Natasha stares at her kitchen counter, now sporting a hand-shaped scorch mark that definitely wasn't there yesterday. The granite is actually warped, creating a shallow depression where she'd been making coffee and thinking about mission reports.
"Fucking perfect," she mutters, running her normal left hand through her hair. Her right hand—the problem child—throbs with residual heat. Three days since she discovered she could make it glow like a space heater, and she's already destroyed half her apartment trying to figure out how it works.
The coffee maker is the latest casualty. The plastic handle melted right off when she grabbed it this morning, sending hot coffee cascading across her pristine floor. The mug met a similar fate, ceramic cracking under the sudden temperature change. She's currently drinking instant coffee from a metal camping cup she found in her emergency supplies.
Maybe I should invest in oven mitts. Industrial grade ones.
Her phone buzzes on the counter. She reaches for it automatically with her right hand, then jerks back.
"Left hand, Romanoff. Jesus." She's talking to herself now. Great. First sign of madness, or maybe just the natural result of having a hand that randomly decides to cosplay as a welding torch.
The text is from Fury: "Medical wants your quarterly assessment moved up. Tuesday, 0900."
"Fuck that," she says to her empty apartment. There's no way she's letting SHIELD medical anywhere near her until she figures out how to control this. She texts back: "On assignment. Will reschedule when I return."
It's not technically a lie. She is on assignment—self-assigned to figure out why the Chimera Protocol gave her Human Torch powers in addition to the other anatomical changes.
She sets the phone down carefully and flexes her right hand. The key seems to be emotional state and concentration. When she's calm and focused, she can make it heat up on command. When she's distracted or stressed...
Well, that's how she ended up with a melted doorknob on her bathroom and scorch marks on her Egyptian cotton sheets.
"Okay. Let's try this properly." She sits cross-legged on her living room floor, which she's covered in fire-resistant blankets after yesterday's incident with the yoga mat. The apartment's smoke detectors are all disabled—a decision that would make Fire Marshal's everywhere weep, but necessary for her current experiments.
She holds her right hand out, palm up, and concentrates. The familiar warmth builds slowly, spreading from her palm through her fingers. She watches, fascinated despite herself, as her skin begins to glow. Faint at first, like she's holding her hand over a candle, then brighter.
Temperature control. Think thermostat, not flamethrower.
The heat stabilizes at what feels like maybe 200 degrees Fahrenheit. Hot enough to burn normal skin, but her enhanced physiology treats it like a mild warmth. She maintains it for thirty seconds, then slowly dials it back down.
"Good. Progress." She's still talking to herself. At this rate, she'll need a volleyball named Wilson soon.
She tries again, pushing the temperature higher this time. 300 degrees. 400. The air above her palm shimmers like summer asphalt. At 500 degrees, she starts to see wisps of smoke from the fire blanket.
Okay, backing off before I need to call 911. Again.
The intercom buzzes, making her jump. Her concentration breaks and her palm flares—bright orange, hot enough that she feels it on her face from two feet away.
"Shit!" She shakes her hand like that'll help, trying to dial the heat back down. The intercom buzzes again, more insistent.
She stumbles to her feet, keeping her glowing hand away from anything flammable, and hits the intercom button with her elbow.
"What?"
"It's me," Maria's voice, amused. "You going to let me up, or should I assume you're busy setting something on fire?"
Natasha looks at her still-glowing hand, then at the scorched blankets, the melted coffee maker, the warped granite counter.
"Your timing is impeccable as always."
"That's why they pay me the big bucks. Buzz me in."
Natasha hits the button and then races around the apartment, trying to hide the worst of the damage. She throws a dish towel over the melted coffee maker, flips the scorched blanket to its less-burned side, and is just trying to figure out how to explain the hand-shaped depression in her counter when Maria walks in.
"Nice try," Maria says, surveying the attempted cover-up with a critical eye. "The smell of burned plastic gave you away. Plus, you're still glowing."
Natasha looks down at her right hand, which is indeed still emitting a faint orange light. "Fuck."
"New party trick?" Maria sets down the bag she's carrying—takeout, from the smell—and approaches slowly. "How long have you been able to do that?"
"Three days. Well, three days since I noticed." Natasha flexes her fingers, watching the light play across them. "Pretty sure my palm's been running hot since Prague, but this is new."
