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It had been a long week. Natasha Romanoff started off in some deserted town in the middle of Africa, and was now in Zimbabwe. The culture in Africa was unique and she appreciated that, but being so close to the desert, but still so far away from the tropical jungle made her feel like shit, and if another camel spit on her someone was going to lose a pet tonight.
She was a spy, it was only natural for her to be in control, to crave that feeling of holding the power, but it was really hard to do that when you’ve been on the run for eleven months. Natasha was beginning to remember how she felt before Clint took her in, or in other words, before she started working for Hydra. She almost wanted to laugh at the complete and utter bullshit that her life turned into. How many people who try to start doing good with themselves actually end up working for some corrupt-worse than Nazi-terror group of the century? She didn’t know, but she knew for sure that the number wasn’t too high, and she was probably on the top of the list.
Some people say that the past helps you learn from your mistakes, but they forgot to mention that it’s hard to learn when you never stopped making them all along.
The air was humid, and if Natasha wasn’t trained in keeping her cool she would probably be sweating right now. She was sitting at a bar counter, slightly amused at the looks she was getting from natives as she kept downing shot after shot of some homeland vodka. It was nothing compared to Russian alcohol, but nothing ever was. The acidic taste still burned her throat each time she swallowed, and it left her lips feeling dry and parched, but it still wasn’t enough to make her drunk. She almost wanted to damn the Red Room for drilling into her head to always be on high alert because it really sucked the fun out of trying to get wasted beyond comprehension.
Normally Natasha would cope with punching, or shooting something, but not today. Only a few hours earlier she had ran into another girl that she had meant at the Red Room, except unlike her this girl didn’t get an out. Natasha was walking down the crowded street when she saw the girl’s dark brown eyes. She remembered her name was Ana, but more importantly she remembered killing her sister one of her first weeks of training. She snapped the girl’s neck like it was second nature back before her legs were barely long enough to touch the ground while sitting. She was praised by the other workers, and she hated herself for being proud. Natasha remembered seeing Ana after her kill and she never forgot the look of pure betrayal in her eyes. That was the last time she ever saw her, and for so long she thought she was dead – no she hoped she was dead, so that she wouldn’t have to live with all the pain, but here she was looking into her eyes like the last time she saw her, except this time only one of them would walk away.
Now here she was drinking shots at some bar in Zimbabwe hoping to erase the memories, and erase her ledger, and erase the invisible shadow of blood that laced her skin. It was easy to kill the people that created her, the people that killed her childhood and those that made her into the cold blooded assassin that she believed to be, but it was nothing compared to killing those that trained with her, those that endured the same pain that she woke up screaming from. But it was her life or there’s, and in this line of work she learned that she would always be the favored student, the valedictorian of Red Room protégés, and it’s hard to lose a game that you were forced to play.
Natasha chugged another shot, though it did no good, but it didn’t do any worse so why the hell not?
“Damn, you really are Russian,” said the not so familiar voice of Sam Wilson.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” she said back, not bothering to turn around.
She didn’t look up until she felt someone sit down next to her, and was meant with none other than Steve Rogers.
“It’s been awhile,” he said while ordering a water from the bar.
“What do you want?” Natasha slurred.
“I want you to stop drinking all that crap because it won’t do any good,” said Steve taking the shot glass out of her hand.
“Well apparently neither can I,” she stated coldly.
“That’s not true and you know it,” he said.
“You’re a bad liar Rogers,” she said with a small grin.
“No I’m not, you’re just bad at taking compliments,” Steve said back.
“What are you really doing here?”
“We need your help,” said Sam. “Barnes is always one step ahead of us, so we though ‘why not ask the girl who’s always hiding for help?’”
“You in?” asked Steve.
Deep down she wished that they wanted her for more than just her skill, but she put that feeling aside because wanting things that you didn’t deserve got you killed.
Natasha bit her lip and said “Okay, but only because I was taught that it was rude not to help a senior citizen, and it looks like you two dumbasses need help crossing the street.”
“God, I thought you were lying about the whole Russian thing, but I see it now,” stated Sam with a small chuckle.
When Natasha got up from her seat she pretended not to notice the look on Steve’s face. It was of hope, and she had a bad track record of letting people down, and maybe for once in her life she was hoping that this would end differently. The only problem was that she didn’t think James wanted to be found.
Steve held the door open for her as she walked out and she said “I missed you too, Rogers,” and secretly that was the truth.