A/N: Yeah, I'm not very nice to Clintasha right now. I sort of had to break it to them. Both of them might have deep down known it, but now it's on the table. I promise Clint will be in the next chapter. In the meanwhile, I couldn't help myself with the story.

This story is now on AO3! Yay! A friend had to show me. By the gods, I hate HTML right now. Regardless, I sat through having to italicize everything. Well, not everything, but FFN is a hell of a lot easier. The story is under the username "Leara", same title.

Thirdly, the contents of this chapter might be a little bit disturbing. I won't lie, it will involve dismemberment. I have tried to skate over it as idly as possible, but if you think I should change the rating, let me know. It's not gonna be a frequent feature, though.

Disclaimer: I don't own this franchise and hence not the rights.

Silent Spider: Chapter 15

Rome, Italy

- The next day

'Lesson one: curiosity gets you killed,' Natasha mouthed as she pulled Yelena to her feet. 'Lesson two: curiosity ensures your survival.'

Although the words and concept couldn't have been new to Yelena, the young assassin frowned. She was wary of Natasha's sudden change in demeanor, though, something for which Natasha was pleased. Since yesterday's realizations, Yelena looked at Natasha with different eyes, as if Natasha had her entire attention and had earned it, too.

"How does that wo—," Yelena began, but Natasha cut her off.

'Don't question the rules. Do you question survival?' she asked pointedly.

Yelena pondered the question. "No."

Natasha nodded, pleased with the answer. 'Good. Now, resume.'

Both Russians picked up the eskrima sticks. They were fairly easy to maintain and keep a hold of, and could be deadly in the hands of a trained user. Natasha intended to teach her young protégé the craft—not the art, as time was not endless and hastily cut short by news—to prepare her for future fights. After overcoming her surprise at Natasha's identity, she'd reluctantly told her the story of what had happened in Germany. It seemed poor hand-to-hand combat training and coordination had been to blame—something that Natasha strived to correct for reasons she wasn't entirely ready to admit.

Desta had sent news and ordered Nikolaevna to remain in Rome and for Belova to remain with her. The Bastard, unsurprisingly, was told the same. To his credit, he kept his promise, sticking to the shadows and background and making no presumptuous comments about Clint's—whom he assumed to be a local—nightly exodus or the raised but thankfully muffled voices he'd heard.

The sticks collided time upon time, and Yelena's technique improved until her arms quaked with exertion, but her eyes flared with the will to learn. Hours had passed in the meantime, and Natasha paused the sparring lesson, retiring to the water bottles they had placed alongside the wall. Yelena, embracing the pause, slid down the wall and gulped the contents of the bottle greedily. Natasha stopped her, causing the girl to look at her questionably.

'Don't drink like a thirsting man. Adapt your body to low rations. That way, when it's no longer available, you'll last longer,' Natasha told her, sipping mildly from the bottle.

Yelena nodded hesitantly, drinking in her words and knowledge. She didn't worship Natasha, but she had realized and acknowledged that she needed Natasha's knowledge and experience to learn; not to mention she was still being punished for her incompetence in Germany.

'How long?' Natasha asked, piercing the silence. She'd been wondering. Red Room's last known facility had been taken down five years ago. It had been one of her last S.H.I.E.L.D. missions, but she'd made sure there would be no resurrections. 'How long have you been on your own?'

"Three years," Yelena admitted, obviously not comfortable discussing it. "The first two years a man from… there… took me with him, continued my training. He left. An orphanage took me in, but I ran away when I realized I wasn't like the rest."

That they weren't trained killers. 'How old are you really?' Natasha's stern look ordered honesty, even if whatever age Yelena had come up with had been accepted by Desta and her peers.

"Sixteen."

Natasha felt a surge of anger go through her. Jesus, she'd been expected to face this girl. Could she have killed her, if she'd faced the Belova Red Room had trained to be the Black Widow? She did a lot of things for survival, but having glimpsed into the (however screwed up) girl Yelena was, the thought sickened her more than some of her past transgressions. The girl had to have killed, but yet she remained innocent under that hardened exterior. She blamed Clint—and what happened—for her sudden compassion and instability in her emotions. Yelena knew her as Nikolaevna, a former Black Widow, although she seemed unsure of which one.