Maria reaches out, then pauses. "Is it safe to touch?"
"Probably not. I'm at about 300 degrees right now."
"Jesus, Nat." Maria circles her, studying the phenomenon from all angles. "Can you control it?"
"Sometimes. When I'm focused." As if to prove her wrong, the heat spikes again, bright enough to cast shadows. "Fuck. See?"
"What triggers it?"
"Emotions. Distractions. Thinking about—" She cuts herself off, but Maria's knowing look says she can fill in the blanks.
"Right. So your new alien biology responds to arousal by trying to incinerate things. That's..."
"Incredibly inconvenient?"
"I was going to say 'hot,' but sure, let's go with inconvenient." Maria smirks at her own pun. "Show me what else you can do."
Natasha demonstrates her limited control, heating up and cooling down her palm. She manages to maintain a steady glow for almost two minutes before—
"Is that your phone melting?"
"FUCK!" Natasha lunges for the device, which she'd apparently put down on her right side. The plastic case is warped beyond recognition, the screen cracked from thermal shock. The whole thing gives a pitiful electronic wheeze and dies.
Maria covers her mouth, but her shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter.
"It's not funny," Natasha growls, poking at the remains of her very expensive, very encrypted SHIELD phone.
"It's a little funny." Maria loses the battle and starts laughing properly. "Oh my god, your face. You looked so betrayed when it started melting."
"That was a secure phone! Fury's going to—" She stops, remembering she told Fury she was on assignment. "Shit. He's going to think I've been compromised when I don't answer."
"I'll handle Fury." Maria wipes tears from her eyes, still giggling. "Tell him you're deep cover or something. God, I needed that laugh."
Despite herself, Natasha feels her lips twitch. "Glad my property damage amuses you."
"Hey, at least you're not boring." Maria steps closer, careful to stay on Natasha's left side. "How's the rest of you? The other changes?"
Natasha's anatomy chooses that moment to remind her that Maria's presence always has a specific effect on her new equipment. She shifts uncomfortably. "Still adjusting."
"I can see that." Maria's eyes drop meaningfully to the growing bulge in Natasha's tactical pants. "Does the heat thing happen everywhere, or just your palm?"
"Just the palm. Thank fuck." She can't imagine trying to manage that particular combination of problems. "Everything else seems to be normal. Relatively speaking."
"Hmm." Maria gets that look that means she's thinking something particularly filthy. "So if I were to, say, help you with your obvious situation while you practiced controlling the heat..."
"That seems like a terrible idea."
"Or brilliant. Think about it—you need to learn control during distraction. What's more distracting than—"
"I could hurt you." The protest comes out rougher than intended. "Maria, I'm literally on fire."
"Just your hand. The rest of you is perfectly safe." She steps closer, left hand coming up to rest on Natasha's hip. "Besides, I trust you. You won't hurt me."
The confidence in her voice does things to Natasha's insides. And outsides. Her tactical pants are becoming genuinely uncomfortable now.
"This is still a terrible idea," she says, even as Maria starts working on her belt.
"Noted. Keep your right hand away from me and we'll be fine." Maria drops to her knees with efficient grace. "Now, let's see about that legendary Black Widow control."
Natasha braces her left hand on the wall, keeping her right carefully extended away from Maria's head. The heat is still there, pulsing in time with her accelerated heartbeat.
"Try to maintain a steady temperature," Maria instructs, because apparently she's turning this into an actual training exercise. "Don't let it spike."
"Easy for you to say," Natasha grits out as Maria frees her from the confines of her pants. "You're not the one who might accidentally—oh fuck."
Maria's mouth is sinfully good, all wet heat and clever tongue. Natasha's right hand flares bright orange, the temperature jumping a hundred degrees in seconds.
"Control," Maria pulls back to say, then returns to her task with enthusiasm.
Natasha focuses on her breathing, on the wall under her left hand, on anything except what Maria's doing. The heat stabilizes somewhat, dropping back to a manageable glow. She can do this. She's infiltrated terrorist cells and taken down gods. She can maintain temperature control while getting blown.
This is definitely not in any SHIELD training manual.
Maria hums around her, the vibration sending shocks up Natasha's spine. Her hand flares again, bright enough to leave afterimages.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." She's not sure if she's cursing the pleasure or the lack of control. Maybe both.
