A/N: Okay so this randomly hit me and I was like "Oooh! I'm gonna do this!"
Basically all you need to know is that if the dialogue's like this then the said person is speaking in Russian.
Beauty comes from the dark.
Those five words were her only barrier between sanity and insanity.
She stood up, above the pool of dark crimson blood, wiping the crusting liquid off her hands and onto her charcoal black pants.
Stepping over one of the lifeless bodies, and hiding away her gun, she walks out, not looking back at the death and destruction caused at her hands.
Ice is strong, but once it begins to give out, it shatters.
She punches at the dummy.
She delivers a would-be fatal blow.
The metal hominid falls to the ground. She steps harshly on its neck and grinds downwards for good measure.
No matter how good you are, someone will match you.
She flips over her sparring partner's front, kicking them in the back as she begins descending.
The girl stumbles forwards.
She feels her lip twisting into a cat like smile.
She kicks the backside of the girl's knees.
The girl falls forwards, and collapses.
"Yield." She snarles, stepping on the other's arm.
She's silent.
"Yield." She repeats harshly, putting all her weight on the other's elbow.
The sparring partner screams, the cries echoing throughout the corridors.
"Yield." She says yet again, this time in a low, threatening voice.
"I"
She stomp onto her arm.
A cry escapes her lips. "I yield!"
She begins to withdrawal, but then digs her heel into the other's elbow and grinds down in a circler pattern.
She then walks off, relishing in the sparring partners quiet whimper and heavy breathing.
There are always two.
Your sworn enemy on your left wrist.
And your soul mate on the right.
She wakes up with a searing pain on both of her wrists.
She watches in fascination as the black cursive words are slowly imprinted on her wrists, the pain not even uncomfortable.
One will make you.
The other will break you.
She lifts her wrists shakily up in horror, looking at both.
The same name was inscribed on both wrists.
A hollow scream echoes throughout the hallways. No one comes. No one can be bothered by the screams of a young girl. She realizes the screams are her own.
"Of course, I wouldn't do the same for anyone. That's what we've been trained. Only ourselves matter." She thinks bitterly.
•••
"Natasha, child." A quiet, low, cold voice whispers.
Her eyes instantly snap open and she sits up. "Mistress." She says, bowing her head.
"I have another task for my prized pupil." The Mistress purrs quietly, handing Natasha the file.
She takes it, her face expressionless. She does what she's been trained for for 21 years. She reads the file long enough to know the essentials, but fast enough that her heart doesn't succumb to guilt and compassion.
She has a job to complete. She knows the drill. Find the target. Eliminate them. Come back. Make sure no one ever makes the connection between the Ballet and the Murder. If someone does, take care of them, way or another.
She nods sharply to the Mistress, and the older woman exits, a cold smile much like her own gracing her lips.
•••
The target was Nikolayev Korogeiv.
He had a weakness for Popov vodka.
Her lips curl up into a snarl. That wasn't even a Russian brand.
He's had exactly 44 entries in all different hospitals. All for heart and kidney failure.
She mentally noted this. It could be useful it torture was in order.
His wife was deceased. Cause of death: Stabbing. Source: Unknown. All evidence led back to him, but the case had been closed.
Probably bribed the police.
He had three children, grown up. A boy and two girls. All had cut all ties with him.
A negligent father. Probably a drunkard. She reasons.
The nearest neighbor was a mile away. They were on bad terms. No one would miss him.
However, he had a nice little fortune built up, so when taxes were collected, they'd be sure to notice the sudden cut in the budget. Tax collections were a good four months away. By then she and all trace of her would be gone, like mist.
She pulls on black her suit and began to stash away her weapons.
On top, she throws on a large, fluffy, white fur coat with a matching fluffy hat and walks out of the Ballet and into the icy cold December atmosphere, snowflakes circling down in great flurries, falling to the Russian ground.
Her footsteps crunch on the puffy white snow as she walks to the side of the street and hails a cab.
She quickly gets one to stop and pick her up.
After quickly directing the driver to her destination, she looks down at both wrists.
The job had to be done. No matter what. There was no room for love.
She observes the matching name on each wrist.
This makes it easier.
•••
She had the driver drop her off at a town about 10 miles from Korogeiv's home.
She bribes the driver into not charging her, giving him a light kiss on the cheek and walking out, without turning back.