"Yesterday, you said…" Yelena paused, switching into Russian because she could, as she had a tendency to do when she thought of Red Room. Natasha had noticed. "You said I was you."

Natasha inhaled slowly. She mentally berated herself for not having remembered that Yelena's mind would have been trained from early childhood to remember things and recall with clarity, memorizing even the most unimportant of details. As the Bastard, she was perceptive, but it was in a different kind of way. She had no answer to give the girl truly. It could not be demanded of her to tell what she'd done, but yet she was surprised to find Yelena insidious. Did she not realize that she had merely been one amongst many, and that the process had not been unique or novel? That there was only one graduate per process, but that it had been repeated beyond imagination?

'I started out as you once—younger, even,' she mouthed, thinking of the 1930s and how close Yelena's training came to hers. Not enough differed. She was not about to tell the girl that she'd been a slave to Red Room spanning decades due to scientifically artificial and biological enhancement. Had there been Black Widows since she defected? She hadn't encountered any, but that did not mean that none had come into existence. Then again, perhaps the selection process had become more difficult, considering there were no longer abundant groups of Soviet girls volunteered or taken from the breasts of their mothers as babes. Secrecy was valuable indeed, perhaps enough of a covetable trait to be patient.

'Do you remember a time before them? At all?' Natasha asked, her eyes softening in absentmindedness as she remembered. She didn't consider Yelena's response if one were to be seen. 'If so, then I envy you and pity you all the same. If,' – and she used if because granted, Yelena would never reach her age, and fate had a tendency to be cruel towards the lifespans of assassins; when would be a word too kind to use, and Natasha was never kind – 'you reach my age, they will be all you remember. The hours and days and months of hurting and of growing stronger, of rising above. You know what I'm speaking of.'

Yelena had grown silent, not slumberous. She rubbed her wrists absentmindedly. "What about you? How long did you…?" The girl eventually trailed off, uncertain of which word to use. Indeed, what words could describe the service demanded of the Black Widows?

Natasha laughed bitterly and wordlessly. It burned all the way down her throat. Oh, the irony that she now, too, was filling this girl with words of lies, and that she yet never had been so honest with anybody whose tale was so similar. 'For a very long time, they told me I was their vdova. They even made me one, for all intents and purposes.'

Only sadness could be seen before it was replaced by hardness. Yelena stiffened by her side, obviously having drawn some conclusion of her own. Natasha putted the bottle down, now capped, and hesitantly grabbed the younger girl's knee—she knew better than to restrain, even if benignly, a hand, and thereby a quarter of the limbs used for fighting—in shy comfort. "I always knew there were others—others more likely to survive. Those were my sisters, whom I knew would one day probably kill me during training."

'I am no sister of yours,' Natasha said darkly. I am the mirror image you should never try to imitate. I made all the bad decisions, although there is one I don't regret making. Not until now when I realized it is the one that made them target you. Her choice to deflect—although the word choice was debatable—had caused Red Room to fervently search for a girl to replace her. A new Black Widow who wouldn't make the same mistakes. 'And you would know better to never know my name.'

Yelena eyed her strangely as if not comprehending. Red Room was gone, but the bogeyman wasn't. Two Widows remained. Or the ghost of such, and a potential candidate. "They tell about you," the brunette blurted. "The older girls." Her face saddened as the blush faded. "They told about you, I s'pose. They're all dead now."

I will not take the blame for that. The girls you mention died in combat. It is about the most honorable death they could get. Natasha had less guilt towards her actions that had essentially and eventually meant the deaths of these girls whom Yelena had dubbed sisters. Not all had died by her hand, or gun, or even command. Some must have died during training or later missions. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't responsible for the takedowns of every bad guy in the book, just a certain percentage.

'The dead do not speak of the dead,' Natasha mouthed and got up, deciding that the time for such intimate discussions was past.

"Wait, Romanova—," Yelena called out, but would have wished she wouldn't. She actually gulped when she saw Natasha's reaction.

