A/N: So sorry about the delay. Turned out we didn't have Wi-Fi at our hotel, and even when we got it, we hardly spent any time there! London claimed too much attention. It's, as always, unbeta'd, and I haven't had enough time to reconsider it. It's dark, and introduces a bit more of life in the Leonum Tarpeius. It's longer than usual, though.

This probably won't be a very Clintasha chapter.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Avengers or these recognizable characters.

Silent Spider: Chapter 8

Leipzig, Germany

There was only one reason—one tangible reason, anyway, that she was willing to contemplate—to why Natasha permitted herself to think that maybe she hadn't been totally out of her mind to bring Clint to Germany. Five years ago, and before that, too, Clint had had the habit of wanting to reassure her, which in itself was a kindness, she supposed, but then he went too far and assured her everything would be okay. Even now, the often-said words rung in her head. Any man who had been what Clint was for as long as Clint had wouldn't have done so, but Clint had felt the need. Everything's gonna be okay. It wasn't, and it hadn't. Assassins weren't meant to be idealists. It was hopeless.

The night Clint had caught her cleaning her prosthesis—which by then was as much a part of her as it was ever going to be, however less an extension of her body as a gun or knife would have been—from their sandy trip to a playground (she had loved it—hadn't admitted to, hadn't needed to—but she hated when sand, and dirt, for that matter, got stuck in the workings of the complex prosthesis), he'd grabbed her hand, stripped of its plastic forged beauty, and wrapped his own around the ugly leftovers, kissing each knuckle. When they'd gone to bed that night, he could have easily uttered those loathed words, but he didn't. She listened for them—wasn't going to be surprised to hear them—but they never came.

It spoke wonders as to the ramifications of Clint's growth the past five years. He was still an idealist—he stayed, didn't he—but no longer blinded by his own idealism. Perhaps he didn't say it because he couldn't see how. It was comforting and unsettling that he'd reached that point, too. Even though he had, he still stayed, despite how irrational it sounded, despite the unspoken reasons not to.

Natasha forced these stupid thoughts out of her head as she looked at the gun in her lap, a trustworthy Glock. When she had gotten Desta's message this morning, urging her to fix Sylvio's mess, she had been saddened but also relieved to be snapped out of the dreamscape of safety she and Clint had created around them, fortunately before anyone had gotten hurt. Spies and assassins of their caliber weren't supposed to lose sight or track of who they were. The distance from the hotel room had helped her reach further clarity, her (now, broken) promise to Clint stinging a little bit more by each mile.

She'd known about the abduction from internal chatter amongst the groups of Leons she'd visited. Secret-keeping, while necessary, wasn't an indulged aspect of the Leons, and rumor had had it that Sylvio had been assigned the task of abducting the beloved illegitimate daughter of a drug baron who'd been funneling money into the Tarpeius until recently. The drug baron had been caught and was making a deal with his lawyer by snitching on operations he knew scarcely about. Sylvio had been dispatched by Desta to make sure he didn't get any good ideas concerning Leonum Tarpeius.

Nikolaevna knew little about Sylvio, but enough to have thought him competent, his cocksureness aside. Evidently, his years did not produce the same caution and success as was most commonly the case. Nevertheless, she was not saddened to see him go.

Aside from that, she knew little about the topic. She didn't know who the drug baron was, or how old the daughter was. Technically it would have been a kidnapping if she'd been underage, but Natasha wasn't about to correct Desta's faulty language in case she was. She rarely questioned her orders from Desta, and not when they had escalated to this point. She wondered what had gone wrong. Sylvio's crew would be a four-men one, at least one guard and one tech, and odds were that she knew some of them by reputation and introduction, as not all could possibly be newbies.

She only had to check in with a couple of contacts and one lieutenant to find out that the abduction had taken place in Leipzig. The rest of Sylvio's clumsily covered work had lead her to an abandoned industrial plant where the rust had settled in crusts and the wind blew hollowly in the chain-link fence, the barbed wire cut down and threatening to dig into the soles of her shoes. The gravel underneath her feet made little sound and she felt the gun on her immediately, betrayed by the pale sun catching the reflection of the semi-automatic in the shards that remained from a window. She looked upwards, her face betraying little emotion aside from dissatisfaction.