Maria doubles down, taking her deeper, and Natasha's vision whites out for a second. When it clears, she realizes she's actually producing flame—a small fire dancing above her palm.
"Maria, I'm—the fire—"
Maria pulls off just long enough to say, "Don't you dare stop," before swallowing her down again.
Natasha's orgasm hits like a freight train. Her hand goes supernova, the flame leaping three feet high, and every smoke detector in the apartment starts shrieking at once.
"Oh my god." She slumps against the wall, legs shaking, while Maria stands up looking extraordinarily pleased with herself. "We nearly burned down the building."
"But we didn't." Maria wipes her mouth delicately. "And you maintained enough control not to hurt me. I'd call that progress."
The smoke detectors are still screaming. Natasha staggers over to open windows, fanning the smoke out with a dish towel. Her right hand has finally cooled down to normal human temperature.
"We are never doing that again," she says.
"Liar." Maria helps with the windows, grinning. "Same time tomorrow? We can work on duration."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." Maria kisses her cheek, careful and sweet. "Now come on, let's eat before the Chinese food gets cold. You can tell me about whatever made you decide arson was a reasonable training method."
They eat lo mein straight from the containers, sitting on Natasha's couch like normal people who didn't just combine sex with superpower training. Maria fills her in on SHIELD gossip, carefully avoiding any mention of Natasha's extended medical absence.
"Fury knows something's up," Maria says eventually. "He hasn't said anything directly, but he's been asking questions about the Prague facility."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that suggest he knows you found more than just data." Maria steals a dumpling from Natasha's container.
"But he hasn't pushed?"
"Not yet. I think he's waiting to see what you do. Fury plays the long game."
Natasha considers this, absently flexing her right hand. No heat, no glow. Maybe the orgasm reset her thermostat.
"I need more time," she says. "I can't go back to active duty until I can control this. Today was..."
"Fucking hot? Literally and figuratively?"
"I was going to say 'educational.'" She shows Maria the melted phone again. "But I can't afford to replace tech every time I get distracted."
"So we practice." Maria's voice is matter-of-fact. "You've mastered every weapon SHIELD's ever given you. This is just another one."
"SHIELD didn't give me this."
"No, but you'll master it anyway. Because that's what you do." Maria stands, gathering the empty containers. "Same time tomorrow?"
"You were serious about that?"
"Dead serious. We'll work on control exercises. Maybe start with something less... explosive." She pauses at the door, grinning. "Bring oven mitts."
After she leaves, Natasha surveys her apartment. Melted coffee maker, warped counter, destroyed phone, scorched blankets. In three days, she's done more damage than in three years of regular living.
But Maria's right. This is just another weapon to master, another skill to perfect. And if the training happens to involve orgasms, well, she's had worse assignments.
She flexes her right hand experimentally. Still normal temperature.
Tomorrow, she thinks. Tomorrow I'll figure this out.
First, though, she needs to buy a new phone. And maybe some industrial-grade furniture.
And definitely oven mitts.
One Week Later
She stands in the center of the empty space, right palm extended, focusing on the heat that's been building since Prague.
Okay, she thinks, breathing steadily. You've disassembled and reassembled every weapon known to man. You can figure out your own damn hand.
The heat pulses beneath her skin, those strange bio-luminescent veins glowing faintly in the dim light. She's been tracking the patterns, noting how they respond to her emotional state, her physical arousal, her adrenaline levels. Like everything else about her transformation, it seems tied to her body's core systems.
She concentrates, imagining the heat as a dial she can turn. For the first time, instead of trying to suppress it, she lets it build. The temperature rises—uncomfortable, then painful, then...
"Holy shit."
Her palm is glowing like a ember, the air above it shimmering with heat waves. She can feel the energy wanting to expand, to become something more. Carefully, so carefully, she cups her hand slightly, creating a hollow for the heat to fill.
A small flame flickers to life above her palm.
"Okay. Okay." She stares at the fire, mesmerized. It's not touching her skin, just hovering there like she's become a human Zippo. "That's definitely fucking new."
The flame grows as she feeds it more heat, more energy. Baseball-sized now, crackling with intensity. She's so focused on maintaining it that she doesn't notice the wooden crate behind her starting to smolder from the radiant heat.
The smoke alarm shrieks.