She snapped. Her eyes breathed fire and ice like a wrathful dragon. Many a men would have cowered under the glare, but Yelena merely squirmed. She was not Romanova; she was not Romanoff, and she certainly wasn't about to have the name resurrected by a foolish girl. Her expression might have been murderous. 'Nikolaevna,' she corrected icily and threw the sticks at her, which the girl caught with an almost frightened expression. 'And that will be all you ever call me. I am not Natalia Romanova.'

Not anymore, the serpentine whisper of the past told her.

That's bullshit, Tasha. You are who you've always been. You've made some bad choices. Clint's words echoed in her head. She blinked forcefully and turned.

Yelena swallowed hard and, Natasha could see, pretended not to see the fuming anger in Natasha's eyes. "Nikolaevna, then." She smiled as she mused. "The name of a czarina."

However unwelcomed and unprepared for such comment, Natasha couldn't help but smile slowly behind the girl's back.

Rome, Italy

- One day later

Sometimes she wondered if observation was the only true alternative to dormant muteness. If not so, she certainly did a lot of seemingly pointless observation. Not pointless, she corrected herself, simply less than rewarding compared to her former ways. She remembered a time where she had thoughtlessly killed without making a sound when she could have used it to seek new victims. She had stalked the enemies of her employers with disregard, not giving the power of speech—and how to manipulate it fully—a single moment's appreciation. She sighed with reprieve; no, targeting and singling out Takahashi required speech, a tool that she was left without.

Natasha had been hesitant of her own proposal, weighing her options in her head, the pros and cons of each scenario. In the end, it had been an adequate punishment for Belova, who had endured three days of Natasha's mentorship. Takahashi would be Yelena's for the taking, and Natasha would merely be an observer of the shadows. She would see to it that Yelena, on her own, would make sure she remained nameless by making sure Takahashi told no tales and whispered no rumors, especially to the eyes of Interpol and S.I.D. and Clint Barton.

Yelena Belova would succeed where Natasha could not.

Natasha was still not quite sure how to feel towards Clint's betrayal. The part of her which felt no anger was relieved, but regretful of the way, that Clint was finally firmly shunned from her life as Nikolaevna; that he had seen part truths and left before he could realize that she wasn't going to change; that her life as the scum he'd accused her of being was as permanent as the word 'permanent' implied. She owed a debt that was breathing and living, growing with each tussle. Clint had never truly understood the ties she had with her debts, and she would therefore always shield from him the truth of her situation. By removing him, she'd spared him unimaginable heartache. Loving came too easy when it came to Clint—loving should never come easy to a person like her. Hating, as it was, was an inevitable follower. In all her years as an assassin, hatred had only been possible when she'd simultaneously allowed herself to love, even gently and volatilely, or in denial.

Clint had been a terribly successful master when it came to caring. He made it hard not to; made it hard to be sufficient and expressionless. He wouldn't last long in Tarpeius, even if he made friends. Leons were brothers, in arms and in comradeship. She was more of an exception than a rule—hadn't she always been?

Natasha fell back into her casual spot on a café. The evening was chill for the season but she needed no coat although it was late. She was feigning reading a newspaper, occasionally scouting for the Japanese ex-officer. The Bastard was chatting up some Italians across the street, conversationally so, and Belova, tonight's decoy and bait, had been forced into a more age appropriate outfit—forced because of the girl's grimace upon being instructed to dig up an outfit that would suffice and subsequent puzzlement, for the girl had none nor the desire to dress as what she'd referred to as a 'stuck-up, whiny tramp with superiority complexes'. Regardless, Natasha had impatiently gone shopping with the girl, discussing the terms of silencing Takahashi Masao's bird tweets. It had felt utterly ridiculous and snarky, since Yelena had not—and did not—share Natasha's fondness for dressing up and becoming a different part.

The sixteen-year-old seemed adamant to remain Natasha's second shadow, something that troubled the older operative less due to her breakup. Breakup—the word was too sweet, too soap opera, like she and Clint had been high school students and not treacherous lovers. She missed him, but she couldn't love him. These past five years had jaded her beyond recognition in regards to the Black Widow, and perhaps also in regards to S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Natasha Romanov. To be honest, she wasn't sure of what Clint saw in her; part of her never could see the same woman he claimed to see, but he accepted the person behind all the masks and aliases, so she left him be, enjoying his companionship more than anything. It was her fault for becoming ensnared in the illusion, her mistake. Focusing on Yelena's training was a nice distraction—one she thoroughly embraced.

