Chapter 4
Six nineteen: eleventh of May.
The Austrian embassy's annual UN peace gala was due to begin in only a few minutes. An event dedicated to fostering positive relationships between countries, new trade agreements, and indulgence in the poorly considered open bar (for, if anything can help create favourable communications, it is the power of alcohol's influence. Nothing else in the world has quite the same sway over numbskulls and drunkards like the poisonous booze, that turns otherwise sensible people into utter buffoons). The event had been held for every year for twenty years, tonight being its anniversary. The night's turnout was the highest in a decade (not that it haas a particularly impressive feat for an event of only two decades in age, but hey! People like to celebrate!). Buzzing excitement filled the hall, winding its way through each person in turn, spreading like an uncontrollable flame. A metaphor that was soon to become literal.
Mr Conrad Wilhelm stood admiringly before his boudoir looking glass, tucking an expensive Cartier pin to secure his silk cravat. To him, tonight held significant importance. This was the first time his superiors had declared him to be of high enough efficiency to be deemed worthy to act as the representative for the German populace. His great influence had earned him his seat, undeniably. It was just such a shame his predecessor had been called away on urgent family business. He smiled smugly at the remembrance of William rushing away into the night.
It was such a shame he would not return to his position, and Conrad would have to chivalrously volunteer to take over the responsibility. He closed the hotel door loudly behind him, sending a jolt across the room. Had he know the truth of the evening, he would have spent a moment longer holding the picture of his wife; he would have closed the door more slowly; he wouldn't have caused that very picture to fall from his bedside, where the impact would fracture the glass, sending silver lines spilling across the his face and body in their honeymoon photo. He would have called his new bride and told her he loved her. But he didn't know. So he slammed the door.
Crowds of dignitaries and journalists flooded through the wide gates, oohing and aahing as they clamoured to gaze upon the fine architecture and ornate gardens. Conrad strode past the throngs, unimpressed by the towering grandeur surrounding him. His attention was grabbed instantaneously, as his gaze fell upon a woman standing by the fountain. Her dark silhouette cutting the crowd like a knife. He tore his gaze away quickly, giving himself a stern reminder of his current marital status. Yet, it was not a crime to look? He shoved the woman from his mind, pushing onwards to introduce himself to the new French ambassador.
The evening ticked by on the gilded clock, tawny dusk gave gradually to a velvet night, stars adorning the sky like the multitudinous diamonds shining from the elegant figures twirling across the spotless marble floor. Conrad was deep into his third whisky. His conversation had been rapid, but his evening companions seemed thoroughly enraptured in his every breath. He took a great sense of pleasure in delivering his country the dues it so rightly deserved, no matter the exhaustion it would cause him. Through the night, however, he slowly became aware of the woman again.
He had no intent in watching her, nor did he mean to to take such note. But her dazzling smile was eternally flashing in his peripheral vision; her sparkling, emerald eyes connecting with his dull grey every few words she uttered; every movement seemed to pull his body away from him. He was thoroughly entranced by the mysterious woman.
She finally extracted herself from the conversation flowing around her. He felt his heart skip a beat as she made her way steadily toward him. He watched her bourbon locks bounce through the crowds, swinging gaily with each deliberate step. She pulled a chair from the bar beside him, allowing her curvature to sink into the plush cushion.
"Scotch." She told the bartender briskly "neat. Now…you can't seem to keep your eyes from me, can you?" He bristled as her gaze swept over his body, curving from his shined shoes, to his overly stylish haircut. Her eyes seemed to settle a few inches from his belt buckle. "I take it you like what you see."
He turned his person to face the bar, suddenly aware of his expression.
The bartender glanced up at him, but said nothing, as he slid the warm amber liquor down to the woman. "Here." He turned to see her passing him the cold glass, watching as the liquid sloshed in his direction. "You need this more than I do. I take it this is your first time at this kind of event?" This time her words came accompanied by a smile.
"Is it that obvious?" He blushed softly. He tinkling laughter erupted once more.