"Fuck!" She closes her fist, extinguishing the flame, and spins to see the crate fully ablaze. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
She grabs a fire extinguisher from the wall, dousing the flames before they can spread. White foam covers everything in a five-foot radius, and she's coughing from the smoke, but at least she hasn't burned down her training space.
Great job, Romanoff, she thinks, surveying the damage. Really stellar control there. Maybe next time you can blow up the whole building.
But even as she criticizes herself, she can't suppress the thrill of discovery.
She spends the next two hours practicing, this time with multiple fire extinguishers at hand and nothing flammable within a ten-foot radius. The control comes easier each time—dial up for heat, dial down for cool. She can maintain a flame for nearly thirty seconds now, and when she concentrates hard enough, she can even shape it roughly. A ball, a cone, something that might generously be called a cube.
By the time her phone buzzes with an encrypted message, she's exhausted but exhilarated. Her entire right arm aches from the energy expenditure, but she did it. She controlled it.
The message is from Fury: "Briefing room. One hour. Bring Barton."
So much for her day off.
She dials down the heat in her palm until it's completely normal—another new trick she's mastered—and heads back to her apartment for a shower and fresh clothes. The compression shorts are becoming second nature now, the specialized fabric doing its job of keeping her anatomy concealed during everyday activities. Though she's had a few close calls, moments where her body responded to stimuli in ways that would be very hard to explain.
Like yesterday, when Maria had stopped by her apartment "to check on her" and ended up staying for three hours. They'd tried to keep things professional, to focus on tracking down more information about the Chimera Protocol, but the attraction between them was becoming impossible to ignore. When Maria had leaned over her shoulder to look at something on her laptop, her breast brushing Natasha's arm, it had taken every ounce of control not to react physically.
Focus, she tells herself, pulling on her tactical suit. You're a professional. You've seduced marks without getting attached. You can handle a little sexual tension.
Her phone buzzes again. "Where are you? Fury's in a mood. - CB"
Right. Mission. Professional. She can do this.
The briefing room is its usual stark self when she arrives. Clint's already there, feet up on the table, spinning an arrow between his fingers. He looks up as she enters, grinning.
"There she is. Thought you were gonna leave me alone with Captain Eyepatch."
"Traffic," she lies smoothly, taking her usual seat. "What's the mission?"
"That's what we're about to find out." Fury enters right on cue, tablet in hand and expression grim. Well, grimmer than usual. "We've got a situation in Montana. Abandoned military facility's been showing unusual energy readings for the past week. Satellite picked up heat signatures yesterday—looked like a small team doing recon."
He flicks images onto the wall screen. The facility looks like it hasn't been touched since the Cold War—concrete bunkers overtaken by forest, rusted fencing collapsed in sections.
"Let me guess," Clint says. "Hydra?"
"Unknown. Could be scavengers, could be something worse." Fury fixes them both with his one good eye. "I need you two to check it out. Quick and quiet. If it's nothing, you're back by dinner. If it's something..."
"We call for backup," Natasha finishes. "Standard reconnaissance protocol."
"Exactly. Wheels up in thirty."
He leaves without another word, which is practically verbose for Fury. Clint stretches, standing with an exaggerated groan.
"Well, partner, looks like we're taking a trip to the great outdoors. Hope you packed your hiking boots."
"I'll manage." She follows him out, already running through her mental checklist. Weapons, gear, extra compression shorts just in case. "You ever been to Montana?"
"Once. Terrible fishing, great beer. Though something tells me we won't have time for either."
The flight to Montana takes three hours in the Quinjet. Natasha pilots while Clint catches up on sleep, his ability to nap anywhere still impressive after all these years. She uses the quiet time to practice her control, keeping her palm at exactly normal human temperature for the entire flight. It's harder than it sounds—the energy wants to build, especially when she's inactive.
Like a muscle that needs to be flexed, she thinks. Or a gland that needs to express.
That second thought makes her shift uncomfortably in her seat. Everything about her transformation seems designed to make her more...active. More aggressive. More sexually driven. Even now, three hours into a mission, she's hyperaware of her body in ways that are deeply distracting.
"You know you're thinking too loud, right?" Clint says without opening his eyes.
"I'm flying a jet, Barton. It requires concentration."
"Uh-huh." He cracks one eye open. "That's why you've been sighing every five minutes like a lovelorn teenager."
"Fuck off."
"There's the Natasha I know and tolerate." He sits up, checking his equipment. "So what's really going on? And don't say nothing. You've been weird since Prague."