Natasha had never taken part of the actual training of the girls who were to be trained as Widows after her, but she'd selected and overseen the facilities and faculty leaders. She'd been glorified as an assassin within Red Room, enough so that the girls still whispered of her in the corners. Well, no longer, Natasha thought with relatively little remorse. She felt terrible for ending the lives of so many, but it could not be helped. Nikolaevna wouldn't feel remorseful, so she could not allow herself to be.

They're criminals. They're scums. You know what that makes you? Yeah, you do… You know what Interpol thinks of you, because you've thought the same, don't deny it!

Natasha swallowed hard and skimmed the sports section again. It seemed the local soccer team was doing well…

What, waiting for your goons to come finish it off? Tell me this isn't true. Tell me you're working for someone. Not the guys in there!

Her fingers shook in response to the haunting words and she hated how much they affected her. She swallowed firmly—again—and wanted to banish them, but found herself unable. She cursed her accurate memory with fervor and turned the page. Clint had acted as her second conscience—the first had quickly been put down in Red Room—for too long. His sentiments regarding her employers and whom she socialized with were unnecessary, cruel, and oughtn't to mean so much. He was a leaf in the autumn that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been to her. However, he was the only leaf that stuck so passionately and cared. Not that leaves cared, but Clint did, damn he did.

Then she caught a glance of a familiar Japanese face and expelled these thoughts instantly. One thing was wondering about Clint when she had the time, another was letting it ruin her work. She signaled the Bastard, who seemed to have noticed, too, before resuming her duty as observant. Takahashi weaved through the crowd, and upon first glance, he looked no different than your standard immigrant or tourist, but Natasha was taught to dig deeper, and so she easily spotted the signs of severe stress and mental exhaustion. Insanity was not far. Perhaps whoever had diagnosed his psychotic breakdown hadn't been that wrong. Desperation only got you so far, and Leons played a cruel game of shadows.

Yelena hunted unnoticeably with remarkable abilities as an actress. She played the part of a 'stuck-up whiny tramp (with superior complexes)' well. She had also spent three hours observing the behavior of Italian teenagers, so it didn't surprise Natasha completely. Red Room had trained her well but hadn't had the time to finish until Natasha had come with the metaphorical torch. Her intimate knowledge of Red Room's training process had enabled her to see to it that Red Room never ruined more lives. If she got the chance, she'd ask about the man who had continued Yelena's training. He wouldn't have left her willingly, and had most likely died, but Natasha disliked the prospect of leaving survivors—or having someone, especially an unfriendly, who could recognize her roaming this world.

The girl portrayed the role of a silly-headed girl well, giggling and blushing appropriately. Belova wasn't the asset Natasha had been, mainly due to her youth and the untimely downfall of Red Room. She was exactly what her appearance insinuated: inexperienced. Another aspect where they differed was that she lacked beauty. It took a woman, or a child's innocence, to be beautiful. Her genetics simply opposed her where they strengthened her skills, and there was little Red Room had been able to do about it. Many of Natasha's "sisters" had been beautiful, but beauty insured no favor in the training ring, and Red Room had been satisfied when their crown jewel, graduate of their wicked tests, was someone whose prettiness could be cultivated into beauty. Belova would never see that, hopefully. Natasha would see to it that she survived, but she wouldn't train Yelena to seduce for the purpose of killing. Nobody deserved that skillset, that terrible privilege and burden.

Am I genuinely feeling this or am I deceiving myself? Natasha had asked herself many times upon deflection. She had become so well a seductress, a manipulator, that she wondered if she fooled herself, too. She wouldn't want that for Yelena. Yelena was her Natasha, her chance to do good, even by bestowing skillsets of destruction upon a teenage girl. She hadn't corrupted Yelena—Red Room had. Red Room wasn't there to finish, and for some reason, Natasha had accepted that job.