"Yes. I suppose it is. But I don't think anyone else would say the same. Morons." She spat bitterly, as though the very thought of those around her caused her a great pain. He gulped a few sips of liquid courage, attempting to reaffirm his rattled nerves.
"It might be a bit harsh to call them such things. Especially in earshot."
"So?" She argued "what if they can hear me? They have all the power in the world, and yet man still suffers around us. Their yearning for the finer things in life drives them further and further from humanity and its base need. This party is for peace, yet it still only remains a party." She uttered something he couldn't discern, then sighed loudly. "But… enough of my complaint. You must be pleased that your employer has entrusted you with such responsibility?"
"Y-yes. It is an honour to have such trusting colleagues." He said humbly "But they can only do such things for a reason, of course." He added, smugly.
"Ha." She pulled the drink from his grasp, taking a swig. "Ahh. That reason being your talent? Or maybe your good looks? The smile? Quite dashing." He blushed a deep crimson hue, gently loosening his collar. The room seemed to have gotten hotter by almost a million degrees.
Their conversation flew by, each passing moment featuring some new pleasure. The party guests had begun to dwindle in numbers, yet the two of them stayed by the bar. He knew he could only speak to her here, else he would cross a line of no return. He soon lost himself, however, in her luminous beauty, and the bottom of his glass of scotch. He found his head begin to utter its warning cries, begging him to slow, to remember his beloved back home. He could not, or would not, listen to them. He had crossed the line he had warned himself to never cross.
The two made their way down the hotel corridors, laughing animatedly at the most boring things. He barely noticed how she swayed differently from him, or the fact the her intelligent eyes still held their alert gleam. She had drunk not on drop that evening, yet supplied him with a steady stream. He was far beyond the realms of sanity at this point, and she had got him there without even showing breast. She knew this part of the job would be of no enjoyment for either party.
Her arched shoulders relaxed, letting the black Versace strapless slid to the floor. Her slingback shoes lying discarded by the door. Her light figure stood proudly before the mirror, allowing herself a brief moment of content. She tugged her fair hair from its carefully constructed up-do, allowing her auburn tresses to spill across her delicate form.
She knew how far this would go, he wouldn't even get to feel her warm skin. She needed to know who he worked for. This was the best way to find out. A man will betray anything for a promised pleasure.
The bathroom light went dark, a cool air rushing the room. She looked up in alarm. Maybe the fuse had gone? In her experience, nothing had ever been so easy. Her fingers coiled around the courtesan blade tucked in her clutch (the security had been far to lax at the gala). The room beyond lay in complete darkness, her believed lover lying atop the red silk comforter. She breathed a sigh of relief, chastising herself for such foolishness. Or was she? Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Had the sheets not been blue… she stifled a gag, realising he was no longer breathing, a vermilion stain spreading from a gaping hole in the middle of his bare chest.
The window flapped against an unfelt breeze, taunting her. She pressed her fingers against his cool skin, searching for some semblance of life. She found none.
"You know…" she sprang to her feet, turning to face the unseen intruder. A girl sat in the plush armchair, twirling a blade between her bloody fingers. Her face twisted into a monstrous grin.
"I think he might be dead." The girl pushed up from the chair, walking towards her, "Natasha."
"How do you know me? Who are you? Why did you do thi-" Natasha's voice faltered, barely choking out her next few breaths, as her own dagger's cold steel was pressed against her throat.
"I'll do the talking, Nat. Ok? Okay." She said, the warm breath causing the hairs on Natasha's neck to stand on end, "I didn't kill anyone. You did. Asking questions. The moment you said 'hello' he was dead. Lose ends will unravel the sweater, better to tie them off before they ruin the work. But… at least you walk away. As a scapegoat. Now tell your bosses to stop looking this way, or the streets fill with blood." She rasped, warningly.
Natasha grabbed the girl's wrist, forcing the knife from her grasp. The girl stumbled away from her, surprised. Natasha plunged the blade into the girl's side, forcing her back. The girl only laughed, a sudden jab sending Natasha flying. She watched the girl pull the blade from its intrusion. The implement sat numbly in her hand, sliding into well worn crevices, perfectly at home in the strangers's palm. Natasha lunged for her, her knee scuffing against the girls chin. An arm missed a head; a foot hit a jaw; limbs bruised, and wounds bled; finally the girl seemed to tire. Natasha's fist coiled around her neck, a snake's vice tightened against the bluing surface. An upper hand at last!
