Different Call (Clintasha)

Chpt. 1 - Black Widow

Natasha

Natasha Romanoff is my name, or so I've been told. I'd gone by so many I wasn't even sure anymore: Natalia, Natalie, Romanov, Romanova. There's no way to trust them and god knows they don't understand that concept anyways. I'm an assassin, technically much more than that but right now that was the closest word to describe what I was. Let's say I have a very specific skillset; one that puts me at the top of every mission list. I'm the best of the best, or worst of the worst depending on how you look at it. I put bodies in the morgue like you write words on paper. I'm a cold blooded killer and professional murderess. I have the talent. I have the resources. I have the sex appeal. I have all the advantages. I prefer to keep my missions clean and simple but every now and then I have to interact with my victims. When I do however, I lure the men into my trap. I hit their weaknesses and make them pay for doubting my abilities. I pull them into my web and tug every string to make them play my game.
Let's play three truths and a lie:

1. At age 7, I killed my parents after watching them cry over their daughter they assumed was dead until seconds before.

2. I've successfully manipulated the american government and extort information by the mere mention of my name.

3. My kill count is in the triple digits as of two years ago.


Couldn't guess the lie? Nobody can. Nobody knows my entire life story and nobody ever will except the agency. My owners, employers and worst nightmare, the Red Room, trains like no other place in existence. I'm their prized product: The Black Widow.


I'm somewhat of a legend but maybe it's better that way. Better for people to believe that someone so terrible and ruthless is nothing more than a story than to face the truth that the fairytale villain is a girl, barely 22 years of age. This is my 26th mission and I won't let anything ruin it. I made that mistake before and I am never letting myself make it again. My ledger is dripping red with blood both innocent and guilty but most of which unidentified. It's pouring, gushing and at night I can feel myself drowning in the warm sticky fluid as it filled up my lungs with the blood of all of my victims. Reality pulled me back as I felt the cold Russian weather nip at my cheeks through the thin material of my skimask. This is where my story starts.

The mountains I'd been camping in whistled with the breeze and sheets of snow sparkled as they're carried away by the current of the wind. I was wearing an insulated parka and snowpants overtop of my ever present tight-fitting black underarmour. I grimaced at how visible my shadow was, sourly chuckling at the irony of wishing to be invisible for such a vain reason. I sat in the snow unable to relieve my tension, always ready and never resting for the constant threat of a fight. I rubbed my hands together, my fiery red hair flicking around my face in the frost of the snowy breeze. I'd done this type of,mission a thousand times and it feels too familiar. In any other career, familiarity would be good but in this one that demands adaptability, routine could be the same thing as death. I'd entertained the possibility of escaping this hell but if I try, I'm dead. Part of me wants something to go terribly wrong. Part of me wishes that an avalanche would come right now and wipe my scum off of the earth and permanently rid them of me. It would crush me, literally squeezing the life out of my body but at least in turn it would give me a one way trip out of the red room's control.



My record is flawless but one scratch, one line, one dot could ruin my entire existence. If I mess this up, even in the slightest, I might as well shoot myself right here. Not in the head, but the gut, so I could feel the pain and watch as my life seeped further away with every drop of blood. Each moment of suffering I could reflect on how I am trash and I deserved to be unraveled again and again just to be given empty praise to further my obsession with perfection. The red room takes me apart and puts me back together to fight. No emotions, no outside influence, just the mission and nothing else. My reeducation can be counted on two hands. I got up quickly slinging my pack over my shoulder, and sliding down the sheer icy surface of the mountain and towards the glimmering lights of the town below. There was a conference; a fancy elite and important one by the sounds of it.


I was sent to crash it.