"Niko?" A man, Sylvio, she suspected (the harsh sun was a current disadvantage), stepped out of the building, face puzzled but still arrogant, his hand resting on the weapon that was secured in a strap across his torso. She was secretly glad he didn't comprehend Russian diminutives. It'd be shame to have wasted it. It was unnecessary to shorten Nikolaevna, and even if he had known her, it would not have made a particularly flattering nickname. She had no first name to (want to offer) them, and so they'd found other things to call her. He'd done it to convince her of how friendly they were, emphasizing the camaraderie he hoped she felt towards all Leons. No brownie points.

She walked to him, trying to smile, to convince him that she hadn't come to eliminate him for his failures. She closed one eye to get a better look, the sun nearly in its zenith above them. She nodded, confirming her identity, as her voice could not.

He was a man in his late thirties, of average height and weight, with hazel eyes. His skin revealed Mediterranean ancestry and his wide smile spoke of all the people he'd conned. Nobody honest smiled like that whilst holding a gun in his hands. Within the hour he'd be dead, she knew that as well as the facts above.

"What are you doing here?" Sylvio asked.

She could hear the franticness in his voice. Was the girl alive, or was that where it had gone wrong? He swallowed hard, evidently trying to compose himself. She wasn't known as an executioner, although she'd performed the task a couple of times, enough to unnerve Sylvio, apparently. She was a lieutenant of Desta's, and her presence was enough to discourage people who'd deserved his wrath. Sylvio seemed smart enough to know he was fucked.

She wished she'd brought an interpreter. Elias, perhaps, or even Claudio. Men who were panicking weren't likely to listen to gestures or read notes. Let's go inside, she gestured. Sylvio obeyed the command, believing that he was the one in charge. He wasn't. She hoped none of the Leons would cause trouble. Executions were messy and caused subtle uprising. As far as she knew, Sylvio had few friends, but owed some debts that wouldn't be repaid. She almost felt sorry.

Her body welcomed the cool of the interior of the building despite having donned the lightest of fabrics to accommodate the unusually humid and hot weather. Summertime could be as inconvenient as the winter. Where winter threatened in some climates with frostbite, summer did the same with dehydration. She'd learnt long ago to avoid both, and if necessary, postpone them. That knowledge alone made her wiser than Sylvio would ever live to be.

The message rung clear in Natasha's head. Take over. Deal with it. Finish him off when you're done. Anybody protests, kill them. Get them in line, Nikolaevna. The stress had been unusual for Desta, which told her of the pressure he was under if the drug baron talked. Although the majority of the knowledge he possessed would be, and was, futile now—they moved frequently to avoid exactly that—the baron must know deeper secrets for such action to be taken. She had made no attempt to have such confirmed when she'd called back and checked in with Desta.

As she had been prone to do ever since Desta's (now former) lieutenant, Ryley, had made an offhanded comment about her scar, she was wearing a bland t-shirt, today navy, with a plunging yet practical neckline. Leons were daily awarded looks of awe for their scars; even though she cared little about such ridiculous awe, she refused to be different and wore her disabling feature as a battle scar and a warning. The night she'd run into Clint had been an exception—an exception she'd embraced. It was an identifier, as much as she'd hated its brutal truth.

When the door was closed behind her, she became acutely aware of the gun tucked in the rear pocket of her jeans. Sylvio's crew were one of four, but as her eyes traveled the room, assessed it without raising suspicion, she realized she knew all their names. One of them was even on her list of candidates for the new group of Leons. His name was Vladislav, "Vlad" for short. She'd heard someone call him Vlad the Impaler. He could reportedly cajole any Leon into gambling—only to then rip them off. His eyes weren't filled with daredevilry now, though; they'd widened in fear – fear, she hoped, for the unknown.