You have no idea, she thinks, but what she says is, "Just processing."
"Yeah, that was rough," Clint agrees, his joking manner dropping.
They land at a ranger station that's been closed for the season, the Quinjet's cloaking keeping them hidden from any surveillance. The facility is a five-mile hike through dense forest, and they make good time despite the rough terrain. Natasha's enhanced stamina means she's barely breathing hard when they reach the perimeter, while Clint's only slightly winded.
"Home sweet abandoned home," he mutters, surveying the ruins through binoculars. "I'm seeing...nothing. No vehicles, no movement, no—wait." He adjusts the focus. "Northeast corner, bunker entrance. Looks like someone cut through the chains recently."
Natasha takes the binoculars, her enhanced vision picking out details he might have missed. "Torch marks on the metal. Professional job. And..." She scans the ground. "Footprints. Maybe six individuals, moving in formation."
"So not scavengers."
"Not unless scavengers have started using military tactics."
They approach carefully, Clint providing overwatch while Natasha goes in close. The bunker entrance gapes open, darkness beyond that even her enhanced vision can't fully penetrate. She clicks on her tactical light, weapon ready.
"Going in," she whispers into her comm.
"Copy. I've got your six."
The bunker smells of rust and decay, sixty years of abandonment leaving its mark. But underneath that, she catches something else. Ozone. Chemicals. The sharp tang of recently fired electronics.
She follows the scent deeper, past empty rooms and collapsed sections. Someone's been here, and recently. The dust has been disturbed in patterns that suggest equipment being moved, set up, operated.
"Hawk, I'm seeing—"
The attack comes from behind, fast and professional. Natasha rolls with it, using her attacker's momentum to throw them into the concrete wall. Her tactical light illuminates a man in black tactical gear, already recovering from the impact.
"Contact!" she shouts, engaging the soldier in close combat. He's good—trained, experienced. But she's better, and her enhanced reflexes make the difference. She puts him down with a chokehold, careful not to kill him.
"I've got three more up here!" Clint's voice crackles through the comm, followed by the twang of his bow.
More soldiers pour in from adjoining rooms. Natasha counts six, then eight, all in unmarked tactical gear. Not Hydra—their movements are different, their equipment military-issue rather than exotic.
She drops two more with her Widow's Bites, the electrical discharge sending them convulsing to the floor. A third tries to flank her, but she sees him coming in her peripheral vision—another enhancement she's still getting used to—and puts him down with a spinning kick that probably breaks his jaw.
"Clear up top," Clint reports. "Coming to you."
"Negative, maintain overwatch. There might be—"
A sound stops her cold. Mechanical humming from deeper in the bunker, growing louder. Someone's activated something.
She moves toward the sound, stepping over groaning soldiers. The corridor opens into a larger room, and what she sees makes her stop dead.
In the center of the room sits a large water tank, like an oversized aquarium. Inside, suspended in some kind of fluid, is a man. He's naked, tubes running into his mouth and nose, electrodes attached to his skull. His eyes are closed, but she can see his chest rising and falling slowly.
"What the fuck?" she breathes, approaching carefully.
The equipment around the tank is modern, definitely not sixty years old. Someone brought this here, set it up, put this man inside. But why? Who is he?
"Fury, we have a situation," she says into her comm, transmitting video from her tactical camera. "Unknown male subject in some kind of suspension tank. Please advise."
"Stand by," Fury's voice comes back after a moment. "Scanning databases... Romanoff, I need you to look for any identifying marks. Tattoos, scars, anything."
She circles the tank, noting details. The man appears to be in his thirties, muscular build, several old scars suggesting military service. On his left shoulder, partially obscured by an electrode, she spots something.
"He's got a tattoo. Looks like...military insignia? It's faded, but—"
The man's eyes snap open.
"Oh shit."
His mouth opens in what would be a scream if he weren't underwater. The tank explodes outward, glass and fluid rushing at her with crushing force. She throws herself backward, but the wave catches her, slamming her into the wall.
When her vision clears, the man is standing in the ruins of the tank, tubes and electrodes hanging from his body like technological serpents. He looks around wildly, confusion and rage warring on his face.
"Where am I?" His voice is raw, unused. "Where are the Germans? Where is my unit?"
