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January 2025—Iowa

A cloud of dust comes toward me when I open the hatch to the attic. Laura had asked me to use the time at home to sort it out so that she could use the space that was then created for sorting out the children's things. I haven't set foot in this part of the house in years, not even while I've been under house arrest. The attic was one of those tasks that I put off forever. Now I was standing in the middle of boxes, old furniture, and a centimeter-thick layer of dust, and I knew exactly why I had avoided this task for so long. I sigh and try to mentally plan which corner to start with. To do this, I slowly turn in a circle and try to scan the room. My eyes get stuck on a box. It has been there for several years—almost two decades.

The symbol of S.H.I.E.L.D. has faded due to dust but is still clearly visible. I find myself moving toward it, almost hypnotized. I move a few boxes that are blocking the way and then lift the paper box over the others. I look around, find the old armchair in the corner inviting, and sit down on it. I hesitate for a moment, but then finally open the lid. At the top is a file with only two words printed on it: Black Widow. I pause for a moment, and a shiver runs down my spine. Something in me wants to close the box and put it back where it stood for almost 17 years. But another part, which turns out to be more dominant, doesn't flinch and opens the file. A photo of Natasha is the first thing I see. A bad recording that I almost forgot. It comes from a surveillance video from Belarus. 12/24/2001, 9:03 p.m. marks the timestamp. I hold the picture in my hands for a moment before putting it back in the file and turning the pages. The first few pages are mission reports from S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. I don't know; I scan them but don't read them properly. On the 5th page of the file, however, I read a name that caught my attention. I'm starting to get the full paragraph:

Natasha Romanoff is classified as extremely dangerous. According to Director Fury, she receives Power Level 7. Until now, it has not been possible to identify her weaknesses, if she has any at all. The last contact with N.R. resulted in 99 percent casualties. One surviving agent is currently in a coma. A connection to the KGB could be established. The role of the Russian secret service is questionable; information on this could not be obtained from the target. The communication devices have been destroyed or their memory has been erased. Even our technical specialists were not able to restore the content. Russia and Belarus do not comment on the incident. S.H.I.E.L.D. has decided that the matter needs to be resolved quickly. The risk is classified as too high. The mission is strictly confidential. Director Fury has put forward a suggestion on how N.R. is to be neutralized. Contact has been made. Clinton Barton, aka Hawkeye, is on his way to headquarters. A. Coulson

I felt a tightening in my stomach. I had almost forgotten how empty I felt when I thought about Nat. On days like the past ones, it had almost disappeared. Spending time with my family, whom I loved dearly. But these precious moments were now suddenly covered with a shadow. It's almost ridiculous how Coulson's 2002 assessment of Natasha stacked up against what she did almost a year and a half ago—the sacrifice she made just to bring my family back to me. Mine and the loved ones of so many billions of beings in our galaxy I close my eyes and try to picture her face. Not what that security camera caught, but Natasha Romanoff, who was my best friend. Which was so much more.

"I made lemonade, honey." I hear my wife's voice and startle. "Well, you're not that far," she jokes, setting the tray on a box near the attic hatch, on which are a carafe of fresh lemonade and two glasses. When she sees me sitting in the chair, her amused grin disappears. Apparently, she recognized the writing on the file I'm holding from her vantage point. "Everything okay, Clint?", she asks now softly and comes closer to me. "Sorry. I really wanted to start, but then this fell into my hands." I held the file a little higher. Laura was the one who took the box from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s archives back then. After becoming pregnant with Cooper, she gave up her position at the American Secret Service and retired. For the sake of me and Natasha, her last official act was to make this box disappear. Sure, Nat's deeds had already been digitized by this point, but we just didn't want the documents to remain under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ownership. At least not then. In 2014, Natasha was ready to reveal her past to the world while also uncovering Hydra's machinations. Furthermore...an irony. "I miss her," Laura says, and she sits down on the armrest of the old armchair in which I found a seat. "Me too. Every day." There is a moment of silence between us. "Kate told me about Yelena," Laura finally says. I look up at my wife. "She shouldn't have told you that. She had no right to," I say, puzzled and a little upset in equal measure. Now a smile returns to her face. "We care about you, Clint.", Then she gets serious again: "Do you want to talk about it?" I take a deep breath and close the file. I get up and toss the collection of papers into the center of the seat. "I don't know what to say about Laura. It was bad.", I lean against one of the wooden beams that support the roof and hope that it serves the same purpose for myself. "I think I did so many things wrong. I should have looked for Yelena after this was all over. I should have been there for her like you were for me. And I should have Tasha." I feel Laura behind me; she wraps her arms around me and says, "Clint, stop it. Please. No one could have stopped Natasha. Not even you. And how were you supposed to find Yelena? Yelena was Nat's best kept secret." Feeling close to Laura is good; it almost numbs the pain I carry inside. I turn to her and take her in my arms. After a few seconds, we break the hug, and I wipe the few tears from my face. "And don't forget, honey, Nat was the super spy." This comment actually makes me laugh, which Laura joins in on. "Come on, let me help you.", My wife turns around, goes to the armchair, and picks up the file. She opens it again and flips through it briefly, like I did before.

"You know, Agent Barton," she begins, "I sent you to Moscow on Nick's behalf, but you and Nat never really told us what happened back then in Budapest." She winks at me, takes a piece of paper, and puts it back in the file box. "It can't be, Nat and I kept talking about Budapest all the time," I defend myself. "Yes, you kept saying that it was like back then in Budapest, but you never said what exactly happened there. How you got her to leave the KGB" She seals the box and puts it back in the dark corner I got it from. Back to a time long gone. I try to distract myself by turning to the first normal moving box. Laura is right. Natasha and I agreed, when we arrived in D.C., to never discuss what is happening in Europe in detail. We wanted to preserve it as our very own past. I haven't even told my own wife the story—until now. "I don't know if it's a good thing to talk about. It's been almost 23 years," I say absentmindedly, tossing old clothes in a pile to later throw them in the trash. "Talking about her helps Clint. It's like she's still here," Laura says from behind me. I turn to her. "It's not... I don't want to talk about her, darling. What happened in Budapest...", Laura raises an eyebrow questioningly, "Yes?", "You have to promise me that if I tell you, it doesn't change anything between us." Laura smiles at me and puts a hand on my cheek. "I know you, Clinton. Nothing you could tell me would ever change the way I feel about you." I close my eyes briefly, enjoying the touch, then I open them and look at my wife. "OK."

…

February 2002, D.C.