She surveyed the room until her eyes landed upon the smallest form, albeit not—and far from—the weakest or least trained. She was five-foot-four with long dark hair and a scrawny body that lacked voluptuousness. It was one of the happenstances that made Natasha uneasy. The girl, adolescent in appearance but adamant she'd turned seventeen, had received the same training Natasha had when she'd been her age. Belova was her name… and Natasha could not for her life recall her first name, forgotten by the time she'd realized who exactly the girl was. She watched out for the kid, as she would have any progeny of Red Room, but pity befell her. Belova had been confused when she'd been on her own before her time. Natasha knew it was the reason why she was alive, but didn't have it in her to tell the girl. It was unnecessary cruelty and would reveal her own intimate past with Red Room.

Belova wasn't useless, but why she had been assigned to Sylvio was a mystery. Her body, however mature her mind cultivated by the masters of Red Room, was that of a lanky, nearly flat-chested teenager. Her instructors must have realized that, because she hadn't received training in the arts of seduction, and for that, Natasha was grateful. The girl who'd been meant to be her successor was now a pawn for the Leonum Tarpeius, drawn in by the promise of usage of her skills. If Natasha had any say in the matter, Belova would not learn the cruelties Natasha had. The fact that she was now a Leon, part of another criminal imperium, begged to differ.

The brown-eyed, raven-haired girl had no idea who Natasha was, of course. Not even Desta knew of her past as the wicked Black Widow, although he'd hinted he knew enough. Even if Belova had been aware of her instructors' name and allegiances, it mattered little now, because Red Room was all but vanished. Natasha had made sure of that, backed by S.H.I.E.L.D. Belova was a follower—and hundreds would live due to that—and had been trained for such. She was currently scowling, bored, on what appeared to have once been the couch of a waiting lounge, nipping a torn flap of leather off the piece of furniture.

Eventually, attention snapped to Natasha, and she was relieved to see that two of them instantly awaited orders. Their body language betrayed so. Sylvio's second-in-command, a young man with white-bleached hair and enough bracelets and armlets to cover his forearms, closed the door behind him upon entering the room. He looked confused, but his face hardened in recognition.

"Who're you?" Belova asked, sensing the tension and bestowing herself the honor of breaking it.

Vlad hissed at her, annoyed. "Nikolaevna. Desta's Lioness," he informed her darkly, effectively silencing the girl's confusion and questions.

'Tell me what happened,' she mouthed, locking eyes with Vlad, who nodded in acknowledgement, and Sylvio. Sylvio, wiser than Alfredo, briefly recounted the whole ordeal. They'd grabbed the girl, using Belova—even Sylvio addressed her by last name, which told Natasha enough; he thought her inferior, and she hadn't been in the organization long enough to acquire a nickname – not one Sylvio would use, anyway—as bait. The girls had similar ages and although Koppel's daughter had been suspicious, she'd assisted the "lost tourist girl". Everything had gone as planned, until Sylvio hadn't checked the recipient of the call, alarming Koppel's marshal guards and not Koppel himself. It was Vlad who informed her of the last part, Sylvio fuming with distress.

The Impaler supplied Koppel's daughter's—Karolina's—current condition. "Drugs are wearing off. She's scared but not freaking out. What does Desta want us to do?"

'Nothing,' she mouthed. She'd heard the details. Sylvio had screwed up, alarming the authorities, but it still seemed plausible. If they killed the girl, Karolina, they'd risk Koppel retaliate by telling the police everything—something that Desta did not want. It was really simple: Sylvio had screwed up, Sylvio paid the price.

She felt no remorse as she swiftly dug into her pocket and pulled the gun, aiming it at Sylvio for an instant only before pulling the trigger; Sylvio the Screwup hit the floor with a loud thud, a red line splitting his eyebrows from the bullet hole in his forehead. Natasha refrained from blowing the smoke off the Glock in a moviesque gesture (reality, she'd learnt long ago, was nothing like the movies). She forced a look of indifference and aloofness upon her face, not willing to let emotion show, as she lowered the gun. She heard a wail from the other side of the door, presumably from the girl. Unimportant. Her eyes traveled the small crowd, none of which had seen in coming. Vlad recovered first, and rage burned across the white-head's face. His name was Spinner, or that was what he was called. He forgot his manners.

"What the fuck, lady? How is that going to help as at all—are you craz-."