If Yelena thought these things, she didn't share, and Nikolaevna was fine with that as she wanted her recent protégé hunt with the allure of a confused teen lost in a big city. Takahashi was paranoid at first, but politeness towards a young stranger, especially a pretty brunette who gazed at him so wide-eyed, overruled whatever he'd been doing. Natasha watched them until they were out of sight, waiting two minutes until she rose from the café chair, folding and abandoning the newspaper. She'd given the Bastard orders to remain at his post for five more minutes, so she was alone as she made her way to the arranged alleyway where Takahashi would realize Yelena's trap.

As the noise of the crowd faded in the narrow alleyway, Natasha looked straight ahead, zigzagging around dumpsters that partially obscured the view. Rapid Spanish soon filled her ears.

"—sorry, sir, but I really thought that this was the way my brother ran—." Yelena's distress sounded real, and her acting skills had convinced the Japanese. Really, it was the oldest trick in the book. Get a young attractive girl in front of a man and he'll consider it. Natasha had been in the business long enough to know it didn't solely work with men, but with women too. Lust was a tool of manipulation, as was innocence.

"Senorita, this obviously isn't—," Takahashi began, but then he sensed the dark presence in the alley. Natasha stepped into view, and suddenly, the least of his worries was Yelena. Natasha's hands were at her sides, docile, harmless, but he recognized the look of an intelligence officer, of an assassin—of someone who could easily kill him.

He made the mistake of thinking Natasha had been sent to kill him.

Which was probably why he didn't see the kick to his stomach, an adolescent leg crashing against his abdominal muscles. Neither of the Russian women flinched. Natasha had known the blow would come, and Yelena had used force and combined it with the element of surprise. He fell down, and Natasha wondered if Yelena had strayed his solar plexus. Probably not, but he looked breathless either way, wheezing.

Yelena moved to lock her arm around his neck, movements quick and doubtless. Natasha walked closer, the image of equanimity, each step registered by the sound click of each heel. She unzipped her jumper to expose the scarred skin and watched Takahashi's eyes widen in recognition. Her scar had become her identity to friends and foes alike. She didn't need to unholster her gun to frighten the man who claimed to know so much—and probably did—about Leonum Tarpeius.

He struggled against Yelena's hold and used his head to crack against her skull, sending her backwards as he raised his aching body from the dirty ground, trying to control his breaths. He looked at her, demanding a reason, expecting some kind of villainously arrogant share of Tarpeius' plans. She would give him none and perform no interrogation.

Upon realizing she wouldn't charge towards him, Takahashi focused on his attacker—Yelena, who had the agile speed of a youngster. She'd grabbed a nearby pipe that would make a useful replacement of the eskrima sticks even if the balance of the material was different, its weight heavier. Before Takahashi could acquire a makeshift weapon of his own, she swung it in a controlled arch, straying his chin and sending him tottering backwards.

He spat blood out on the asphalt as he recovered. Natasha watched the fight as someone watched a tennis match. She knew who'd win. Takahashi's gun lay scattered on the ground behind her, and Natasha had armed Yelena with a retractable machete that, when extended fully, was a formidable weapon when opposed with human flesh. She no longer eagerly itched for fights—although she had no problem with fighting—like Yelena did, and was no pacifist, but watching was dull compared to the rush of adrenaline. She thought of her latest fight, not counting the sparring sessions with the young Widow, with the man in Berlin who'd slashed his weapon and harmed her shallowly. That wound had almost healed and she didn't need bandages any longer.

"I was right," Takahashi gasped like a madman as his arm was held back with all Yelena's strength, popping out of its joint. "You exis—argh!"

He screamed as his attacker pulled harder, forcing him to the ground in defeat, her leg pressed into his back. His neck was craned to avoid getting dirt into his mouth. Personally, Natasha thought they were doing him a favor. Insanity wasn't pretty, but obsession was definitely ugly. Insane obsession like Takahashi's had ruined his life. His wife had divorced him early in this endeavor. He had no children or extended family. His mother was in a retirement home. This needed to be done.

Yelena pulled out the machete and spoke, the gullibility banished from her voice. In its place was the girl who'd received training as an assassin since the age of five. "Takahashi Masao, have you heard the story of the boy who cried wolf? It seems you should."

Takahashi let out a wail of disbelief and pain as the machete cut through ligament and flesh. A quick chopping sound was heard. Yelena's strength was impressive. It wasn't easy to calmly dismember someone. The severed hand rolled sloppily until it hit the wall of the alleyway. Yelena removed her foot from the wrist and Takahashi immediately clutched it to his chest, dyeing the shirt red.