"Agent Barton." Director Fury greets me as I enter the conference room at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s main base in Washington. I got the call from his office this morning and immediately accepted the invitation. We're not alone; Agent Coulson is also at the oral conference table. Coulson is directly below Fury in the hierarchy and is therefore my direct superior. "Director," I say, greeting him with a firm handshake. "I'm glad you were able to set it up so quickly." He emphasizes it as if I had a choice. I am an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., and once we receive an order, it is our duty to complete it as soon as possible. We have committed ourselves to this. And I take that duty very seriously. I personally have Nick to thank for allowing me to be a part of this secret organization. He had recruited me two years ago after I had tried to rid New York of its criminal activities on my own. I always wanted to be a hero, and Fury gave me the opportunity to finally be one. Now I'm 24, and I'm one of the most capable men in his little secret club. I take bursts towards the two men. "You didn't elaborate on the phone on what it was about." Fury nods and hands me a paper file. "In the past few months, we have received indications that the KGB has become more active in Russia again," the director begins his monologue. Fringe information has never interested me. I just need a name and a face. Then I'll do the job. But you can't defend yourself against Fury's statements, for better or for worse. They belong, like his eye patch. "Didn't the KGB disband in 1991?" I try to impress, using my meager knowledge of high school history, by saying, "They led the world to believe that. But it never disappeared. On the contrary. A few years ago, two of our agents ran into someone who had been trained by the KGB. " I scroll to the right, trying to ignore the agents' entries and documentation in front of me. I don't need stories, I need a face. "And you want me to ;ake care of that someone?" I ask casually. "About her," Coulson now says, which catches my eye. "Her?" In response to my question, Fury gets up again and presses the remote control, which activates the projector in the conference room. It was almost predictable. He knew well that I wouldn't be listening if I had already received the information on the file I hold in my hands. I put the paperwork aside and looked at the white wall in front of me. It takes a moment for the projector to boot up completely, but then a face appears on the wall. A really pretty face. A young woman, I'm guessing her 20s, with red hair. "Natasha Romanoff, aka Black Widow." Fury names the face. "Black Widow?" I ask in amusement, turning away from the projection. "The name says it all." Fury continues and presses another button on the remote control. "As far as S.H.I.E.L.D. knows, she is responsible for at least 15 inexplicable accidents involving politicians, including in Sao Paulo." "Don't let a pretty face fool you, Agent Barton," Coulson remarks on my inner conflict. "Natasha Romanoff is one of the most dangerous people in the world. According to S.H.I.E.L.D., her hit rate is 100%. "Impressive.", "I guess it is. As far as is known, Black Widow takes no prisoners or witnesses.", "And that makes her so dangerous to S.H.I.E.L.D." I asked. I get the feeling that this is no ordinary operation. S.H.I.E.L.D. missions always go under the radar, but this feels very different. While I'm used to acting alone and actually enjoy having that freedom, even for a secret organization, this meeting doesn't feel entirely legal. "Where is she now?", "We assume that Black Widow is currently in Moscow. Her last known location was in Volgograd." I sit back while I process all the information I've just learned from the director and his right-hand man. "Does S.H.I.E.L.D. really believe it would be that easy to have a Russian spy arrested in her own country?" I can't believe Fury actually thinks this is promising. If she's from the KGB, she'll have the backing of local politics, not to mention the secret service itself. "We don't want to arrest her. You are supposed to kill Natasha Romanoff, Agent Barton." After Fury has spoken this sentence and I can process the information it contains, I stand up. I've done many things for America's super secret organization, but so far I've never had to kill a single target. "I'm sorry, Director, but I can't do that. I'm a secret agent; I'll get you information about a terrorist here and there, so they can court-martial him, but I'm not a hitman, especially not for a woman.", Now the director is indignant. He cuts me off as I try to disappear toward the door. "This woman is dangerous." He tries to convince me again, but I shake my head and say, "Believe me." With these words, he presses the remote control again. I'm about to back off but get distracted by a video playing on the wall. It is a hospital that is completely on fire. "What's that?" I asked. "A drone shot, about 4 months old. Two key opposition members of the Conservative Christian Party in Belarus were in this hospital. According to an insider, they had important information that could have led to the fall of the communist ruling party. After the fire, there wasn't much left of them. Besides the two, 250 other people died that day, among them women, children, and 40 nurses. The last thing a surveillance camera could record 3 hours before the fire at a gas station 10 kilometers away was this," the video broke off, and a blurred image followed instead. It featured Natasha Romanoff. "Understand Agent Barton. If we don't neutralize Black Widow, there will be dire consequences." I take a deep breath before I start speaking. After Fury showed me the video from the hospital, I couldn't just walk away. I was back in my seat, and both Fury and Coulson had given me a few minutes to think. "If, and I'm only saying if, I agree to accept this assignment, I have three conditions." I said it now, breaking the silence. I know I have a certain amount of superiority in my position. There are so many S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, but they picked me. That means I have skills that make me significantly different from others. Skills that make me irreplaceable for the success of the mission. So they have no choice but to accept my terms. Fury nods, "Which Agent Barton?", "1. I want autonomy. I don't want to have a shadow or give you hourly feedback. For the success of this mission, I need full concentration, and I can't let myself be distracted by organizational requirements.", "You will get my confirmation for a completely independent execution.", Fury immediately responds to my first condition, "2nd." I continue, "If I receive information during the course of the mission that invalidates this,", I point to the wall, "I will get your permission to abort the actual mission.", Now the director does not react as quickly as with the 1st condition, but finally he nods but doesn't say anything. "And the 3rd?" he asks instead. "If I have to kill Miss Romanoff," I pause before I continue, "you give me your word that you will never ask me to kill anyone again!" The pause lasts a little longer than the second time, but Fury agrees again. "Alright." I stand up again, calmer this time. "Your plane leaves tomorrow morning at 6. You can get more information from Laura," says Director Fury. He walks up to me and shakes my hand in farewell. "Good luck, Agent Barton.", "Thank you.", I say curtly, return the handshake, give Coulson a short nod, and then leave the conference room. "Your flight to Moscow leaves Agent Barton tomorrow morning at 6 a.m." Laura repeats the information I had just received from Director Fury. Laura has only been an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D. for a few months. and therefore still responsible for many organizational matters as a freshman. Among other things, I am preparing for my new mission. " Director Fury has instructed you to fly on a regular passenger plane." I raise my eyebrows. "How am I supposed to get my gear through security?" I've never seen a bow on airport signs, but I strongly assume that this would also fall under firearms. "That's already done, agent. Your equipment has already flown on a private plane today. You will receive them tomorrow night when you arrive at her safe apartment.' I look at the documents Laura has prepared on Nick's behalf—fake passports and visas. "Kliment Baranov?", I ask amusedly and look at her, "isn't that very creative?", "Oh, and Hawkeye is?", she counters. I'm impressed. "Touché,", I say with a little laugh, and I take the ID documents. "We have something else for you,", she continues, getting a small device from a drawer. "What's that?" I ask and take the button cell from her hand. "A brand new invention from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s engineering lab. A kind of universal translator. With it, you will be able to understand everything in Russia," the brunette explains to me. "It doesn't happen to translate my words, too." I can't hide the slightly sarcastic undertone. "Not yet," says Laura. I can tell from her slight grin that she seems to like my sense of humor, which hasn't happened often before. "Unfortunately, you have to do this in a very old-fashioned way, agent.", "And that means?" Again, she goes to a drawer of her desk and seconds later holds out a phrasebook to me "Russian for beginners", I read in my mind. "Thank you," I say, rolling my eyes slightly and taking the book from her. "I don't think you'll talk much," says the young woman, leaning against her desk. "Have you read the files?" I asked her as I tucked the papers into the inside pocket of my jacket. "Not completely. For some things, I lack the security level. But concluding that this mission isn't easy She folds her arms, "No, I don't think so either." Again, I have the burning hospital in my mind's eye. If this woman really took part in this gruesome assassination, she is capable of much more. "I hope you get back to D.C. soon," ,she said. I look up and notice the slight smile on your lips. I'm surprised that she flirts with me so openly. We haven't had much to do with each other before, but apparently those few times were enough. I take the moment to look at her a little more closely. When I feel like I'm staring at her, I pull away. "I hope so too," I say with a smile. "Good luck, Agent Barton," she said in parting. "You know, I never miss my target." With these words, I turn around and disappear in the direction of the exit. I have only a few hours left before I have to go to the airport to start my journey to Moscow. 

February 2002, Moscow

When people think of Russia, three things come to mind: long, ruthless winters, a red building with golden onion roofs, and vodka that never seems to run out. Needless to say, this Russia is as far removed from my reality as the idea that the Soviets won the Cold War. I think of a ruthless regime that made me do the worst things a human being can imagine. It makes your blood freeze in your veins without the minus 15 degrees that you feel on your skin in Moscow in February. Time takes on a different character here; it just trickles along, almost like an hourglass. I turned 18 a few months ago, but the things I've already experienced could fill two lives. Ironically, he chose exactly an hourglass as the inspiration for our secret organization. A daily reminder that I will never escape this hell. When the last seed falls through the middle, he just turns it over again and lets it run off from the front. When I think of Russia, I think of the color red—a warning, as it's usually the last thing my opponents see before I silence them forever.

As I enter the room, a familiar scent fills my nostrils. It brings back memories of days gone by. The floorboards crack menacingly beneath me. I see my own face in the mirror that stretches from one side of the room to the other. In front of it is an old ballet barre that is now unused. It's after 12. The younger ones finished their ballet training an hour ago, so they're probably sitting with Dr. Ivanov, who, in her incredibly boring but at the same time intimidating way, tries to drum the art of psychological interviewing into 10-year-old girls. Though the room still smells of ballet slippers and hairspray, it's now being used for a whole different discipline. I stand at the end of the mats laid out after dance practice. They're old; they were when I was still training here. Their original color has faded, which is why the red spots on the surface stand out. With wear and tear, they're barely serving their intended purpose of cushioning a person from a hard impact, but it's not a lack of money that's why Sergej won't have them replaced. He thinks that we need that; the hard impact after a hard hit should be even more motivation to dodge better next time and let the opponent go down. Quite apart from his sadism. Crossing my arms, I watch the fight unfold in front of me. They called me in, not to prove myself—long gone are the days when that was necessary and I was in her place. They want my opinion; tell them if she's ready. Ready to be released into a world that will rob her of any ounce of humanity. If I give the confirmation today, they will take Yelena to the closing ceremony. Even though I'm not the girl fighting this fight, the red room managed to torture me once again. I'm supposed to be responsible for this girl's fate, and they will do to her exactly what they did to me four years ago. "And?" Alexandra asks me. She has already trained me and made me the widow I am today. I'm surprised she needs my assessment at all. I was one of many, just like she is. "She's not ready," I said, cocking my head as the 12-year-old in front of me threw her opponent at full force on the ground, so hard you could hear the girl's arm snap under her, followed by an agonized cry. "What's that supposed to mean, Natasha?" Alexandra exclaims indignantly. "Her combat moves are perfection. Her style is precise and majestic." I released my posture. "Yes, her fighting style is good. Actually very good. But she's not ready to go out there." "Are you afraid Yelena will steal the show from you?" The trainer makes a snide remark in my direction.

I've offended her, but even more than that, it angers her that there's nothing she can do about it, at least not anymore. "I beg you, Alexandra. I'm not afraid of anything. Yelena is an excellent fighter, but not as a spy. She is hot-headed and impulsive. Qualities that don't exactly lend themselves to a KGB spy. As a black widow, you always have to keep a cool head. You must never let your feelings guide you; you have to look at every situation objectively. In one-on-one training, she is focused. But if you observe each other in the group, she often acts carelessly. Whenever she can't predict your opponent's moves, I turned away from the scene. It's not a lie; I actually watched Yelena in the dynamic with the other widows. She's not exactly what you would call a team player. This in itself is not uncommon; rivalries between the widows are commonplace and sometimes even fueled by the trainers and supervisors. Each one wants to be better than the others, to be chosen for the best missions, or maybe even just a day's rest from the day-to-day harassment of those who train us. A day that a girl doesn't have to fight another and doesn't have to kill her is a bearable day. Widows also never work in teams. We are on our own. This minimizes the risk of being captured by the enemy on a mission, and if you do, it's easier to kill yourself than watch someone else. And for Sergei, it means just one loss of many. But Yelena is different from the others. Her own character is so strong that she would have been almost unfit for the program if I hadn't vouched for her at the time. Because the alternative would not have been that they would have just been put on the street. Over the years, she was able to demonstrate her other strengths, which my guarantor superseded. But she was never quite sure, not here. It meant, sooner or later, that she would be chosen for the closing ritual and then go on a mission. And that the rest of her life would change forever. It would change her. The fact that I think like this already shows the indifference that the red room instilled in me. I've killed countless girls in training and shot my first targets when I was Yelena's age. And yet, a real goal—having to kill a man with a life and a story—is the final point of this torturous training. It's the moment that takes away everything you've kept. And with all that was left to me, as long as I could, I would prevent it. I realized from Alexandra's sighs that I had at least continued to be successful today. "You're right. But it won't be long now. I'll get her to be as cold as you are." "I'm sure of it." I say, turning back to her. She can't hear the irony or disgust I feel in my voice. Because I know firsthand how Alexandra will get her to do it.

"Yelena!" she calls out, which brings the fight to an abrupt halt. This other one—her name is, as far as I can remember, Katharina—is barely able to get up on her own, but she tries stubbornly. She knows she's lucky today. That she is allowed to live today. "Yes." It is a kind of hope that lies in the voice of the 12-year-old blonde. "You're not ready yet. Go wash yourself. I'll see you tomorrow at 9.", Alexandra's gaze wanders to the injured widow next to Yelena, "alone." The two girls nod, and while Yelena takes her towel from the ballet barre, I see the reason why I want to save her from that—what lurks behind the side she wants so much to enter: her humanity. She doesn't take the towel for herself but uses it to blot Katharina's wounds. I feel a twitch in the corners of my mouth, but I can suppress it. Instead, I turn on my heel. "Natalia," I heard the intruding voice of my former combat trainer. And not only the pitch but also the fact that she uses my maiden name, which no one else uses for me except him, let me know that she has something serious to say. "He wants to see you." If this foray into my past hasn't punished me enough, then it's sealed: today is a shitty day.