The Glock was in his face before his hands could even stray the semi-automatic he was wearing. Only Spinner and Sylvio had worn them, although Vlad and Belova hadn't been left unarmed. Tension had spiked. Natasha's glare didn't waver. Her finger moved to pull the trigger, threateningly close. She indicated a choice, but the dead look in her eyes told the truth. She didn't need him alive.

"Spin, listen to her. She's Desta's, for god's sake. Do you think she'd be here if he hadn't told her to?" Vlad tried to reason, an almost bored tone in his voice, like he didn't care if Spinner lived or died either. Belova's eyes darted to him before resuming to the person holding the gun—clever girl.

"She killed Sylv, Vladislav! What's to keep her from killing the rest of us?" Spinner argued. Natasha supposed it was true, although one had to be stupid to think she could finish the job alone. She had to credit him for his composure, though. Her right hand remained firmly on the gun. Spinner had witnessed Sylvio's demise; he shouldn't doubt her resolution.

"Nothing." Belova was quick to catch on. It boded well for her future as a Leon. Leona, whatever. Natasha didn't like the dark edge to her voice. The girl tried to establish eye contact. "She'd kill us all and walk away without feeling bad. As would any one of us if Desta ordered it." The look she sent Natasha was unafraid, perhaps even admiring—definitely unsettling. It'd haunt Natasha's nightmares to have seen a girl so fearful and yet determined. "What do we do?"

The last was directed at Natasha. Spinner scowled sourly but seemed to accept the concept. "Fine," he hissed, making sure to sound dissatisfied. She wondered what Sylvio had promised him. "What about Anya?"

Ah, the fourth member of Sylvio's crew. Natasha cocked her head, indicating for someone to explain. Belova and Vlad had done the talking for her. Perhaps she should recommend Belova after this—if they were to succeed.

"I'm here," a female voice squeaked. She had heard the gunshot and her eyes widened when she saw her former boss' body. She came from upstairs, unarmed.

'Your purpose?' Natasha inquired, stowing the gun away to ease everybody up. She didn't need spooked Leons, she needed a unit of people who could function and do their tasks smoothly. She'd be well when she was back in Dresden, preferably in Clint's arms. She shook her head mentally at the notion, hoping they hadn't seen her falter.

"Anya's our tech. Sylvio rushed her so she couldn't make sure who answered the call," Vlad said, a softer look when he glanced at the technical operator. Due to the unneeded save, Natasha suspected that they were sleeping together, given the look of gratitude Anya sent back, equally soft. It was not unheard of, and anything but forbidden. Natasha felt the need to clear her throat at the blunt display of affection in the middle of a horrible situation when Spinner interrupted.

"Have they traced the call?" he asked Anya, echoing Natasha's thoughts. The blonde woman shook her head, beaming when she explained how she'd tricked their digital pursuers. She seemed energetic in her pallor.

So very young, Natasha thought, although she herself looked younger than the woman. Anya had no control of her facial features, and Belova looked fifteen, uncertain with her skillset. Vlad with his emotions although compliance and obedience, and Spinner, rebellious and vocally so. Whoever had picked this team hadn't thought of them as a whole but as parts. Someone who hadn't seen Belova's training would instantly think her inferior—and the feeling of superiority would go to one's head, making that someone make mistakes, as Sylvio had so evidently done. Anya seemed to pale at the sight of a dead man—or perhaps it was the blood, Natasha couldn't be certain, but thought her ill-suited for the task. Of course, she argued, it hadn't supposed to end with a dead Leon.

She withdrew the notepad and pen from her pocket, starting to write a message. There was no room for misinterpretation. We need to act fast. Anya, re-establish contact, but this time, his private cell. Spinner, the girl will be needed for affirmation. Vlad, I need to know how much Sylvio told the marshal. She sent the piece of paper around for everyone to read. The trio nodded in acknowledgement and went to do their assigned tasks. Her eyes lingered a little longer on Spinner. She'd need him now, but if he made a mistake like Sylvio's, he'd die like Sylvio, Belova's statement come true.

"What about me?" Belova croaked when the others had left the room, Vlad to assist Anya. Natasha would have preferred if he'd gone with Spinner, but time was of the essence, leaving little room for discussions.