As soon as she hears the rev of the engine and the car speeding off, she turns around and, after checking her surroundings, walks back into the forest.
After stashing her disguise in one if her many safe keeps, and begins her 10 mile trek to the targets house. She makes sure that she is deep in the forest and covers her tracks, despite having shoes with no print on the bottom to ensure that no one can trace her.
The hours tick by one by one.
As dusk was approaching, she reaches the target's house.
She scans the area.
Clear.
With that, she slips through the darkness and into the home.
He had no security. He was either very sure of his skills of his days in the police(he was a corrupt one) or incredibly stupid.
He was reckless. Reckless and arrogant. This would work to her advantage.
She still takes precautions.
Floor after floor, she painstakingly observes each detail. Looking for a sign of a trap. A hint of another person.
Finally she arrives to the fourth floor. She slowly opens the door to the target's room.
The target was laying asleep on his stomach, the blankets huddled around him to keep the harsh Russian winter out.
Quietly, she enters the room, and instantly, her nose was hit with the pungent smell of alcohol.
A bottle of Popov vodka stood at the head of his bed on a desk. She sneers at it before moving into action.
Quickly she grabs his arm and fligs him over.
The target jerks his eyes open and begins to violently try to break free.
Natasha smirks at the fear shining in his eyes.
"You have information I need."
"Need or want?" He spits out.
She feels a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
This was going to be fun.
She twists his arm backwards, relishing the screams.
"The manuscripts." She snarls. "The ones you stole."
"I don't-"
She pulls back a finger, and hears the sharp 'pop' as it snapped.
"Lying will do you no good. Now. The manuscripts. Or the rest of your hand goes."
"I told you-"
She snaps his wrist back. He screams. She keeps on pulling until the entire hand is deformed.
"Tell me."
"No."
She cocked an eyebrow. Oh really? She clocks him in the face, and rips him fully out of the bed, holding a dagger to his throat.
"Tell. Me. Where. They. Are."
"You won't do it." He scoffs.
She smiles slightly, before starting to dig the edge into his neck.
A ragged scream escapes his mouth.
She keeps on going.
"Stop!" He cries. "I tell you!" He says in English.
She pauses, but doesn't pull the blade out.
"It's in-" He switches back to Russian. "Its in my back drawer. The large black one."
She ties him to the bed post with his sheets and gags him with an undershirt laying on the floor. She tentatively goes to the drawer. Taking out the manuscripts, and comparing them to her mental image of them.
They were authentic.
She looks at the target.
Before taking out her gun and firing it into his skull. It was a slug. It wouldn't be traced. It couldn't.
She hides the manuscripts in a part of the skin tight suit and begins to clean up all evidence of her presence here
Just as she was finishing up the last bits, her ears picked up the faintest footsteps.
She looked at the dead target, then to the window that of course were barred shut.
The only exit was the stairs. That'd be a dead getaway. She'd be caught.
She crouched down low under the black desk.
The source to the noise was a man, clearly not meant to be here by invitation. He stealthily crossed over and went over to the target, checking his pulse.
"Dammit." The man hisses.
She slowly readies her gun.
She clicks the trigger.
To her surprise, he ducks just in time. He whirls around, eyes scanning the area. He makes eye contact with Natasha.
She lunges at him, and he counters.
She has to admit. He is good. She hadn't had this much competition since she was 14.
But she was trained to the best. And the best she delivered.
She slams his head against the edge of the drawer.
He slumps, unconscious. She was about to give the last, fatal blow, before something on his wrists catches her attention. She eases him down on the floor and looks at his wrists. On both wrists, left and right, were the words written in perfect cursive:
Natasha Romanoff
Her eyes widen and she slowly observes the man before her.
Blonde. Stocky, but at the same time, built for stealth. Visibly strong arms, and a hearing aid in his left ear.
She backs away slowly.
She had told herself she would be able to kill him.
Told herself it would be easier.
He was her worst enemy.
But he was also her soulmate.
She stares at the man angrily before kicking him in the side.
"Fuck you, Clinton Barton."
She then walks up to the Popov vodka and knocks it to the floor, the glass shattering on the floor, the liquid spilling all over.
She leaves with a cold smirk adoring her facial features.
•••
"Yes, Mistress."
"Well done."