It didn't last.
"Pathetic." The girl twisted, whipping her leg against Natasha's shoulder, knocking the breath from her body. It was her turn to get hurt. Fists pummelled against her, leaving angry breakages in their wake. Natasha staggered away, desperately trying to find the air to fill her empty lungs, waves of nausea washing over her like an unruly sea.
She was the elder of the two, yet had been easily outmatched by the girl before her. The girl stood statuesque before her, blood rushing down her face and side. Still, she was standing, smiling, before her, not a single irregular breath. She cocked her head quizzically, as though she'd expected more. The girl had taken bruisings that would show on steel, in spite of that, her moonlight complexion betrayed nothing, but for the fresh blood. Her tight ponytail swinging, but still as kempt as the moment their eyes had met. But the eyes… the eyes flashed bright against the ebony dark. A malefic madness shining from behind a curtain of sapphire sadness. The eyes betrayed her pain. A sharp pain, and not a new one. The same sadness Natasha had seen countless times before, but she couldn't remember where.
The girl flinched. She turned towards the window, watching it thrash within its frame. The knife fell from her hand, a loud screaming echoed from it as it penetrated the stern floor below. The girl laughed darkly, turning to look Natasha in the eyes.
"Goodbye, Natasha." She spat " This act is over, and it was only our first act. And The Actress can linger no longer." She stepped out onto the window ledge, "Until our next cues bring us together once more. I will look forward to it." She bowed gracefully. Then she let herself fall.
Natasha stumbled to the window, watching the girl fall the length of an eighty story building. Her long blonde hair flying angelically around her in a halo of gold. A shower of blood flowing in a scarlet ribbon behind her. Then she was gone. She was just gone. Natasha scoured the streets below, searching desperately for her. Her eyes found nothing but irritated drivers, and miles of congested traffic. The loud horns percolating the room even from street level. Wailing sirens rang to her ears, a road accident causing traffic to last far longer than expected.
Natasha punched the wall in frustration. Her one job had been to find out who he'd worked for. That was a bust. She sighed. The watch sitting on the counter began to buzz. She pulled it to her face, clicking the button to transform it back to her communicator.
A steel room popped up on the holographic screen, two men occupying its metal confines. A dark skinned man stood commandingly in the centre of the room, a black eyepatch adorned the right side of his face. This was a man who wouldn't gag if you showed him a million burning corpses.
"Fury. We need clean up." She said briskly. He seemed to lose a touch of nerve, turning away from her, hiding his good eye behind a gloved hand. Her partner, Clint, stood jaws agape, staring at her as though she had turned into an emu.
"Romanoff…" he stuttered, "what, uh, happened?" She wondered why he was acting so funny.
"Fury… what's wrong?" He mumbled a few words, seemingly tripping over his own tongue.
"Oh, for the love of!" Clint interjected, "Nat, you're naked! We can see your breasts! Not that you look bad, or anything." He added hastily.
She looked down. Realising she wasn't wearing anything. It occurred to her that Fury and Clint could both see everything through the camera. A small smile spread across her face, as she pulled her dress to cover herself (for their benefit). "You know, the most interesting things happen when you're naked." She thought to herself.
She remembered where she'd seen that sadness before. A deep melancholy, a weltschmezer unlike any in this, or any other, world. The look she'd awoken to since she was old enough to kill. The look of a Widow. A girl with nothing to lean on but the blade and gun. Every human compassion denied and forbidden kindness a disease to be eradicated. The child of some unfortunate soul who was struck down without mercy. A child with no one and nothing to love or be loved by.
That girl did the job she herself had barely escaped. She was the only one to ever do so. That fact wouldn't change. Because she was wrong. The girl wasn't a Widow. She was worse. Her life was worse. And she did have some one to love. She had quite a few. And that's why her life was complete torture. That was why everyone she'd ever met (except a certain few) had made it their life's work to make her suffer beyond human computation.