'You'll be my voice,' Natasha told her. 'I need you to hand Karolina over when the time comes. They won't consider you a threat. Not if you act afraid.'

Belova nodded unsurely, the orders sinking in. She took orders well, Natasha noticed, but she wasn't battle-worn. 'What's your name?' she asked, a softer look on her face.

"Yelena," the girl said, and in that moment, she was a girl. Yelena Belova, Natasha forced herself to remember, the girl they meant to send after me. Red Room had always had a wicked sense of succession. Undoubtedly, they'd meant to crown Yelena when—if—she'd succeeded in killing the woman she was meant to succeed. It was what Natasha had done, along with many of her sisters, their lives lost for some cruel game of gladiators.

'You'll be fine.' And with that, Natasha's Nikolaevna mask went back up. She saw the girl gulp as the shadows played across her salvaged neck. God, so very young. Was that what Clint had seen once? A girl, (in her case, a young woman) already a ruin with the misdeeds and disillusions? Natasha had been so bitter then, world-weary, nasty, and believing the world too corrupted to ever do good. Clint had spared her, teaching her humanity. She'd repaid the favor by running out on him five years ago. She'd done the same now, even if she intended to return. It was probably for the best, too. She didn't do goodbyes. Only the kind that involved murder, and she'd never want to part with Clint on those terms.

When Vlad returned, Natasha asked him: 'How old is the girl?'

"Nineteen. Liberal arts student," he snorted, but he had the grace to let the amusement escape his features. "Anya's ready. She's got a link for Karolina, should we need it. Who's gonna do the talking?" he asked solemnly. He quickly realized his mistake, but made no attempt to blush. "No offense."

Natasha pointed to Belova. If the Impaler had anything to add, he didn't, aside from a mild frown. 'I'll tell you what to say,' she added.

By the time Natasha had written down a list of verbatim instructions, she'd thought of Clint and Dresden thrice, and summoned Anya. The thirty-something tech had managed to obtain the number to Koppel's private cell phone.

Yet she didn't go on immediately, her eyes lingering on the door to their hostage's prison. Sylvio had said it'd been three hours since they took her—he'd called immediately upon taking her. He'd made a dozen mistakes, but perhaps Desta had been rash in claiming his life. It wasn't Natasha's decision to make and she felt no remorse towards the dead man lying in the lounge. Would Clint have? She'd always felt that he was disappointed when she merely followed orders, as if she was a machine and not an individual. She did consider consequences, but Sylvio's death neither benefitted nor damaged her, aside from pleasing Desta. She doubted Clint would see it that way, if he ever learnt of today's events.

She pressed the doorknob down to the room before she even realized what she was doing. Koppel's daughter was pretty, brunette with widened blue eyes. Her makeup had been spoiled by tears, but anger seemed more at the surface than fear. Her bag had evidently been emptied of any items that could be used as a weapon or tracked, her belongings scattered in a small pile. Natasha accidentally kicked a medicinal bottle when she entered the room, sending the small orange bottle across the floor.

"Please," Karolina sobbed. She seemed exhausted. Her eyes were puffy, her voice and nose snotty. It wasn't attractive to be taken hostage. Again, movies had it wrong. "Don't hurt me."

Natasha shook her head to calm the nineteen-year-old. Spinner watched her from the door. 'I won't,' she mouthed but doubted the girl would understand her. It was a surprisingly low amount of people who could read lips.

"What did you give me?" Karolina spat, her emotion changing as rapidly as a whiplash. "Drugs—what were they? The baby…"

Natasha stiffened. Was that the mistake Sylvio had made? Feeding drugs to a pregnant woman? Abortion was forgivable. Karolina barely seemed out of childhood herself—albeit Natasha had no place to make that call—and would make a young mother. Sylvio had been right; she and Yelena did appear to be similarly aged, Karolina younger due to her complete innocence and Yelena older due to her non-innocence.

'It's gonna be fine,' Natasha found herself lying. She picked up the bottle of prenatal medicine and offered it to Karolina as a truce. Hopefully, Karolina would think her a safer hostage-taker than Sylvio due to her calmness and soft appearance. Hopefully she'd not suspect her of having killed the man who'd originally captured her.