"Will you be needing me sooner? Natasha asks, switching to English.
"Deliver the manuscripts as soon as possible." The Mistress instructs her.
"Yes, Mistress."
She climbs down from the limb of the tree she was in and restarts her path, trying to get as far away from the house and the two men inside of it.
•••
It's one a.m. in the morning and she's still walking through the forest, following the moonlight that the snow reflects off of itself.
Natasha is lost in thought, the slight crunch of snow beneath her feet and the rattle of bare branches against the wind are the only sounds in a world of compete silence.
A slight whistle in the air causes her to jerk back. With a subtle "THUNK" an arrow lodges itself in the tree trunk and Natasha looks at it, blankly, wondering who would be so obvious with their attack on her.
That's when she realized that the edge was flashing a light purple light.
Too late, she tries to jump away, but the explosive hits zero, and the it explodes.
The force of it threw her forwards and she hits the ground. Hard.
Slowly she looks around looking for the offender.
She couldn't see him, but she could hear him.
Her training slams against her skull.
"Protect the Objective."
She stealthily hides it in one of her safe keeps, and sends the coordinates to the Mistress.
This required a diversion.
She got up and began running in the opposite direction, in zig zags around the trees to ensure that he couldn't hit her.
'Who uses arrows?'
Her mind frantically scans her mental files, searching for a rouge Archer.
Nothing.
Either he was very, very new to this sort of business, or he was good. Better than her.
She could hear his feathery movements behind her.
She had quickly put together that while she had much better hearing, his eyesight was far more superior to hers.
She doges an arrow that would've have hit anyone else.
He had skill.
Her brain was a whir, trying to figure out a way to defeat him.
She needed more intel on him.
Then it came to her.
If he's an archer, he's more equipped for long distance duels.
She already beat him once before, though that may have been because he had been off guard.
She was sure he wouldn't make that mistake again.
She did a sharp 180 and ran towards the offender.
He blocked her first blow, and aimed a hit to her lower abdomen. She dropped before he could and tried to sweep is legs from under him. He jumped up just in time.
Just keep him occupied until the Objective is retrieved.
She ends up catching him in a headlock.
He somehow manages to press a knife to her stomach.
If either tried to kill the other, they would both die.
"Where's the manuscripts?" He asks harshly.
She smirks. "You are in no position to be asking questions."
"Neither are you." He counters.
She flips him over and takes off running, hearing him cursing to himself quite loudly.
And grins.
Just keep him occupied. And as far away from the Objective as possible.
Farther and farther she ran, the man behind her showing no signs of fatigue, or the thought of giving up.
•••
She was sure she had reached the Russian-Latvian border by the time the the offender began to lag.
Or so it seemed.
She had quickly figured out how much time it takes for him to load and shoot an arrow.
He perfectly used up that time, and she managed to turn away from what should've punctured her spine.
It did, however, embed itself where her left shoulder met her arm. Right on the joint.
She swore.
It wouldn't be permanently damaged, and it was better than the paralyzing shot he had tried to shoot, but it didn't help her situation one bit.
In her moment of weakness, the offender lunged at her and brought her down.
He pulled a knife out and aimed it at her and she put out a hand as if to stop it.
She wasn't stupid. She knew she'd be gone in less than a minute.
He froze and looked at her wrist.
The glove had begun to slip off and it exposed her wrist.
He tugged it off.
"Natasha?" He asks in disbelief.
She cracks open an eye.
He sits back and pulls away the knife, returning it to its original position in his suit.
"Clinton?" She snarls back mockingly.
He shudders. "Clint. The other is too-no. Clint."
"Well, Clint, I have a job to do. So please make this easy and pretend this never happened."
"The manuscripts-" He began.
"-Are safely tucked away by my organization." She says.
Clint nods as if to say "I should've known'.
He stretches out his hand. "Never happened."
She eyes it, trying to figure out if he'll flip her over and take her out.
He sighs. "Oh my God. Just take the fucking hand."
She grasps it. "Never happened."
They part ways and Natasha leaves knowing she'll never see him again and will be able to continue her assignments in peace, never having to worry about her Soulmate.
•••
Untill Budapest.
A/N: Okay. So yeah. That's it. Its a one-shot, but if one or two people ask I may continue it...
Feel free to comment!
And thanks for reading!
~FanAdd