Four thirteen pm: twelfth of May.
The cold air bit her raw skin, stinging her eyes and wound alike. A car screeched to a halt as she dashed across the street; the driver sent a flurry of Austrian curse words chasing after her. She had to get away! She had to… "but why?" A quiet voice asked in the back of her head. "Why must you run? Stop. Just stop. It will be easier this way." She pulled the hood tighter over her ears, trying to block the voice that made to much sense to her. She had to move. They'd catch her otherwise.
She looked different from when they'd met, but her eyes shone the same. The same shine that had dulled in the woman's eyes, yet still burned beneath the surface. She would find her if she stopped. There weren't that many people bleeding to death from a courtesan blade. Ok, maybe there were, but that wasn't the point. And they probably wouldn't be dying of a wound from that exact weapon. Just another type of sharp objects that someone had forced into their bodies.
She slumped against the back alley's brickwork; her legs' complaints became to loud to ignore. She was tired, so tired. She couldn't stop. But she had to. They needed to move. And she needed to sleep. A million oxymorons filled her mind, her different limbs yelling a cacophony in her pounding skull. She felt like crying, more than she'd ever felt in her life. And she'd had a lot to cry about…
"That won't solve anything. You know that. Keep moving. Don't think, just do." She'd uttered these same words a billion times prior.
She tried to stand, bracing her leg for the fresh bout of pain that comes from walking on a fractured tibia. Then she felt the tear. Her foot stood at the wrong angle, the pressure unevenly divided. An ivory gleam met her gaze, bathed in the dark blood flowing to curl around her ankle, twisting to the floor beneath. The world capsized around her; pain blurred her vision. She wrenched herself from the wall, gritting her teeth against the powerful agony ricocheting up the length of her framework. She walked from that place by the wall, letting two overdue tears seep through the dam she'd built so long ago.
The air was getting heavier; her lungs could barely pull it in. The world was spinning all around her, tripping her, disorienting her. All she wanted was to curl up on the floor and close her eyes, but she had a long way to go. And she would make it. Nothing could break her. Not now. Not ever. But exhaustion pulled at her eyelids, tugging the down, lulling her into a restless sleep. Her leg was trashed and trailing; the pain weighed her every move. She shook her head, delirious. She could almost hear her brother's voice, calling her. But which was it? She had so many. Makoto? No… he was… did she have brothers? It felt so far away…
A hand grasp her shoulder from behind, pulling her back.
"Chloe! Chloe…" Adi's voice cracked, he threw his arms around her, letting his strength fill her aching body. "I was so worried. You missed check in, and the room was trashed, and you…" his voice became lost in the swirling currents in her brain. She tried to hear him, to make her way to the sound of his voice. But she couldn't make it.
"Chloe!" He shouted into her ear, yanking her from the tormented depths inside, "Chloe, I know you can hear me. You have to stay awake, okay! Just lean on me, I'll get you home. Please… I can't lose you… not again." His words began to falter, drowning in sea of fresh emotion.
She pressed her hand against his cheek, stroking it lovingly "I'm… not going… anywhere… without yo…" her head lolled against his chest, her breathing heavy and laboured. The darkness claimed her, tugging her down inside its deep black, each moment placing an ever growing amount of pressure on her.
Adi checked for a heartbeat. He found a single pulse, a slow, weak rhythm playing its final melody. He hefted her limp frame into his arms, gripping her tighter. He knew he couldn't let her go. She was his everything, and he would never let her die. He'd made a promise a long time ago, to protect the people he cared about. Chloe had been the centre of that promise, even if she didn't know it. He lay her across the back seat of the black sedan, gently lowering her head across a makeshift pillow made from his coat. His foot found the pedals, pushing the accelerator to the floor. They sped away into the night (only stopping momentarily to avoid a rather miffed squirrel). The inky dark pulled them in, hiding them under an impermeable blanket of shadow. A single breath came causally from her lungs. Finally, she was home.