Now I smile, turn to her, and announce it in an almost angelic voice."How nice. I'm always happy to see General Dreykov."

...

Before I opened the door to his office, I took another deep breath. It has now been almost 2 years since I was released from red-room training. That was a big step for me at the time. I had almost confused it with freedom. Of course, I had never escaped the red room, only its training factory. But the KGB continued to control my entire life. Every step I took was preordained. But I'd rather be trapped in a golden cage, into which I've now been stretching myself, than face the torture and rigors of the program every day. Missions, even when I did them for and in the name of the KGB, gave me the illusion of freedom and self-determination. But I'll never forget what it was like to be locked in here. Dreykov personally ensured that this would never happen. So it was always a challenge to be so close to him. His name is written in golden letters on the frosted glass. I've read the lettering so many times, memorizing every detail; often it was the last thing I read before I spent hours conditioned by it, as he diplomatically put it. Even today, I notice the small bumps; one letter was more faded than the other ones, and the special character had almost flaked off. He knows I'm at the door, so I knock after a few seconds.

"Come in, Natalia." His deep voice rumbles through the door. Unlike before, I am no longer defenseless. This feeling gives me security right now, even if it doesn't make up for the years of torture. But I'm not a kid anymore that he can push around as he pleases. In fact, our relationship has changed over the past few years. As a once-nameless being, one of many abandoned girls, I have risen today in the ranks of Russian intelligence. I'm believed to be capable of some things, which is why I was even given a kind of autonomy. I open the door and enter the office. It almost seems as if Sergej has stood still in time because the entire interior is reminiscent of an old room in the Soviet Union. Nothing about the facility had changed over the years. I've been here so many times that if he replaced a piece of furniture, I should know. But that was not the case today either. The huge walnut desk still dominated the room. A miniature flag stand dutifully stood in the middle of it, which perfectly staged the Russian flag. Next to it was the KGB's own flag, the financier of the red room. Even if the whole world assumed that the Russian secret service had been gone since 1991, they were all wrong. It was never resolved; it just hid more in the dark. To the right of the massive desk was a 1970s-style wall unit made of the same wood the table was made of. In this, a bar was embedded. How much I would have just drunk a sip of the vodka that immediately caught my eye from all the bottles standing there. Even the smell in this room takes me back to my past. The vintage interior is not surprising; after all, Sergej is one of those who wish the old regime back. For no other reason did he create us—me. "It must be important if you let me call you personally," , I remark casually. With a wave of his hand, he invites me to sit in the open space in front of his desk, and I follow the instruction. "Alexandra told me that today you should rate Yelena."

It's a tactic. He wants to be in control of the conversation, so he won't talk directly about why he called me. By asking me about Yelena, he's hoping to rouse me. Maybe it's also a test of how strong my protective instinct is for her. It's a farce; does he really think I'm falling for it? I lean back and look into his eyes. "Yes, I did." I answer shortly and without emotion. "And?" he asks. "Not yet." I cross my legs. "What do you mean 'not yet'?", The pitch of his voice changes. He becomes more restless and louder. His posture suggests that he is more than dissatisfied with this statement. Sergei Dreykov is truly more of a general than a spy. He dropped the pen he was holding to sign some papers. "Do you think I'm a fool?" he asks provocatively, getting up from the leather chair. I don't let it show; I remain in my neutral stance. No emotion can be read from my face. "A fool?", I think Sergej means many things, but this word doesn't appear. And I mean that honestly. "Never," I add. "I know exactly what you're up to, Natalia." He points to me, emphasizing his words. "But you won't save her." He's the second today to accuse me of deliberately keeping Yelena out of the program, and the fact that the truth is so close doesn't make it any easier. I was hoping to stop being perceived as that 12-year-old girl from Ohio, because I'm not anymore. Now I know that all of it was a lie. I didn't have a father, mother, or sister. They were just part of a perfectly staged script penned by the Soviet Union. But a part of me will never forget that little blonde six-year-old girl who shed bitter tears because she believed something might happen to her mother, not knowing that the real nightmare was yet to come. The KGB had played this game for three years. Not one day of it did I really feel safe. I knew it could be over any day and they would send me back to the red room, which eventually they did. None of it was real, but for Yelena, it was. She didn't know anything else. I couldn't protect her from being sent to that hell. I think that was my biggest defeat. In the Black Widow program, you learn one thing very well: the separation of emotions, thoughts, and actions. No one should ever really know who you are. Not even you would ever remember it. I had so many false identities, names, and characters that I didn't even know who I was among them. There was Only one last memory of the girl I was before my mother handed me over to the KGB remains: my birth name, Natalia Alianovna Romanoff. But even this I no longer use for myself. Another alias had prevailed over the years: Natasha Romanoff. Today, the only person who still consistently called me Natalia was Dreykov himself. I've never been able to find out why he did it, but again, my strongest guess was torture. He couldn't do this physically anymore; he broke me years ago. But that last thing should always remind me of the life I could have had without the red room. But it's no longer worth mourning. Years ago, after my first real mission, I finally accepted my destiny and did what I do best: spy, gather information, bring down important people, and kill them. I was the Black Widow, Dreykov's greatest achievement.

"I don't want to save you, Sergei," I say coldly, leaning forward while maintaining eye contact. "Then do it; send her out there. Let her work for you. But you'll regret it. She's more likely to do you harm than good now. And if a Black Widow harms you, what a look that's going to get at me." Whether he believes me or not, I can't tell. But apparently, he seemed satisfied with my answer. A laugh underlined this assumption. "That,", he pointed to me again, "sounds exactly like my Natalia." Now I grin at him, and inwardly I relax. "So, why did I ask you here?" he immediately continues. Normally I don't get my orders from Dreykov personally, mostly through straw men, anonymously on my pager, or, and this has become more and more frequent lately, from clients detached from the KGB. I made a name for myself in Eastern Europe. I'm quick and accurate. My hit rate is 100%. "What's the name of the goal?" I ask straight out; unlike him, I'm always very direct. He takes a paper file from his desk and tosses it on the small side table in front of me. As I run my finger over the printed symbol, he wanders over to his bar and pours himself a glass of Scotch. I've never forgotten that smell; his breath often reeked of it. Ironically, it was a Scotch. But no one would ever ask him about it. "I've seen this sign before," I say. A circular symbol with an eagle in the center, six white dashes meant to mimic the wings, and writing on the outside: Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division "S.H.I.E.L.D."; Dreykov abbreviates the lettering. Now I recognize it too. I was involved with this unit a few months ago; they represented the interests of a Russian whistleblower, and I represented those who wanted him dead. After I was successful, five agents from the unit tried to grab me, but like so many before you, they were unsuccessful. "A special form of the C.I.A., if you will," he continues. "Focused on more specific people only." , "Special?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, "For people like you, people seen as a potential threat to the US, terrorists?" I can't suppress my smile. "They've been giving me trouble for a long time, but now they're targeting you,", he says seriously and empties his glass. "Me?", "You've made a name for yourself, Natasha." His use of my alias shows me that he is aware of my missions outside the KGB. But it doesn't surprise me either. "If you don't want the world to know about Black Widow, you shouldn't have let me blow up that hospital," I say disinterestedly. I opened the paper file. "So S.H.I.E.L.D. is after me. They don't know that it's impossible to catch me." Now he crosses his arms. "I assumed that too. But I have a contact who gave me different information."

It doesn't surprise me that Sergej has his fingers in everything. He controls most of the Russian secret service and has a megalomaniacal dream of restoring Russia to the power it had during WWII. A contact in the US Secret Service therefore sounds all too obvious. Looking back down at the paper, a loose image falls into my hands. On it is a man, around his mid-20s. Not unusual at first glance; attractive, but not outstanding. But something in the picture catches my attention. "Legolas here?" I asked, amused. "You read Tolkien?" I get a prompt reply. "Only when I'm done with Dostoyevsky," I remark sarcastically, winking at him. I can definitely afford more with him now, and I also trust myself to do it. When I get no reaction from him, he confirms this assumption again. "According to my contact, he has a very good hit rate. Some say he never misses a target." I remain unimpressed. "Same as me." I slip the photo back into the paper file and close it immediately. "So, will you sponsor me a flight to New York?" Not that I have to, but it gives me a little satisfaction. "Not necessary. He's already here in Moscow." I look up. "How predictable!" I say. "I'll take care of it." "I assume so." I get up; the call is over. I know who I have to take care of, and how I will manage it is my responsibility. Also, I don't have to be in the same room with Dreykov any longer than necessary. "Natalia," he interrupts my attempt to escape, "I expect that the matter will be resolved quickly.", I already had my right hand on the doorknob, but stop now. "Of course. Give me 72 hours, and Clint Barton will be dead."

With these words, I leave Dreykov's office. Before leaving the building, I turn left again. Dimitri had already written to me this morning to say that he had new equipment ready for me. If only I had known as much as I do now. But of course, I was only privy to as much from the Red Room as they were willing to do. I'm not mad at Dimitri. Like me, he's just a puppet in this broken system. An excellent scientist who got mixed up with the wrong people a few years ago. It was easy to blackmail him, threaten his family, and take away his livelihood. So he had no choice but to work for the KGB. In the Red Room, he's our weapons expert, although weapons weren't really his milieu. When I was a kid, he told me that he used to dream of winning the Nobel Peace Prize because he could eradicate disease or prevent famine. Those were the days I dreamed of running away. To start out as a ballerina in any theater in the world. But just as I never danced in the Austrian opera Swan Lake, Dimitri would never eradicate a disease; he just helped a virus spread further. The KGB had quickly found a use for him. Every day he tinkered with materials that would keep our equipment up to par with the Americans, while the official Russian police and army forces were underfunded, making it appear that this country had no chance of showing itself as a global player. Russia wanted to be underestimated so that it could emerge victorious in the event of war. The regime simply accepted the loss of its own compatriots. I don't knock this time when I arrive at his lab. He's below me in the hierarchy, and we both know that I'm superior to him physically and in terms of fighting technique. It's different than just now with Dreykov; I'm almost happy to see Dimitri, and he feels the same way.