"Are you insane?" he hissed, his mind going into shock.

"Shh. Not done yet," Yelena said, exchanging gazes with Natasha. Maybe killing Takahashi would have been more merciful, but Tarpeius rarely was. Another cry pierced the alley, but was drowned by the traffic and hum of chatter. Only as the other hand had been severed from its arm did Natasha step forward and reach for Yelena's machete. If the girl felt squeamish, she didn't show it. Chris, was she really forcing a sixteen-year-old to do this?

Organized crime? Europe? What happened to wanting to live a normal life, huh?

That was your dream. Never mine.

You left S.H.I.E.L.D. so you could go off and join these people? Murderers and terrorists?

"She's Desta's for God's sake. Do you think she'd be here if he hadn't told her to?"

Natasha shook her head, forcing these memories back. Her hands were quick, her eyes never straying the man's, as she knelt down, holding the man's head back so his struggle was at a minimum. She braced herself for the guttural cries she'd experience. This was never pretty. With a sigh, she mouthed, not really caring if he'd understand, 'This will hurt less if you don't move.'

His breath was ragged and labored and he was afraid. Natasha could only comfort herself with the fact that Yelena took no pleasure from this. She was no sadist. Natalia had been. Yelena and Natasha were okay with enduring and watching people endure pain. No pleasure was taken, no intervention occurred. The world continued turning and spinning, regardless of the horrible deaths of its inhabitants.

Then she brought the knife she'd conjured from her pocket into his mouth, found the slimy spot she was looking for, and cut. Takahashi's body stilled before panicking utterly, but his struggle only furthered the blood loss as the crimson fluid gushed from his mouth along with the dismembered and eternally lost organ. Natasha rose before she could get her pants bloodied, and saw the Bastard approach per prior instruction and arrangement.

'We're done here,' she announced, pocketing the knife and handing Yelena back the machete. She'd used it, she would clean it—or discard it, whatever she favored. 'Good job.'

It was shallow praise, but Yelena nodded anyway. She understood that there was no joke in death, a lesson that would do her well. Mild disgust showed on the Bastard's face as he took in the bloody alley and the rasping Takahashi, but he soon smirked. "Just a girl's night out, huh?" he jested.

"Should we take his phone?" Yelena asked, and for the first time tonight, doubt and insecurity was to be traced in her voice.

'I don't see how he would use it,' Natasha stated dryly. The man had lost both hands and his tongue—and would probably die from blood loss before he could summon help, much less communicate.

"He might have it connected to his skydrive," the Bastard reminded her.

'Take it and destroy it,' Natasha said. Yelena complied but paused as she bent down to the Japanese man. Her hesitation didn't last long, however, before she dug into his pocket and retrieved his personal items, wallet, phone, keys. She discarded the first and the latter, but kept the phone, aptly removing the cover and taking the card, disassembling it and discarding the pieces as the made their way from the dumpstered alley. She handed the SIM card to Natasha.

"How about we go grab some food?" the Bastard suggested casually.

Both glanced to her for approval. Natasha thought about it. They hadn't eaten for three hours, but she wasn't particularly hungry. If the Bastard was after seeing the alley, it was his problem. Nevertheless, eating would be a nice distraction. 'You go ahead. Takeout only.'

Yelena smiled a small smile and Natasha smiled back, although she wasn't sure why. The Bastard followed, and again, Natasha saw a couple of goofy siblings, not professional killers that had just dismembered a man to silence him. Desta knew that taking a person's speech wasn't enough to silence them, and therefore the hands had been necessary, too. If he ever regained the ability to communicate—and didn't die in the alley—doctors would blame the trauma for his incoherent accusations.

She ungloved her right hand to deal with the heat and blood that had gotten through its seams and didn't see the dart fly by before she felt its sedatives enter her bloodstream with a small prick. She fought the effects futilely before someone grabbed for her before she hit the ground as she passed out.

Dammit.

No, what did I do to her? Who wants to have Natasha drugged and sedated? Who did she wrong?

Reviews are as always appreciated!