Luckily, it was Koppel who picked up five minutes later, undoubtedly having bribed his marshals. Clever, Natasha thought, but made sure Belova asked him. When he confirmed, they all let out sighs of relief.

"They won't stay quiet for long," the drug baron quipped. "Please, don't hurt my Karola. Can I speak to her? She's-she's…"

Will anybody weep for me like that? Natasha wondered, and found she didn't want to know the answer. If she'd done something right in this line of business, they wouldn't; they would let out sighs of relief when she went down for good. What about Clint, her mind asked, what about what he'd do. Let him never know.

"30,000 Euros and we won't harm Karolina, Herr Koppel," Yelena said, per instruction. Natasha nodded in approval. The girl understood to fake an accent. She sounded surer of herself and older.

"I'll get the money," the man hastily promised. Natasha saw the reason to never have children—not even the illegitimate ones. Her heart sank in guilt and she banished the realization. She'd wish to be Koppel any day. Perhaps even today.

"And the cops?" Belova inquired, her eyes briefly locking with Natasha's.

"I'll bribe them. Where do we meet?"

Thirty-nine minutes later, Natasha felt hollow. She shouldn't have, but she didn't know what the proper reaction was. It seemed neither did Vlad or Belova, or even Spinner. Anya was a mess and had asked to be alone. Everybody had obliged. Spinner had clapped Vlad's shoulder and suggested they go to a pub for beers, but neither had seemed particularly festive. Belova—Yelena—had gone still, mirroring the others. Natasha would have felt better if she'd been arrogantly boasting.

It was a necessary evil. That's what she'd be telling herself for the rest of her life. Things had gone exactly as Desta had ordered it. Sylvio had died, but part of Natasha believed Sylvio had always been meant to die, so she wasn't going to mourn the loss of him, but the rest had gone on and succeeded. They just hadn't been informed of the endgame. Koppel had showed up with the money, twitchy and looking like he hadn't slept for days, the federal marshal he'd bribed waiting by the car. Natasha hadn't recognized him, but he'd recognized her from the scar. Perhaps that was when he reconsidered, backing away. It left a sour taste in Natasha's mouth. To think that a man who'd pay €30,000 and claimed to love his daughter would start backing off when he saw his opponents—a mute woman and an unarmed girl. She'd put Anya and Vlad in charge of the exit strategy.

Anya, Vladislav, Spinner, and Yelena Belova. All would be moving up in the world and hierarchy of Tarpeius. She'd give the recommendations herself. What Desta did with them was entirely up to him. She had no disillusions of power. She suspected Anya wouldn't be volunteering anytime soon, and perhaps Vlad would decline the offer Natasha had in store based on her frailty. She'd sobbed when Natasha had shot Karolina Koppel (her surname had been something else, but since it hadn't prevented Tarpeius from tracking her down, it really didn't matter). Natasha considered herself merciful. Father and daughter had died together, almost simultaneously. They hadn't bled out, dying instantly. It was more than Desta had ordered. He'd insinuated she take her time, but she refused to feed off Koppel's pain—either of them. She'd failed. Both had died knowing the other wouldn't live. (Or, in Karolina's case, begging for her child to live).

She felt filthy for feeling no remorse. Worse—she felt horrible for waking up happy this morning, when the cause to her happiness could be taken away instantly by a bullet, as had been the case of Karolina and Franz Koppel. What was to keep Clint from being too slow one day and losing his life so carelessly?

Natasha realized now what betraying Tarpeius would mean. Koppel had sold them out to save himself—an act Natasha would have copied him after thoughtlessly. She'd just shot five people to deal with one deserter. Sylvio, whose death she'd already forgotten; the corrupt and unnamed federal marshal whose job it had been to ensure Koppel didn't flee the country before his trial, and who'd tried to defend Koppel too late, a victim of Natasha's Glock; Franz Koppel, obviously, a shot to the head short-circuiting his nervous system and killing him instantly; Karolina Koppel, for all she had witnessed (and perhaps to finally piss on Koppel—Natasha wouldn't put it past Desta to do so); and unborn Baby Koppel. Natasha had checked Karolina's bag. It had been prenatal medicine. There was even a doctor's appointment in her calendar. She'd have known the sex next week.