"Tasha," he greets me warmly and pulls me into a hug, which I gladly return. It's almost impossible to make friends in the Red Room. Most girls you grow up with die, many by your own hands. Those who survive become competitors. The trainers and supervisors are not interested in their own well-being. This place is not made for people to feel empathy and sympathy for each other. And yet we both made it. "How was it?" he asks me after we break the hug. "It's getting easier. I'm not a kid anymore.' I keep the answer short. I appreciate him, but I will never be able to really trust him. "No, really not." He sits back down on the small rolling stool and turns to face the lab table in front of him. "You have some new equipment for me?" I ask curiously and also approach the table while crossing my arms behind my back. I didn't expect the KGB to invest in something new so quickly. I only received the old suit a few months ago, and apart from a few holes that I patched myself, it was still fully operational. Apparently they really expected Barton to be a difficult opponent. It was almost a little amusing just because this guy was walking around the world with a bow and arrow. I've seen a lot weirder things in the Russian underground scene, so it left me very unimpressed. "Yes, the newest of the newest," says Dimitri, confident of himself and his work. "I like my suit." I say instead, a bit sober. When I received this, I was happy for the first time that Dimitri's client didn't focus on how well my décolleté came into its own. Those who give the orders usually have no experience from the missions. She sees me as a sexy spy from some comic book. However, they are not aware that the truth is very different. Of course, I sneak into some receptions, pretend to be the escort of a less important politician just to get information about his opponent, flirt with the bodyguard so that he will perceive me as naive, and I will be free in the buildings of the Russian mafia to move... but when I'm really going to use it, all of that is secondary. Then all that counts is perfection, accuracy, and freedom of movement. When I look at the garment on that lab bench, I see the leather, and I know that this suit doesn't leave much room to move. "I know окровие, but this is a whole new fabric.", Dimitri tries to calm me down. I slowly run my hand over the top of the suit. "Feels like leather to me.", I say and see him skeptical. "But it's not. It feels like leather but is much more resilient. The elasticity, in contrast to its predecessor model, has been increased again. They get their money's worth, but so do you. You don't have to squeeze yourself in here; he will adapt to you. Despite its lightness, it's even bulletproof." "Arrowproof too?" I ask and take a closer look at it. "Erm, they didn't tell me that it should be him,", Dimitri stutters. "Hey, everything's fine. I tease you.", I calm down and pat his arm. My gaze wanders from the top down to the hips, and I immediately notice the red hourglass in the middle of the hip belt. There it is again, the memorial. "Considering the fact that we are a secret organization, Dreykov wears his sign very colorfully into the world," I remark disparagingly. "You'll get used to the new suit, Tasha; it's so much better than the old one." The scientist ignores my comment. I give Dimitri a fake smile, but I know he wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

"Okay, off the outfit. What's more important to me: What new weapons do you have?" I'm more enthusiastic about this topic than this sexist choice of clothes. Personally, I don't need a combat suit. I'm fine with my everyday clothes: jeans, a t-shirt, a leather jacket, and boots. I usually don't need more. For a high-ranking member of the mafia, maybe a bulletproof vest. But they insist that those dealing with a black widow should know this. And the few who survive a visit to this should know who they have to thank. It's good for marketing. "It's good that you asked," says the scientist elatedly. He jumps up from his stool and goes to the gun cabinet. After he enters his secret code, the lamp above it lights up green and unlocks the door. "Your choice: two semi-automatic pistols, an upgrade of the 6P35. Greater power, but you have to balance the visor." "You insult me, Dimitri," I said, laughing. He grins at me and continues, "Then we have the security variant: fully automatic, which has more destructiveness for several opponents but is less accurate.", I look at the two types of pistols. I pick up one gun first, pointing it at the wall across the room with my finger running over the trigger. I unlock and press, and it just clicks; of course they're not loaded. I put the first model back and then took the automatic variant. I play the same game with this one. "I want both." I finally said "But Natasha, you only have two halters." , "Then add four. I want all four." I say determinedly. "What's that?" I asked as I put the pistol back in its place in the gun cabinet. "That,", says Dimitri now, and I don't think there could be more enthusiasm in his voice. "You'll love it,", he almost trills. "I call you Widow Bites." I look at him, unable to contain my confusion. "Widow Bites?" I repeat, I am amused. "Yes. One of those little bits is 30,000 volts." "Nice," I reply now, more impressed with the effect than the name. "Yes, one throw and your opponent will faint in seconds, and woe to them if they have a pacemaker." I laugh at that comment now. Dimitri always manages to add a little lightness to such a serious matter. "Where should they be attached?", "On your wrists, so you always have access to them.", He locks the gun cabinet and turns to his laboratory table. Then he held out two oversized bracelets to me. "Around 40 of these parts fit into one of these tubes. With a push of a button here, "it turns to show me better," and you fall into your hands. Then you should throw it at the target within 4 seconds, and then its electrical potential will discharge completely." I nod appreciatively. "All right, when will it be ready?", "You can take it with you right away, everything. Except for the extra halters,", he says with a shrug. "Very good." I cross my arms. "You're going to need it, aren't you?" There's a concern in his voice that I wasn't expecting to hear. No one has ever worried about me. I didn't even realize I had to be taken care of. "I have an assignment. One of many. I don't think he will be any different from all the others." I tried to calm him down. "I hope so, Tasha. Because of you, I've almost found something to like about what I'm doing here," he says, and starts to fold the suit together to stow it in an inconspicuous woman's handbag. I understand what he means. The things he and I do are cruel and unimaginable. He supplies me with weapons, which I then use to kill people. We don't really do any of this voluntarily. "You'll have to put up with me for quite some time." I said it pointedly and grinned at him. "You were my favorite of all, Dimi." When he hands me the bag, in which the guns, hand rings, and his widow bites have now disappeared, I pull him into a hug again. "And I hope the KGB never finds out your secret," I whisper in his ear. "What do you mean?" he asks, confused. "Well, Russia isn't exactly known for its tolerance." I don't say it outright; nobody knows who might be listening at this moment. He still understands my allusion, becomes uncertain, and turns away from me. "You must have misunderstood something.", "Oh yeah? Do you know what makes you different from all the others here?" I say, shouldering the bag. "What?", "You've never looked at me like that." I say it curtly. "How viewed?", "As if I were an object. You never dropped a comment or took advantage of your position." He turns back to me, a slight panic written on his face. "Don't worry, Dimitri. I'll keep this secret to myself." I say this seriously. He nods. "I hope to see you soon." He says goodbye to me while I walk slowly to the exit. "I'll be done in a few days. Do you have an eye on Yelena?" I asked at the end. "As best as possible." He is as aware of his position as I am, but it's good to know that there is a human being in this organization. I nod. "See you soon, Tasha."

My hand is already on the handle of the heavy wooden door that forms the entrance to this building when a knife lands inches from me as if the wood were a throwing disc. I sigh, knowing exactly who is behind me. "mаленка сестра," I say. It's an insider story that emerged years ago. The girls in my year raised me because a few years ago Yelena was still very clingy; after all, she really assumed that I was her older sister. Even in a place like this, normal dynamics arise. So I even found the little girl annoying during puberty. I always called her that back then, but mostly sarcastically. Today, however, I continue to use it; it's become something of a habit that I'm not ready to give up. I turn to her. "What did you say to Alexandra?" a rather angry Yelena asks me to answer. "The truth," I say curtly, "is that I don't really feel like exchanging blows with her right now. I just want to get away from here. Nevertheless, it was clear that the 12-year-old wouldn't just let me go like that. Today would have been their chance, and it was my judgment that led to a different result. If I had said yes earlier, Yelena would probably be on her way to the procedure now. "You're not ready yet." I keep trying. "Cука." She mumbles to herself. "Listen, that's out there." "Oh, please, don't tell me that's so much worse than in here. You know exactly what it's like here. You got away from it."

I think that's how she feels. I can go; I have permission to leave this house whenever I want. I live in my own apartment in a good district, unlike this house, which is in a rather poor part of Moscow. So it draws less attention. It looks almost perfect, unlike this boarding school, as it looks from the outside of the building. But I know I could never escape it. I still live in a world created by Dreykov. Instead of the guards torturing me every day, I am now responsible for it myself. But I can't tell her, and that's the worst part of the situation. "Listen to me, Yelena, train, get stronger, and then your time will come," I lie, trying to say what's expected of me. "Oh, those are such simple words from Natasha Romanoff." She crosses her arms, "You know how it is? What it's like to be the one who practically grew up with you All the girls in here try to survive every day, but they have expectations of me that I can't meet. I'm not you." That's good, I think to myself and then shake my head, "It's not desirable to be like me.", I'm honest, a moment that rarely occurs, "I don't strive for it; they make me Every day I have to hear from Alexandra: When Natasha was your age, she already... do you know how much that pisses me off?!",

She comes closer to me and reaches past my right side to draw her knife. I seize the moment and grab her wrist. "Yelena, listen to me. You are completely unaware of the sacrifice you must make. You know nothing of the world out there. Yes, in here...it's tough." I evade my true opinion, she snorts derisively, knowing full well that harsh is nowhere near describing life in this school, nowhere near describing the trauma one experiences here. "But it's a setting far removed from what they expect from you once you're unleashed on the world." I know it. I have known her for a long time. It started with my first order. The murder of a businessman and his family at his vacation home I was fast, quiet, and undetected. The man and woman were quickly dead, cunningly shot in their sleep. But I hadn't been told that they had a small child. A boy, four years old. It was Dreykov's baptism. His last test was on me. Had I let the child live, I would have been unfit as a black widow. I will forever remember the face of that innocent child desperately crying out for his mother. I will remember the tears I shed while I shot him too.

My mask must have crumbled for a moment as Yelena's features relaxed, as did her tense posture. "It'll never be over," she whispers, emphasizing it partly as a question but knowing full well it's a statement. I pull myself together and nod. I let go of her arm, which she uses to make space between us. I see the pain on her face and feel it burn in my chest. If only I knew how to put an end to all this. I'm an excellent widow, but even my skills aren't quite capable of taking out an entire intelligence agency, not alone. Because I'm aware of this, I've learned to be jaded. I don't let it get to me anymore; I've become cold and pitiless. Except for her. Yelena is my weakness; she always has been. And Dreykov knows that. She's his leverage, and he's better off alive than dead. Otherwise, I would have escaped the KGB long ago.

They themselves taught me how to do that—how to turn invisible and get off the radar of Russian intelligence and the world. But knowing she's here, I'll never have the heart to do it. That's his trump card—pushing me in any direction he pleases. If the price is that Yelena doesn't have to kill for him in another year or two, I'll take it and kill that American agent. "I'm sorry," I whispered, turning back to the door. "When will you be here again?" This question surprises me. After what Yelena just said, I assumed she hated me. I can't turn around again; I've already allowed too many feelings today. "I don't know," I answer honestly. Part of me hates this place so much that I wish I never had to come back here. Another knows I have to. "Next time you're here, you have to promise me something." I'm aware that I can't, but I let her believe that I can. "Promise me you'll get me out of here."

