing to be to their surroundings before stepping into the light. (She wouldn't say 'enemy' because she personally often had nothing personal against her target)
The fights that followed weren't nearly as entertaining, but unquestionably satisfying to win.
On a side note, a lot of people were so used to fighting people their own size, they had no idea how to react to someone smaller than oneself. The easy fights made things faster, but a part of her did like the challenge of fighting someone who knew how to throw their weight around.
Still, her mission was her mission. A bit slower to her destination than her serum-enhanced teammate, the modern USB port in the ship's terminal made things a lot easier.
The file names flashed up as they downloaded - some obviously in code, others a jumble of letters that may or may not be purposeful. (She knew - even Tony Stark sometimes just slapped the keys for a random file name)
Something caught her eye.
She looked around, turning back to the monitor and opening the file.
Well, now... that was interesting.
Rogers was on his way, his familiar gait approaching the doorway. She quickly memorized the only location given, closing the file and waiting for the download to complete.
"You had your mission, I had mine."
A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. Obeying orders was one thing, but doing it blindly was quite another.
There was something strange going on within SHIELD.
Waking up in a cell was not a terribly fun experience, and one that had occurred far too many times in his life. Blank walls, cold floors, and the vague feeling that he was underground drifted in and out of awareness while the drug sweated out of his system.
The good news; the bed was more comfortable than the couch, and there was both a sink and a toilet installed. Also, he was wearing clothes that fit him. A cotton t-shirt and sweatpants, but they were child-sized nonetheless.
The bad news; it was a cell, and the toilet was installed inside. This meant likelihood of long-term imprisonment went up. Holding cells tended not to have such amenities. Also, he was still pint-sized. Damn.
Nausea swirled up in his chest, and he lunged for the toilet, suddenly very thankful they had included it.
A few minutes later, and Peter was lying on the floor, an arm thrown over his eyes as his upset stomach slowly calmed down. He grumbled quietly when someone opened the door, the hinge practically shrieking as it moved. Didn't they have funding to fix that?
"Hello, my name is Alex Harker, how are you feeling?"
He peeked under his arm, eyeing the blonde woman who was now standing inside his cell. She had a clipboard clasped in her hands, a concerned look on her face.
Peter sighed, pushing himself up to a cross-legged position.
"Crappy. Whatever you knocked me out with doesn't like me."
He noticed the tiny quirk of an eyebrow.
"How much do you remember?"
He looked at the floor, combating a restless stomach as he tried to think of her motives for asking that. He decided to tell the truth.
"I was running, and someone's dart guns gassed me. I passed out, and you guys found me… Why the cell, anyway?"
She hummed, making a note on her clipboard.
"So you don't remember anything after being knocked out?"
"No?" (Should I?)
"That will be all, Peter. Thank you. Would you like a shower?"
"Er, yeah, that'd be nice."
He stood up, steadying himself on the wall for a moment. Something was wrong, but he couldn't figure out what it was. Maybe it was the wobbling of his knees, or muscles aching without a good reason.
She offered her hand, and he avoided taking it, grabbing ahold of the side of her pants instead. Regardless of his own pride, he still needed help staying upright.
The communal showers were lined with tiles, standard and empty of other people.
There was soap and shampoo ready in one of the stalls, and he accepted it without a word. His mind was still turning over his situation, confused at their reactions.
SHIELD was way more uptight than this - all rules and 'why are you here!' and 'this area is off-limits, wall-crawler.'
Scrub and rinse, the water felt great on his clammy skin. The suds swirled around the drain, and a thought occurred to him.
She called him 'Peter'.
He looked down at his hands, still child-small and squishy. A mark caught his eye, and he lifted his forearm up to the light.
A faint pink dot rested on the inside of his elbow, a smudge of yellow echoing the confirmation. It healed before his eyes, enhanced regeneration rearing its head.
How long had he been here?
The entire operation had been messy.
From finding out HYDRA had infiltrated SHIELD, to realizing Fury was alive, to the conclusion about what she had to do to take her enemy down.
Not a target, this time.
Alexander Pierce was confident she would not release the information to the public - among the files were her own history of missions. Not a backstory, per se, but enough to let everyone know her hands were bloodier than the stripes on their flag.
There would be no pleading innocent after this.
No, this was too big. She exhaled, placing the anxiety and fear into a small box in the back of her head. This was bigger than her own problems.
The button was pressed, and the files sent out to the web.
"Project Spider" flashed for a moment among the hundreds of other files, and she remembered seeing it on the ship as well. It's too close to 'Black Widow' for her to let it drop.
There was no names, only an age, height and location. More information was likely in a more secure place - There was no way they stored all their secrets in one place.
10 years, 4'1" Geburtsort.
That base is in DC - subterranean, but they would start evacuating as soon as they get wind of what she's done.
She needs more information.
More time.
The Red Room flickered faintly at the back of her memory, ballet and knives shuddering together. Other girls had been in step beside her, falling behind when the (training) dancing became too much.
She needed to move in fast, before the bureaucrats start sorting through things. SHIELD was falling, and her credentials could only get her through security checkpoints for so long.
The face-changing mask was still in her pocket, location of that base tucked securely in her memories.
This wasn't over yet.