Germans? Natasha thinks, but there's no time to process. The man focuses on her, and she sees his chest expand as he draws in a massive breath.
"Get down!" she yells into her comm, instinct screaming danger.
The man screams.
It's not just sound—it's a physical force that hits her like a freight train. The concrete walls crack, dust and debris raining down. Her enhanced durability is the only thing that keeps her conscious as she's thrown back again, ears ringing despite her tactical gear's protection.
"Nat!" Clint's voice is distant through the ringing. "What the hell was that?"
"Enhanced individual," she gasps, struggling to her feet. "Some kind of sonic attack. He thinks he's still in World War Two."
The man is looking at his hands like he's never seen them before. "What...what did they do to me? Where is my family? Are they safe from the bombing?"
"Sir," Natasha tries, hands raised peacefully. "The war is over. You're safe. Let us help you."
He looks at her uniform, not recognizing it. "You're not American military. You're one of them! One of their experiments!"
He screams again, and this time she's ready. She dives to the side, the sonic wave pulverizing the wall where she'd been standing. But the structural damage is adding up—she can hear the bunker groaning above them.
"We need to get out," she tells Clint. "This place is coming down."
"Working on it! But I've got more soldiers incoming. Looks like our friends called for backup."
Fuck. She needs to neutralize the enhanced individual—she can't think of him as just 'the man' anymore—before he brings the whole bunker down on their heads. But how do you fight someone who can weaponize sound itself?
Think, Romanoff. What neutralizes sound?
Her eyes fall on a fire suppression system pipe running along the ceiling. Old-school sprinkler system, probably hasn't been maintained in decades. But the pipes should still be full of water...
She pulls out her sidearm and shoots the pipe joint. Rusty water explodes out, drenching the enhanced individual. He splutters, momentarily distracted.
"Now!" She sprints forward, sliding between his legs as he inhales for another scream. Her Widow's Bites discharge at maximum power into the puddle of water at his feet.
The electricity courses through him, muscles seizing. He collapses, convulsing, and she feels a moment of guilt for the pain she's causing. This isn't his fault.
"Target neutralized," she reports, already moving to secure him. "But this place is—"
The ceiling gives way.
She throws herself over the unconscious man, her enhanced strength the only thing keeping a concrete beam from crushing them both. Dust fills the air, making it impossible to see or breathe.
"Nat! Nat, report!"
"I'm okay," she coughs. "But we need extraction now. The whole structure's compromised."
"On my way."
She can hear him fighting through the soldiers above, arrows singing through the air. The enhanced individual stirs beneath her, moaning. His eyes flutter open, focusing on her face.
"You...saved me?" he whispers, accent definitely American but oddly formal. Old-fashioned.
"That's the job," she grunts, muscles straining against the beam's weight. "Can you move?"
"I...I think so." He tries to sit up, then gasps as he sees the destruction around them. "I did this?"
"Not your fault. We need to go."
Clint appears through the dust like an avenging angel, bow in hand. "Cavalry's here. Can he walk?"
"I can walk," the man says, though he sways dangerously when he stands. "Who are you people? What year is it?"
"Explanations later," Natasha says. "Move now."
They navigate the collapsing bunker, Clint leading while she supports the enhanced individual. He's weak from however long he was in that tank, muscles atrophied despite his imposing build. More of the ceiling collapses behind them, urging them faster.
They burst into daylight just as the entire structure gives way, a cloud of dust and debris billowing out behind them. The enhanced individual collapses to his knees, staring at the sky like he's never seen it before.
"The trees," he whispers. "They're so tall. How long...how long was I in there?"
"We'll figure it out," Natasha promises, but her attention is drawn to Clint, who's gone very still. "What is it?"
"Those soldiers I took down? They're gone. And I swear I tied them up properly."
She scans the area, enhanced senses on high alert. He's right—no bodies, no sign of the tactical team they'd fought. Just them and the traumatized man who can scream buildings into rubble.
"We need to—"
The enhanced individual convulses, clutching his chest. Blood runs from his nose, his ears, his eyes. Whatever was keeping him alive in that tank, he's crashing without it.
"No, no, no." She drops beside him, trying to assess the damage. But she's not a medic, and this is beyond first aid. "Stay with us. We're getting you help."
He grabs her hand, his grip surprisingly strong. "Tell my wife...tell Sarah I tried to come home. Tell her I'm sorry."