Three generations wiped from the Earth with two bullets. Had to be a personal record, she thought sourly and bitterly. She'd tried to save Karolina, stupid as she was. She didn't know why. The others didn't seem to blame her or think less of her, and maybe that was why it was so horrible. That was what Clint would never understand: that the Leons were family, understanding of misdeeds and crimes, of conflicting emotions, and of the need to be inhumanely harsh. Cakes of blood—Karolina's blood, or maybe the baby's, it had all been a mess, blood coloring fabric too fast—sat in the crescents of her fingernails. She hadn't noticed until now, and for some reason, it made it all real, all tangible.

She had dismissed the four surviving Leons after the small massacre. Rain had wiped the streets clean, and they'd dragged the body of Sylvio to a nearby crematorium. They hadn't had enough time to bring the other bodies, but Natasha had made the call to leave them there. Local police would have no idea where to look, and Karolina's mother deserved a corpse to bury. A small mercy, but one thing Natasha had learnt in the cruel world she lived in: people were only dead if there was a body to bury. At least to her.

Natasha had hopelessly boarded a train for Dresden in the foul hope Clint would be there. Hell, maybe she wanted to be caught for what she'd done today. Her head throbbed at her temple where she'd received a misplaced punch. She'd been offered a black hoodie by Vladislav, once he realized she wasn't about to leave with them. It obscured her face and covered her bloody forearms. The metallic smell wasn't sickening, had never been, but it was surreal to literarily have so much blood on her hands, particularly when not knowing whose it was.

The sounds and noises tracks and rails distracted her from pondering too hard until she reached Dresden, hollow as the day she'd been born. She backtracked her original route, and couldn't remember having gone when she got there (although she remembered the deaths vividly). She'd ridden herself of the Glock at some point before she'd e-mailed Desta the news of the success—a bitter word, she realized. It shouldn't bother her. Koppel had been a traitor and he'd just been plain stupid to risk Karolina's life. What about the baby, then—what's that excuse? She kicked a tin can a little too fiercely when the question popped into her head. It wasn't a baby, she argued. It never lived. Life came after birth, outside the womb. Part of her didn't believe that.

Only when she stood outside the door to the shitty apartment did the thought of running occur to her. By then it was too late, because her bruised and bloody knuckles had already strayed the hardwood, and seconds later, the door was slammed open by a hotheaded archer, his anger drowning in concern as he took one look at her. Anger would have been easier to deal with. In his anger, he would forget to inquire about what had happened.

She regretted not having washed her arms.

She regretted coming back.

She regretted pressing her palms—palms of a killer—against the soft tissue of a dying woman.

She regretted lowering her guard enough for the federal marshal to get a punch.

She regretted not taking Spinner up on that offer.

She regretted not warning Vlad and Anya that whatever they were having wouldn't remain pure in Tarpeius.

She regretted not having told Yelena that is was okay to be scared.

Natasha remembered none of these regrets as Clint enveloped her, embraced her like a human blanket, breathing in the scent of soaked assassin. Undoubtedly he could smell the blood on her. She could feel the tension of his anger, even as he suppressed it. "God, I was worried," he murmured into her hair, and for a moment, Natasha could pretend that she'd just been late—that he hadn't noticed the bruise or the blood. Then he shrunk from her, his eyes cold. "Interpol's looking for you."

What have you done?

She regretted not having run the moment her knuckles sunk into the wood. She should have known Clint—with all his goddamn ethics and morals and speeches of forgiveness—would never condone slaughter, never personally sanction the display of unjustified slaughter.

She stepped back. 'We play different games, Clint.'

I wish you'd never have to kill an unborn child, its mother begging you to save her. Because Clint would have found a way—and been successful. Natasha hadn't. She'd just stared at Karolina, panicked, expressing no emotion.

Nikolaevna had no reason to allow Karolina to live.

How did you like the people we've met so far in Leonum Tarpeius? How'll Clint react? How did he find out? Yeah, I couldn't resist bringing in Yelena. Did you like her?

Reviews, my friends! Reviews!

- L.