I feel myself starting to tremble, but I don't say anything. I don't turn around again. I just nod and then disappear through the heavy wooden door.

Chapter Text

Iowa-2025

I pause and watch Laura. Her eyes were glazed, as if tears were pooling in them. "I didn't know. That was the last time Nat spoke to Yelena?" she asked in a shaky voice. I slowly nodded. "Neither of them knew, especially Nat. At the time, she really assumed that I was just another target, a job that would be completed quickly. Just as she had promised Dreykov. A mission that would not last longer than 72 hours.' Laura had settled into the chair while I was still leaning against the roof beam. It seemed as if she thought for a moment, then started to say another sentence. "I also didn't know that she knew beforehand that you were after her.", I sucked in the air from the attic and let it out again slowly. "I didn't know it then either. It wasn't until years later that Tasha and I were able to make the connection. Hydra already had S.H.I.E.L.D. infiltrated and was in close contact with the KGB. Admittedly, Hydra didn't know much about the red room since Dreykov was as paranoid as he was insane, but they definitely had a hand in it. After all, it wasn't a one-off thing that the KGB and Hydra cooperated; Barnes has also been a victim of their machinations. Of all this, S.H.I.E.L.D. has no idea. When Nick sent me to Moscow back then, Hydra already knew. They also knew Black Widow was involved with Dreykov." "They just didn't know how involved he was." Laura finished my sentence. I nodded. "No. I think if Hydra had known about the Red Room, they wouldn't have been so connected to the Russian secret service." I push myself off the beam and take a few steps towards my wife, "I knew that Natasha had been through a lot did…but this.", "Nobody knew exactly how she suffered. She even told me over the years." Laura's eyes look into mine, "So you didn't know it in 2002?", I shake my head in response, "Not in detail. I knew there had to be a lot more to all of this. I could already imagine it when Fury showed me the footage from the hospital. I just couldn't imagine a young woman capable of such cruelty." I think of all the assassinations the KGB had Nat carry out, that Christmas 2001 event was the one that haunted her the most. Much of the money she made through S.H.I.E.L.D. in the years that followed was anonymously donated to the survivors and families of the victims. She knew she could never make up for the pain of those who died there or lost a loved one. It was a plot that at least tried to be "But it was her, wasn't it?" Laura asked, interrupting my train of thought, "The hospital?" After Nat switched sides, Nick made sure that a lot of what she did in her time with the Russian secret service disappeared from the surface. Not many agents were privy to My wife was not one of these. Her safety level was relatively low back then, and before she could work her way up to a higher level, she became pregnant with our first son. However, I assumed that they had the files that came out of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Archive stolen, but apparently she didn't. "Yes," I hear myself say, at the same time hearing the heaviness in my voice. Laura avoids my gaze. She is a mother, and the knowledge that it was mainly children who died back then certainly affected her. "She did it, but..." Before I can continue, my wife gives me a look I can't interpret: "How can there be a 'but" for Clint?", "Laura, you know Natasha. The person who carried out this attack wasn't her. Not really." I now sit down on the armrest of the chair and take her hand. "Believe me, if I didn't know for sure, I would have made a different decision back then." First she looks away, but then she agrees with my short gesture. "You saved her." Her voice is so quiet that the statement is almost a whisper. "Me she?" I ask now, having to smile briefly. Laura looks confused at me. "No… I don't think I saved her. If I had had to carry out Nick's assignment, I don't know if I would be the same person today. I've served in the Army and in my time with S.H.I.E.L.D. I have to kill a lot of people, and I will never be proud of it.", I don't name my time after Thanos destroyed my family, and I aimlessly tracked down criminals in the world for five years and killed them. "But that would have been different. By changing the plan and sparing her, that's how she saved me." I feel Laura changing her position; she leans further back and thus against me. "What happened in Moscow?", As I think about the answer, I have to smile and say, "Well, yes. I can tell you, I wasn't prepared for what happened in Russia. I started with a simple order. But Nat...she...you know her."

...

Moscow 2002

I step off the plane, the cold air stinging my face. I'm used to harsh winters in my home country and New York, but this feels a lot colder. No wonder the Russians had to warm themselves with hard alcohol. When the flight attendant greets me in Russian, I remember the small button cell that Laura gave me before I left. I smile and unobtrusively pull it out of my pocket. After I put it in my ear, it activates automatically. Suddenly, I understand every word that is being said around me. Craziness, I think to myself. I'll never get excited about technology, but it's definitely very helpful at the moment.
I descend the stairs from the plane onto the tarmac. I don't have a lot of luggage with me; according to Laura, the most important things are already here, as if I only had a small bag with clothes. I don't think I'll stay in Russia for long. Through S.H.I.E.L.D., I've learned how to track someone down quickly, even in a million-populous city like Moscow.
I move fast—not too fast to be noticed, but fast enough to get through security quickly. The moment the security officer checks my passport and visa, I hold my breath for a moment. Fury does his job well because, after a few seconds, he confirms the correctness of his colleague. He puts a stamp on it and gives me the papers back. I have now officially entered Russia. Which is officially stretchable since I'm staying here under a false name. I go through the full body scanner, which is unobjectionable, and follow the others into the airport arrivals hall. According to Laura, an undercover agent who has been stationed here for a few weeks would pick me up and drive me to my safe apartment. This also confirmed the last known whereabouts of Natasha Romanoff.
I look around, not knowing his face. So it could be anyone. I look at the clock; the plane landed on time, so I shouldn't have missed him. I am aware that he would not linger too long at the airport, as this could be conspicuous. That's why I rushed through security. "Господин Beranov?" I hear a male voice behind me. It takes a moment before I react. I've worked for Fury for a number of years, but those aliases will never get into my blood. This time, however, I react faster than usual, probably because I only saw the name on the passport a few minutes ago, and turn around. "Welcome to Moscow.", The agent greets me with a handshake. He is around 30 and wears his brunette hair short on the sides and slightly longer in the middle. "My name is Ramlow; it's an honor to meet you," he introduces himself. "Thank you," I reply. I don't feel like we can talk openly here, so I'll keep the conversation short. He seems to agree because, at the same time, he shows me the way to the exit. We climb into a dark station wagon on the airport parking deck. "Did you have a good flight, Agent Barton?" he asks, speaking in our native language again, which is why I take the button cell out of my ear and slip it into my jacket pocket. "It could be warmer," I say wryly. "Yes, that's what winter here is like." He starts the car and maneuvers us out of the parking garage. "According to Director Fury, you had contact with the target?", "Only at a distance. I never really got the hang of Black Widow. She's too good," he says, confirming the information I got from Nick earlier. "So you don't know exactly if she's in Moscow?" I am surprised. "Well, I didn't see her here, in case you're referring to that," he says as he pulls onto the freeway in the direction of the center. The streets are not cleared; apparently it just snowed recently. Agent Ramlow drives carefully, matching the speed of the other cars. Hopefully there won't be a chase, I think to myself; given these road conditions, I would definitely be at a disadvantage. "But there are enough signs that she's in town. In addition to the KGB, there are rumors that she works for the Russian mafia." "Oh, there's a difference?" I ask pointedly, which earns me a grin from the agent. "There is a pretty big shot, Viktor Tsvetjkov; according to my contacts, he will meet her tomorrow evening.", "And how trusting are your contacts?", the agent winks at me. I understand the allusion immediately. "All right. You promised the poor thing you'd save it." I say it in a slightly derogatory tone. Although I am one myself, my opinion of undercover agents is not the best. Due to our autonomy, our solo efforts sometimes take on a dubious character. We're one of the good guys, but since only the big picture counts for our client, it can happen that we make the wrong decisions to achieve them. Ramlow will no doubt have approached some of the young girls who are close to, and perhaps even abducted by, the Russian mafia; human trafficking is not untypical. In order to gain her trust and get information, he will have lied to her about his great feelings, perhaps even saying that he would set her free. "Why not?" he says, as if he could read my mind, "our client has a number of options." Such decisions aren't really up to us agents, but sometimes we forget that.
"Okay, tomorrow night, and where?" I changed the subject. "In Rodnya, a nightclub where pretty much everything that doesn't exactly belong on the legal side of society meets," Very good; now I knew the name, the face, and the location. Even if the place was an underground establishment that wasn't easy to get into. I was sure S.H.I.E.L.D. would find a solution, and since I would have to submit an initial report after my arrival at the apartment anyway, I could also ask for a favor at the same time.
We drive about an hour, then Ramlow drops me off in front of a nondescript building. "Thank you, Agent." There was something about him I didn't like, but my mother had always taught me to be polite. "Never mind Agent Barton," he said respectfully, but I got the feeling he felt the same sympathy as I did. "And don't miss it," he insists before rolling up the car window, "I never do." I mumble to myself.

Just before he stopped his car and reached his destination, he had given me the keys to the apartment that was to house me for the next few days. This was on the left side of the third floor.
I watch the car slowly move away from the house and eventually disappear into the traffic of the Russian capital. I then turn back to the front door, but I can't get around to unlocking it because two kids are storming out of here and playing tag in the front yard of the condominium. I take a quick look around, a habit that has been with me for most of my life. You can hear dogs barking; I can't pinpoint the exact cause, but the original one infects several dogs in the neighborhood, who are now wildly fighting each other. Here and there, voices can be heard coming from the apartments that keep their windows open. Since I don't have the button cell in my ear, I can't understand what they're talking about. In the stairway to the right of mine, a woman is smoking a cigarette and has been watching me since I got out of the car. I didn't miss that from the first second. I don't seem to fit the picture, which makes her suspicious of me, so I try not to avoid her eyes; doing the opposite would only make me seem even more suspicious. She doesn't keep up the contact, however, but instead throws the cigarette on the floor, although she's only just gotten halfway through. She quickly puts out the still-smoldering cigarette with her foot, then turns on her heel and disappears through the front door of her apartment building.

I do the same and enter my staircase. It was a long flight on which I hardly got any rest. I'm used to traveling around the US, but being on a plane for 10 hours is something else. In addition, I am now 7 hours in the future, and I have my problems with time differences anyway. I knew I had to endure a few more hours to fight jet lag. Still, I just wanted to get there, send the mission report to S.H.I.E.L.D., compose, freshen up, and then go to bed as soon as possible.