"You'll tell her yourself," she lies, knowing he's dying. "Just hold on."
He draws in one last breath, and she tenses, expecting another sonic attack. But what comes out is just air, a death rattle that seems to echo in the sudden silence.
And then, impossibly, it starts to rain.
Not a drizzle, not a gradual build—one moment the sky is clear, the next it's a downpour. The burning debris from the bunker hisses and steams, fires extinguishing in seconds.
"That's...not natural," Clint says, water already streaming down his face.
Natasha looks up, and for just a moment—a split second—she sees a figure in the sky. A woman with white hair and a cape, arms raised like she's conducting an orchestra. Then she blinks, and there's nothing but clouds and rain.
"Did you see that?" she asks Clint.
"See what?" He's checking the enhanced individual for a pulse, shaking his head grimly. "He's gone. We need to call this in."
I'm seeing things, she thinks. Stress from the mission. From keeping secrets. From whatever the fuck is happening to my body.
But as they carry the man's body to the Quinjet, she can't shake the image of that figure in the sky. Can't ignore how the rain appeared exactly when they needed it, dousing fires that could have spread to the forest.
"Fury's going to have questions," Clint says as they secure the body. "Starting with who this guy was and why someone had him in a tank."
"World War Two soldier, based on what he said." She's already running through the implications. "Someone kept him alive for seventy years, experimenting on him. Giving him abilities."
They fly back toward D.C. in companionable silence, the storm following them east. Natasha pilots on autopilot, her mind churning through the day's revelations. Enhanced individuals from World War Two. Modern military teams making them disappear. And that figure in the sky, controlling the weather like it was nothing.
What the fuck have I stumbled into? she wonders. And how deep does it go?
Her palm throbs with heat, responding to her emotional state. She dials it back down, maintaining control. But she can feel the power there, waiting. Growing. Evolving.
The Chimera Protocol changed her in ways she's only beginning to understand. But she's starting to suspect she's not the first. That sergeant—if that's what he was—had been changed too, decades before Hydra ever synthesized their serum. How many others are out there? How many enhanced individuals living in secret, hiding their abilities, afraid of becoming lab rats or weapons?
And who was that woman in the sky?
"Hey," Clint says suddenly. "You did good today. He was dying anyway—the tank was the only thing keeping him alive. But you tried to save him. That matters."
"Does it?" She thinks of the terror in his eyes, the confusion. "He didn't ask for any of this. Didn't choose to become...what he became."
"You tried to save him." He pauses. "That's what we do, Nat. We save who we can. Even when it's complicated. Especially when it's complicated."
She manages a small smile. "When did you get so philosophical?"
"I have hidden depths. Like an iceberg. Or a really deep puddle."
"You're an idiot, Barton."
"Your favorite idiot, though."
They land at SHIELD as the sun sets, the storm finally breaking up. Fury's waiting on the tarmac with a medical team, his expression unreadable. He watches them unload the body, takes their initial report, and dismisses them with orders to file full paperwork by morning.
"And Romanoff," he adds as she's leaving. "My office. One hour."
She nods, already dreading the conversation. But first, she needs a shower. Needs to wash off the dust and death and confusion of the day. Needs five minutes to just be Natasha, not Black Widow or a Chimera test subject or whatever the fuck she's becoming.
Her apartment is blessedly quiet when she arrives. She strips off her tactical suit, noting the burn marks from the enhanced individual's sonic attacks. Her compression shorts have held up well, though she'll need to order more soon. Can't exactly explain that particular purchase to SHIELD requisitions.
The shower is hot enough to fog the entire bathroom. She stands under the spray, letting it pound the tension from her muscles. Her hand drifts down almost unconsciously, checking her anatomy. Everything still there, still functional, still absolutely not what she was born with.
Fuck, she thinks, not for the first time. What am I going to do?
Her phone buzzes. Maria's encrypted text: "Heard about Montana. You okay?"
She types back: "Fine. Weird day. Tell you later?"
"My place. 9pm. I'll cook."
Despite everything, Natasha smiles. Maria Hill offering to cook is both a threat and a promise—the woman can barely boil water, but she tries. It's endearing in a way that makes Natasha's chest tight with emotions she's not ready to name.
She dresses carefully for her meeting with Fury, choosing clothes that won't show if her control slips and her palm heats up.
Time to face Fury...