The apartment that is made available to me is simply and sparsely furnished. Since I didn't come here for a short vacation, I don't care. Comfort is secondary, especially on a mission like this.
But before I can settle down to recover from the tiring flight, I look around so I can memorize all the circumstances. In the event of an unexpected fight here, this can make all the difference:
The apartment consists of two rooms and a small chamber. The kitchen is part of the living room and consists of a makeshift kitchenette, but the water is clear and quickly heats up when I test the faucet. Otherwise, a three-seater sofa fills the space, with a faded carpet underneath. To the right of it is a chest of drawers that is empty. In less than 10 minutes, I completely scanned the room.

I leave it and look at the bedroom. This one is even smaller than the others. The bed takes up almost every space and is just so incredibly inviting to me. On this is a bag with a note: For Hawkeye.

I recognize Laura's handwriting. A smile appears on my face as I notice this. I fold the small paper, and then it disappears with the button cell in my jacket pocket. Then I open the holdall and discover my beloved bow, but it's not the one from my equipment back in New York. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. has an upgrade. I immediately notice that it isn't fully assembled since I'm basically just holding the arched window. But another piece of paper informs me about the further procedure "push the button", I follow this instruction, whereby the limbs fold out and my vision becomes tense by itself. "Nice," I comment, since stretching the tendons has always been the hardest part in the past, so avoiding it comes in handy. I find a lot of arrows under the bow, but not all of them seem ordinary.
Fury had already started equipping me with so-called "trick arrows" a few months ago. Each of them had a special quality that proved very useful in battle. I was thus able to both eliminate my opponents and perform other maneuvers at the same time. I've always been amazed at what's been produced in the S.H.I.E.L.D. creative workshop. So far, I've mostly dealt with the arrows that housed a warhead at the tip, but the new gear still had some updates up its sleeve. I inspected all species to sort them into the quiver by use. What was new was an arrow that, after being shot, creates a fixed point in a surface from which I can abseil. You're not taking any risks, that's for sure.
After getting a rough overview of my new gear, I take the cell phone that Fury gave me from my carry-on and dial Coulson's number. But it's not his voice that answers the call, but a female voice that I don't know. "0731129," she rattles off, "secure line 7." I answer automatically. "One moment, please." She says goodbye, and a few seconds later I hear Coulson's voice. "Good evening, Agent Barton." "Good evening, Agent Coulson." I greet him. "Did you have a good flight?" I didn't feel like making small talk right now; the tiredness was becoming more and more noticeable. "It was okay." I kept my answer short and got straight to my point: "I met Agent Ramlow; he gave me information that I have a chance to meet Black Widow tomorrow night." It followed a moment of silence before Coulson spoke up again: "What do you need an agent for?" Apparently he was able to correctly evaluate my direct manner, and I welcomed being able to clarify the matter quickly, "a ticket to the Rodnya."

…

"Don't worry, I'll be there tomorrow." I try to reassure the person on the other end of the phone and throw the bag that Dimitri gave me on the dining table of the apartment I've just entered. It's about 40 minutes from Dreykov's "Hell's Boarding School" to my apartment, and I can cover the distance in 25 on my motorbike. My cell phone rang the moment I unlocked the apartment door. I know I can't waste time, so I'll keep it short.
Some would consider it arrogant to take on two jobs at the same time. However, I promised to meet Tsvetjkov a few days ago, and it's hard to turn down the mafia. I realize that acting on two fronts at once—the Russian mafia and an American secret agent—is reckless, but I'm willing to take the risk. I can't even explain exactly why. I'm not dependent on the mafia's money, but I'm happy to accept it. The missions are usually simpler and quicker than the KGB's missions. Also, the targets are not innocent families or people who could harm politicians. Working for the mafia means looking after the criminal scum of Russian society, someone whose loss is not sad. "I'll be there; he doesn't get any other guarantee. "о вонка (Goodbye).", With these words, I end the phone call. I look at the clock: 2 minutes and 45 seconds is not enough time to locate my mobile phone. I put the phone down by the bag and pulled out the file Dreykov gave me. I aim for my fridge and check for anything edible, but I can't find anything apart from a few leftovers from the previous day. With a puff, I close the fridge door and instead take a drinking glass that was still drying on the sink after washing up. I fill it up with vodka and then settle down on my couch. I open the file, and the agent's picture falls into my hand again. "So Hawkeye,", I say to myself before taking a sip of the alcohol. "Who calls themselves that?! Or did they create you too, like me?" I put the photo aside and started reading the report that Dreykov's contact sent. Clinton Barton was born in Iowa in 1978. He has been working for the secret organization S.H.I.E.L.D. for about 2 years and is known there as an excellent sharpshooter. His weapon of choice is the bow and arrow, which is unusual these days but nothing that deters me. I try to read the report as carefully as possible; the more information I can get about him, the easier it will be to manipulate him in a confrontation. I take another sip of the vodka. "You know what you're getting yourself into." I say to the photo of the person lying on the couch to my right. I speak to him as if he would answer me at any moment. "Definitely not. They must have told you that I am a threat to your country. And because you're a dutiful soldier, you accepted the assignment." I emptied the glass and put it on the coffee table.

"I wish you, Clint, that you don't have any family who could mourn your death." With these words, I close the file. I'll leave the photo outside. I take it in my hands and look at it carefully again. "You probably think you're doing the right thing. That's what makes it so unfortunate."
I feel a weight on my chest. The things I do come so easily that it almost scares me. For an ordinary person, the prospect of preparing to murder someone else would be a nightmare scenario, but for me, it has become absurdly normal. In the evenings, I sit on my couch and make a plan, as if preparing for my next shift in the office. But that's what Dreykov made me. This is the work of the Red Room. Death and life are no longer opposites for me, and death is not something I fear.
When I think about it, I fear nothing but one thing.
I sigh and get up from the sofa. On the way to the bathroom, I start to undress. I have an urgent need to wash the day away from me until there is nothing left of it. I turn on the water and set the lever to the hottest setting. I get rid of the rest of my clothes, step into the shower, and let the hot water flow over my body. That charm is just what I need after meeting Dreykov today. I brush the water off my face and run my hands over my hair, which is getting wetter and wetter. I close my eyes and try to just listen to the sound of the running water, which I manage to do for a brief moment. But it doesn't last long, and images flash in my mind's eye—memories from my childhood and early teens. I see the faces of girls from the Red Room—the ones who didn't make it, the ones who didn't make it because of me. Usually these images only appear in my sleep, in nightmares I have every night. But my encounter with Sergej today seems to have brought them to the surface so much that they are now happening to me in my waking state. Anger rises in me, which I let out on the shower wall, hitting it with my fist as hard as possible. I feel pain go through my hand, and I hope I haven't broken it. "Сукин сын!" (Damn shit!). I comment on the emotional outburst and the associated knee-jerk reaction. I turn off the water with my non-painful left hand and take a closer look at my right. The skin on the knuckle is cracked and bleeding; it's shaking, which isn't a good sign. I've broken a few bones in my body, but mostly from fighting and not from hitting a wall. And then my hand, which I need in battle. I get out of the shower and wrap my body in a towel. I leave wet footprints as I go to the kitchen and search my medicine cabinet for something to heal myself with. I can literally watch the back of my hand change color. She's definitely broken. At first, I'm frustrated, but I've had to put up with a lot of pain, and I'll endure this one too. It won't stop me from being successful. But I have to admit that without a broken hand, it would certainly have been easier.
I start by cleaning my hand from the blood, disinfecting the open wounds, and then bandaging them makeshift. It's unprofessional and won't make it heal quickly, but I can worry about that once the job is done.
I grab some ibuprofen to swallow with vodka and hope it takes effect quickly.
Sitting there in my kitchen at the table, still wet from the shower, with a broken hand and alcohol down, I realize how much I hate it. It hits me so hard that I start laughing hysterically. I hate how much power Dreykov still has over me. When I finished my education in the Red Room at 16, I vowed never to be that weak again, and now I'm sitting here. My face is reflected in the window pane, which has been bathed in a deep black by the night. "Pull yourself together," I tell my reflection. I take a deep breath and get up. I collect the files from the sofa, actually want to go to the bedroom right away, and then get stuck on the picture of Clint Barton. "You must be a nice guy, but I have to save my sister," I say, picking up the picture as well and going to my bedroom with the papers.

First of all, I throw the things on my bed to throw on a loose-fitting T-shirt, and I use the towel to wrap my wet hair in a turban.
I turn around and push the rug aside next to my bed a little. I reach for a pocket knife that's on my bedside table and pry open a loose floorboard in the floor. Underneath, there is an empty space between the floor and the wooden covering, which I have been using as a secret hiding place for a few months now. I get an iron box from this hiding place and open it. There are a few things in this one that I want to protect at all costs. Including a passport, the very first ever issued to me by the KGB when I came to them. This still contains my birth name. I know that this one is also fake and the names of my alleged parents are fictitious, but I still imagine to this day that Anastasia Romanova and Petr Romanov are my parents, that they live somewhere in the country and have a simple life. That every day they wait for me to come home.
Today I ignored the passport. I also ignored the small picture stuck in the passport. They are two small pictures from a photo booth. They are from 1995 and show Yelena and me as children. It was the only thing I had left from my time in Ohio.
I put the file in the box and locked it. Include her in my past. I pack the box back into the cavity and close it with the floorboard. When I want to get up, I accidentally lean on my right hand. A pain runs through my arm, and I groan slightly. I know that ibuprofen is not enough. I need a stronger pain reliever that also keeps my head clear. It's a good thing that I'm meeting up with a high-ranking mafia boss tomorrow evening who can get me the same drug.

Before I go to bed, I grab my laptop, this time with my left hand. It was a gift from Dimitri. He had managed to convert a huge computer into a smaller device that could be used on the go. His inspiration was Steve Jobs, from the USA. Thanks to the handy size and the ability to access the Internet, I could now do research work from anywhere and was no longer dependent on Internet cafes or libraries.
I turned off the light in the apartment and crawled into bed with the computer. It wasn't easy to type with one hand, but I got the hang of it pretty quickly. I'm checking the arrivals of all flights at Moscow Airport in the last few hours. In doing so, I not only access the generally accessible website of Russian air traffic but also manage to hack into all passenger lists of any airline with a simple command. After about half an hour, I find a name that stands out: Kliment Baranov
I tilted my head slightly when I read the name. "It's so absurdly conspicuous," I mumble to myself, looking to my right at my dessert table, on which I had the picture of Agent Barton leaning against the lamp stand. "You can't be serious, can you?" I asked the face in the photo without getting an answer. "Obviously you mean it. And apparently your client knows that I'm going to find out." It can't be a coincidence that they let him fly on a very ordinary passenger plane. From D.C. to Amsterdam and then on to Moscow. Do the people of S.H.I.E.L.D. really seem so naive? If they do, it's a big mistake on their part.

I'll open a new browser tab and change my VPN access to a server in Canada before proceeding further. The cursor flashes frantically for a moment as I hesitate to enter my search command. A few seconds pass, then I type: Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division in the search field. It takes a moment when I press enter, then several entries appear, which I begin to read, but at some point in the process my eyes close and I fall into a deep sleep.

"Name?" the doorman at Rodnya asks me in a derogatory tone. It is not common for single women to visit this club; mostly, they are just the decorative accessories of a shady businessman or a mafia baron. I don't decorate anyone; I don't need to. "Irina Zlataryova," I introduce myself using one of my aliases. The reason I'm so good and respected in the scene is because I never wear myself to the show like some widows have before me. No one really knows who they're dealing with. The bodyguard checks his list for my name but apparently can't find it on the guest list. "Sorry, it looks like they didn't invite you." He crosses his arms. I'm a good two heads shorter than him and look very petite in comparison. He would have scared any other girl with my statue, but I don't get that feeling. I look past him and can see the VIP area in the back. " "Ask Viktor," "Excuse me?" the waiting guests behind me get restless as I stop the flow of the inlet. "Honey, today is not your day," says a nouveau riche oil tycoon, Nikolay Makarov, behind me, who looks more like a pimp with his fur coat and two escorts at his side, but I know him through my contacts. He apparently but not me. "Yoapparently,. Someone like Viktor will hardly come to the entrance for x-random chicks." I just cross my arms and start to grin. I don't move an inch, which the guy behind me really dislikes. I feel his hand on my shoulder, probably trying to pull me out of the way. Almost reflexively, I reach over my shoulder with my left hand, twist his arm at the wrist, and let him fall to the ground, where he lies, whimpering and cursing. "Victor. Now." I say this emphatically to the bouncer, who just followed the event with a very confused look. Now he nods and disappears behind the front door. Actually, I didn't want to prove my skills, but he gave me no other choice. I'm not here of my own accord; Viktor wanted to see me; I didn't ask him to meet me. As soon as I get hired by someone who isn't in the service of the Russian secret organization, I won't be treated like dirt. "Do you actually know who you are dealing with?" asks Makarov, who has just been lying on the ground and has now slowly gotten up again. I turn to him, look him up and down, "I do, but apparently you don't. I'll give you good advice and I'll only give it to you once. Keep your hands off me, or you won't have any more to touch another woman against her will.” Of course, that's not all. In this male-dominated world I find myself in, the general assumption is that women are only there for three things: to adorn a man, to bear his children, or to do his laundry. Mostly in that order. Dreykov served exactly these stereotypes by creating us. Women have been underestimated for centuries and the younger they were, the more unassuming they were to this world. So it's not surprising to me that I hurt his ego. In his perception, a woman has no objections to give, let alone hit him. He tries to get closer to me again. My facial expressions are meant to be a final warning to him, I'm already preparing to fully expose him and show him that my words weren't just an empty threat, but neither of us gets around to escalating the situation, right there at that moment the bouncer returns to the entrance with another man. It's not Viktor himself, but surely someone in his inner circle. I turn away from Makarov and give my full attention to the mafia contact. "девушка (Ms.) Zlataryova.", I am addressed by him. "Please excuse that we forgot to put you on the guest list, we assumed someone else." I nod to him contentedly, then turn to Makarow and his companions once more as I enter. "Our paths shouldn't cross again," I tell him unequivocally. Then I let go of him completely and enter the Rodnya, catching a quick glance at the guest list, I see the name of Natasha Romanoff further down.

The man who picked me up at the entrance turns out to be Andrick Petrov, who actually belongs to Viktor's inner circle. He leads me to a separate area of the club that is even more intimate than the VIP area. "Irina Zlataryova. Or may I call you Natasha?" Viktor greets me. He is a tall man in his mid-30s. His face is striking, made even more striking by a scar. "I don't care." I answer calmly and sit down after being offered a seat by Viktor. "Well, Natasha, would you like a drink?", "I don't drink on duty," my tone remaining calm. During our small talk, I scanned the circumstances unnoticed. The booth is guarded by two bodyguards, heavily armed, although guns are actually forbidden in the Rodnya. On the way here, I was also able to count other people—at least four—who were also not ordinary guests. Viktor is accompanied by several women, no doubt prostitutes, whom he sends ahead of our conversation.
Only Viktor and Andrick, his right hand, remain. "I like this attitude," he says appreciatively, lighting a cigarette. "Let's get down to business." As always, I'm very direct. He takes a puff on the cigarette and then leans forward. "I'm a businessman." Natasha," I cross my legs, "I have no doubt about that." His business model is limited to drugs and human trafficking, as far as I know. "I have a monopoly in my industry. No one dared interfere in my trade.", "Obviously, that has changed." He takes another drag on his cigarette and says, "Igor Kazakov." He tells me the name of my assignment; his right hand appears at my side and gives me a face to the name in the form of a photo." He started poaching my customers. I can't take this any longer.' I look back and forth between the photo and Viktor. "However, I wonder why someone like Viktor Tsvetykov has to hire someone for something like this.", I really do wonder at times, but in this way, I'm trying to get even more information than I need in any case. Like Makarov before, I'm underestimated by Viktor, although he knows about my abilities. But that doesn't change the fact that he underestimates me, misinterprets my style, and starts talking happily. He wants to explain himself and prove himself at the same time, but that only plays into my hands. "Unfortunately, I can't." He takes one last drag of his cigarette and then stubs it out in the ashtray in front of him. "He belongs to the company." Fumbling would reflect badly on me. "There are not many rules in the Russian mafia; one of the few and probably even the most important is the prevailing loyalty to one another. It is not without reason that they call themselves a brotherhood. Depending on where you were in the hierarchy of the organization, this loyalty was limited, but judging by Viktor's testimony, Igor had a special protective status that Viktor couldn't easily overturn. This would jeopardize his own position in the system. "So it's supposed to look like an accident?" I asked, crossing my arms. "I see we understand each other, Natasha." Tswetjkow pours himself a shot glass of vodka and empties it in one gulp. "Okay, then let's talk about the payment." I'm not here for any other reason; it's not really the money I'm after right now, even if I don't turn it down. I had covered my broken hand with a black leather glove, but I could feel the pain myself, despite a double dose of painkillers. Viktor was also involved in the pharmaceutical industry through his criminal dealings. He tried to expand his drug trade into the legal market. I had heard about a special painkiller, but it had no effects on consciousness. That's why I was here. "Of course." With a gesture, he tells Andrick to write me a sum on a piece of paper. I accept the offer. I check it in less than two seconds and then hand the note back. "That's not enough," I say calmly. "Not enough?" Viktor reacts in surprise and covers it up with sarcasm. "But Nata..." "Listen to Viktor. You know who I am; you know who I belong to. If you want me to take care of your business, increase my fee to 500,000 rubles, and I would also like an advance." He thinks for a moment and then confirms my counter-offer with a nod of his head. "How much would you like in advance?" "I don't want any money," I reply, crossing my arms and trying not to touch my right hand. "I heard about something. A painkiller that you drive away.", His facial features freeze. "Who did you learn about this from?" he demands of me. "It doesn't matter. When we're in business, give it to me." He calls Andrick over and whispers something in his ear, which I don't understand, and he then disappears. "All right. I'll give it to you, but she should know, Natasha, that the drug is still in the testing phase.", "According to my information, it is the most effective painkiller, but without any side effects.", "No side effects while taking it.", Correct me, Victor. "It is true. It contains an active ingredient that shuts down the pain center of the brain but does not numb other areas. This effect lasts about 48 hours. But when it wears off, you're going to have the worst hangover of your life," he warns. I ignored this warning. I've had a few bad mornings after a night out and a bottle of vodka, but I've always gotten through them, and I'll get through this one too. Importantly, once I have Barton, my right hand is ready to go. Andrick returns to the lunge corner and hands Viktor a sachet, who places it on the glass table between us and pushes it over to me. Inside are two white, nondescript pills. "Your advance, Natasha." I pick up the bag and let it disappear into my décolleté. "We're in business," I say, getting up. "I'll get back to you as soon as the matter is settled." "How do we arrange the payment?", "I will give Andrick the details of the various accounts.", I thought that our meeting was over, but I felt someone take a look at me that wasn't Andrick's or Viktor's. I am being watched and have been for a while. It's just a moment, almost the blink of an eye, but I turn and see him there, in an air vent. He draws his bow and aims, but he doesn't shoot. The moment our eyes meet, we both know we see each other, and he lowers his weapons. I give him a short grin and wink at him. It has begun. Clint Barton found me.

…

I'm on my way to Rodnya. Whatever it is, S.H.I.E.L.D. may have done it, but they let me put me on the guest list. Not only me, Ramlow supports me too. However, that means less to me. I had asked Fury to let me work alone. Unfortunately, my lack of knowledge of the Russian language made his presence indispensable. He was already at the club and had radioed me that she had already arrived. She had meanwhile disappeared into a separate part of the club with Viktor Tsvetjkov, no doubt to discuss an assignment.
At the entrance, I am asked for my name by a muscular, 2-meter-tall bouncer so that he can check it against his list. "Baranov." I keep my answer short so that it doesn't show that I'm American. In addition to the radio cell in my ear, I still carry the translator that Laura gave me. "Understood. Have fun," the bouncer replies, making room for me to enter the club. "Incredible!" I hear a man curse next to me. "And you don't want to do anything?", Something seemed to have upset him. "She attacked me in public, and you still give her the satisfaction of escorting her personally to Viktor?" I've been trying to arrange a meeting with him for weeks." Natasha Romanoff was undoubtedly there, but I couldn't find out more about what had happened here as the bouncer again told me to move on. I nod and enter Rodnya. It lives up to its reputation as a seedy nightclub. You can literally feel organized crime in the air. I adjust my shirt collar and try to find my way in the darkness of the bar. I spot Ramlow at the bar, but we had previously agreed not to interact; otherwise, he could jeopardize his contacts in the Russian mafia or we could be connected too quickly, which in turn jeopardized the success of my assignment. "Your gear is in the air shaft," he lets me know over the radio instead. He was here before the opening, as he personally knows the owner of the Rodnya and placed them there. When he picked up my bow and arrows from me this morning, we spoke briefly about the mission. Basically, today won't be the day that I'm going to retire Black Widow; the attention it would draw would be just too great, but I'll leave the possibility open to myself.
As an agent, my priority is to get a real picture of the target. Who was she? How does she act? How does she move? All these questions and even more of their answers were essential for me as a sniper.
"I understand.", I look up unobtrusively and follow the air shaft. It's not nearly as wide as I'm used to in America, but it will do. I make my way purposefully towards the back of the club but am stopped by a barrier. This had to be the separate room my co-agent talked about earlier. I look to the left and see a door that apparently leads to the club's food court. I slipped through the door unnoticed. From here, I have a better chance of getting into the air shaft. I have access through a grate in the ceiling.

As expected, the corridors are narrower than in the USA, but thanks to my soldier training, I make good progress and finally find my equipment. Since I went left earlier, I'll move right first and then north of the building. "We're in business," I hear a female voice say. I haven't heard an audio track of her before, but I know right away that she is. Luckily, there is also an air grille directly above the booth, so I can look down. That's where I got my first glimpse of Natasha Romanoff.
"Got a visual," I let Ramlow know as I began to prepare my bow for use. In itself, this would not be a good place or time. The club is full of criminals who are undoubtedly armed. As previously discussed with Ramlow, an attack would attract far too much attention and, in the worst case, lead to a chain reaction. But I also know that he expects me to use the element of surprise; I am aware of this advantage. Getting to Black Widow without her knowing will never be that easy again. I cock my arrow and aim for her. It would be an easy shot. Right between the shoulder blades. He would strip the lung, resulting in a perforation, and with enough pressure, he would even enter the heart. I'm still hesitating, still weighing the benefits, and if I weren't lying to myself, I'm also still weighing whether I really want to kill her. I hesitate a moment too long because she turns, not looking behind her but directly in my direction. You might think it's a coincidence, but I know it's not. "Agent Barton?" I hear Ramlow's voice in my ear. But I ignore her; my eyes only have her in view. My full attention is on her, and then I recognize it. You never told me your age." She's a kid," I say out loud. "What?" asks Ramlow, who doesn't seem to be able to follow my words, "Agent Barton?", I lower my bow, and a slight grin appears on her lips. She actually saw me. The grin, so inconspicuous and yet there, is followed by a wink, and then she turns back to Zwetjkow. "I'm afraid I have to leave you now," she said, turning to him. "What a pity; I'd like to have such a nice face in my company, but I think Natasha, you're a busy woman.", "You've got that right." I pulled away and reassembled my bow. I hide it under my jacket and follow the conversation, but I hold myself back and only watch her out of the corner of my eye. She doesn't turn back to me but calmly takes her coat from the back of the chair, apparently having sat down beforehand. She slips it on calmly and then says goodbye to the man next to Viktor Zwetjkow. Then she started walking toward the exit. "Barton?!" I hear Ramlow's voice again. "I'll go after her," I say, and start crawling back. "She spotted them?" the agent concludes, and I can tell in his voice that he's upset. "I have it under control; stay here," I urge him. I jumped back into the club's kitchen and set out to go after her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my unwanted sidekick, who seems to be getting restless. But I ignore him and just head outside. Natasha has a head start, but I can still see her at the end of the intersection in front of the club. I'm in pursuit now, running faster once I'm out of sight of the bouncer to catch up and not lose them. In contrast to me, she runs almost calmly but briskly. She disappears after about 10 minutes at Kurskly station to take the metro. I am sure that she is aware of my persecution on her part. I'm actively jeopardizing the success of my mission, but I can't believe S.H.I.E.L.D. set me on a young girl. Sure, her clothes and makeup were meant to make her look older, and it's remarkable how more confident she's been in this nightclub and all its criminal creatures. But she was not older than 18 years. I really wanted to know who she was and why I should kill her.

I follow her into the train station, but then realize that my local knowledge could be better. It is not the metro that is their goal, but urban transport. I can't miss my chance now; otherwise, I would lose it. This is her terrain, so she's way ahead of me. I see her get on a train just in time to do the same. As I enter, the doors close behind me, and he leaves the station. But since I'm not in the same compartment as her, I could miss her exit. I keep calm and start walking to the other end of my compartment. In some European countries, such as Germany, the individual parts of the train are connected. I hope that this also applies to Russia. My expectation is fulfilled, and I move from one part of the train to the next. As I walk through the train, I see some young women with red hair, and I think I've found them, but I'm disappointed a few times. I only see her near the end of the train. I can feel the train slowing down and approaching its next stop. Confronting them now would be an option, but that would involve too many civilians. So I stay behind a man who is reading the newspaper. It's a desperate attempt not to be spotted by her, but I think she's seen me long ago.
I purposely stepped out of the back exit and followed her at a distance. This was not only safer but also my usual procedure; not without reason they had given me the absurd name Hawkeye; like this bird of prey, I preferred to observe my target from a further distance, to look at the entirety of the situation from above and unrecognized remains. I was aware that the latter was not the case at the moment.
Despite putting more distance between us again, I didn't lose it. But there was something about this success that didn't appeal to me; it was too easy. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't have made this mission such an important one if Natasha Romanoff got caught in a little chase. There was more behind it, and I got the feeling that she was putting it on there. That it was her intention that she would allow me to target her.

After a few meters, she turned onto a street that led away from the main road. We had moved far away from the district where the Rodnya was located and were now in one that exuded more safety and sophistication. The background noise of the capital of Russia almost died down here; the highway receded into the background, as did the babble of voices and public transport. To complete the idyll, it started to snow again, much to my frustration because the snow fell in thick flakes and spoiled my free view. I suppressed my impulse to curse just as I could just see her disappearing into a doorway.
I now had two options:
First, try to break into the house opposite and find a clear line of fire; maybe this was possible from the roof. That would suit my style. The disadvantage of this approach was that I could lose it because I didn't know the city. She could also just disappear out of a back door or window and lose herself.
Or two, I went against my usual habit and followed her into the house, risking a hand-to-hand fight in which I'm admittedly at a disadvantage but don't lose her.
I have to make a decision quickly; it only takes a few seconds for me to make a decision.

As I leave the stairs in the apartment building behind me, I see an open apartment door. I carefully take my bow, which I had in my jacket the whole time. I get him ready and place an arrow on the intended support. Then I entered the apartment. "Come closer, Agent Barton." Her English is almost perfect; only her Russian accent suggests that it is not her mother tongue. I follow her voice into the living room, where she's sitting on the couch, pointing a gun at me.

…

Ever since I left the club, I've felt Clint Barton on my heels. He follows me into the train station and even manages to get on the train at the last second, which I take to escape his pursuit. I didn't think there would be a showdown between us so soon, but it just makes things easier for me. If I could clear things up with him tonight, I'd have a clear head for Kazakov. Now it was time to test the effects of the painkiller that Viktor had given me. I take the sachet out of my bra and take one of the two pills inside. He hadn't told me how long it would take for the desired effect to occur, so I could only hope for the best. To give myself more time, I walk to the first carriage of the train, trying to walk as calmly as possible so as not to draw attention to myself. I have perfected that. The first rule of running away is: don't run.
Arriving in the first car, I had a brief moment to breathe. S.H.I.E.L.D. made a mistake by sending a foreigner to my home. Not that I can't adapt to the conditions everywhere, but this is my terrain. I know Moscow like the back of my hand. I know every shortcut and every hole, no matter how small, into which I can disappear in an emergency.
I take the risk and clench my hand into a fist. I suck in a sharp breath, preparing for pain, but there is no pain.
"That's more like it,", I say with irony in my voice and therefore use English. Agent Barton just had an advantage, but thanks to Viktor, that too was gone. From now on, I'll change my tactics. I don't need to run away from him anymore. The situation requires a cool head, which I can keep immediately. My training has enabled me to act like this here. I'm going through all the options I have. I could get onto the roof of the train through the dining car and then try to escape on a bridge or a power pole. That would be the safest option and would ensure that he lost my trail. That would give me time and could thus reverse the balance of power.
Or I'll take a chance on meeting him here on the train. If he were willing to involve civilians, would I be? It wouldn't be my way and would go against my spy character; it wouldn't be the lives I regret. Thinking this way scares me, so I immediately dismiss the thought.
I end up with the last option: I get off at the next station and lead him to me. Let him believe that he found me and that he's going to finish it now. My apartment was the safest place for me. I could take a few minutes, change, and bring out every gun I have at my disposal. It would be done quickly, and Dreykov could send a result today. With a little thought, I could delay it for a few more hours so that Yelena can have some rest. I'm aware that once this job is done, it will again call into question my loyalty to the blonde girl.
I can feel the train slowing down, and I see him entering the carriage out of the corner of my eye. I observe how he behaves in order to be able to react accordingly. But he stops behind a man reading a newspaper. Does he really think this is camouflaging him?
The train stops, and I get off. From here, it's about 600 meters to my apartment. I can stretch the route by not taking the direct route. I could maybe get 2 or 3 minutes with that, which I then have at the end to squeeze into my new costume. I decide to do it and quickly leave the main street. He follows me; I can feel his eyes on me.
To get a head start, I take a shortcut through a backyard beforehand, but make sure he can see me using the front door of my apartment building.
I don't climb the stairs; I almost climb them. Now I don't have to keep calm anymore, but hurry up. I quickly open the door to my apartment and leave it open—leave it open for Clint Barton.
I grab the bag that still sits on my kitchen table, peeling off the skintight dress only to swap it for a skintight suit. Dimitri was right; it felt like leather, but it fits comfortably and doesn't restrict my freedom of movement.
I listen and hear how he takes the stairs that creak under his shoes.
One of my favorite pistols is fixed under my coffee table. I reach down and pull it off, cocking the safety, sitting calmly in the middle of my couch, and aiming. The last step of the stairs is known to be the most porous, which is why I hear the loud cracking. He is there.
"Come closer, Agent Barton." I invited him. He enters the apartment and comes into the living room. He has drawn his bow, inserted an arrow, and set his sights on me. Like me, with my gun.