Today
The Aerie (a Worthington Chalet)
Arizona

She had spent an uncomfortable week in Las Vegas after the fact. A long, dull and infuriating week of bed rest and inactivity obfuscated and burdened by tests and therapy, questions and observation. It had almost driven her mad.

She realized that it was all necessary of course, and she bitterly accepted though through grinding teeth and dagger sharp stares. She had been hurt after all. Her final battle against Guiseppi Santoni and his horde had taken a toll and left her scarred, both physically and mentally. She had broken bones in that final fight. Her usually smooth skin had been sliced and slashed in more places than she cared to count. She had been told that she had been extremely lucky that the fall to the rooftop after she had blown up the Vampire Lord had not killed her, or worse, broken her back. That would have been a fate worse than death to one such as the Beauteous Black Widow: crippled, perhaps bed-ridden for the rest of what would have been a very short life. If she had any say in the matter.

The doctors at Las Vegas Memorial had set her bones and stitched her scars then confined her to a hospital bed, guarded by agents of SHIELD at the request of Director Forge. He had been adamant in that she needed to be watched. Even though she had assured him that she had not been bitten, she did have open, bleeding wounds. The myth and legend of the vampiric disease was blurred with the few facts that had been gleaned in recent years. Facts expressed after encounters, mostly from the Avengers and Doctor Strange. No one knew if simple mingling of blood would transfer the disease, and though Santoni and his Clan had perished apparently, there had been other vampires in Vegas. And after the recent bout between Dracula and the Avengers West, Forge was taking no chances.

The doctors too wanted to keep her for observation. The back and spine was a tricky area of the body, and though tests proved negative to any apparent injury, they wanted to be certain as to her health. And of course, there were the nightmares…

The first night had been the worst. Natasha had awakened drenched in an icy sweat, her eyes wide and one good arm flailing, trying to ward off whatever had been stalking her dreams. She had actually screamed, which brought the nurses bearing sedatives and the guards with guns drawn bursting into her private room. She had assured them that she was fine, just a nightmare, she had said. The nurses gave her pills to help her sleep, which she spat out after they had gone. A regretted decision as she had woke an hour later in much the same fashion.

Forge, rather his hologram, had explained after the third night that research indicated Vampires exuded an essence of Fear. It was related to their mesmerizing effect, which allowed them to get close to their intended victim, or to instill terror in a foe. Consulting Strange ‘personally’ had reaped much information that Forge considered pertinent to Natasha Romanoff’s recovery. There was a lingering effect, thus reinforcing his request for an extended stay under professional care.

By the end of that first week however, things had changed…

The nightmares ended with the fourth night, and that last was little more than rolling about in bed she had been told. The fifth day brought new surprises as she received a visit from none other than Nicolas Fury himself…

“Yer lookin’ good, 'Tasha, considerin’… ”

Oddly, she found herself tingling with a blush. Nick Fury was one of the few men that she truly respected, and whose opinion of her truly mattered. He had been her boss once, years ago, time and again. She was curious however, more than pleased at his arrival on her temporary doorstep. The last she had heard he was persona non grata with SHIELD and the world in general.

“Things have changed,” he had said with a shrug. She watched as he stepped onto one of the provided chairs and casually removed the batteries from her room’s smoke detector, igniting the butt of his current cigar even before stepping back to the floor. “Forge is out. I’m back in. ‘Nuff said.”

They talked for some time, and she felt herself truly relaxed for the first time in the better part of a week. He did not discuss whatever had transpired within the ranks of SHIELD, but she was happy for the change. She had not liked Forge, and did not trust him really, though she knew that he had had the best interests of the country and the world – at least in his view – at heart.

“The docs say yer pretty much ready ta get outta here. Yer healin’ nicely, an’ quicker than they’ve ever seen. They wanted to run tests ta figure out why, but I nixed that. We both got our secrets.”

She smiled at that. She had always healed fast. Maybe not as fast as Logan or Steve, or even Fury with his Infinity Formula, but faster than normal. She could almost physically feel her bones knitting, and though she knew she was not 100%, she knew that she was well enough to be out of this sterile bowl of Hell.

“I got a transport with yer name on it. On me an’ Uncle Sam fer services rendered. Ya did good here, ‘Tasha. Pick a place an’ I’ll make sure ya get there.”

But where was she going? The road trip that had led to Vegas was because she was lost, seemingly adrift in a sea with no land or hope of rescue in sight. Her Widow’s Peak Enterprises, though not a failure, had been a mistake. Granted, it got her jobs doing what she did best. Espionage was her forte’, but she was not Silver Sable, and most of the jobs she had taken, with a few exceptions, had been simple corporate espionage and nothing that a decent private investigator could not have handled.

SHIELD of course always had an open invitation. And now that Fury was back at the helm it was worth reconsidering, but still…

Despite the old saying, she was not an Avenger at heart. She had led the Eastern branch almost to failure, and of course there were far too many old ties that still brought up memories, both good and bad. And of course there was Clint to consider. Clint Barton had been the first man that she had allowed herself to love after the death – first death of her husband, Alexei Shostakov. She had been young and naïve, the wife of a national hero and Cosmonaut who had died in the service of his country. Little had she known…

Lost and confused she had been trained in the arts of espionage, molded into the spy supreme, the first Black Widow. She had relished the opportunity to do something with her life. To prove to herself and to her country that she was useful and valuable and not simply some ornament to display at government functions. She owed Ivan Petrovich that much at least. The man that had raised her and taught her so much. She had become a spy, beautifully coifed and draped in extravagance, eventually sent to America to infiltrate Stark Enterprises and to steal the secrets of then merely Industrialist and cutting edge Weaponeer, Anthony Stark. Little did any of them know that he was in reality the Invincible Iron Man.

She had met Clint Barton then, a man on the run from circumstance and the law. She had used her feminine wiles and skills to wrap him about her little finger, and foolishly, eventually fell in love. As the brash and bold Hawkeye the Archer he had melted her heart, which had grown icy cold with the death of Alexei. Clint was a good man, and despite their numerable battles with Iron Man, he held in his own heart to make a name for himself as a hero, and he wanted to take her along for the long and bumpy ride.

Clint had changed her life, but a mission for SHIELD had changed her more. She had gone back to Russia, behind the Iron and Bamboo Curtains to stop rogue generals of both the Soviet Union and China from plunging the world into chaos. In that mission she learned that Alexei was still alive, his death years before faked in order to groom him into the Soviet version of Captain America. He had not been the first of course, but he was the first relative success that had remained mentally and physically stable.

Her world had shattered then, torn between her past and future. Once again she had floundered, lost and adrift in a sea called Confusion. The ensuing battle had brought in the Mighty Avengers of that time, most notably Captain America and Hawkeye. In the end, Clint had saved her life, and Alexei had died, once more the hero, again.

And the memories still ate at her soul. And there was Matt Murdock, later, after she had left Hawkeye behind. And the Champions…

She had smiled at that, and on a whim she had her answer.

True to his word, Fury had delivered her to the Aerie. Natasha knew that Warren Worthington III rarely used the Arizona chalet anymore, he was so involved with the X-Men of late as the Archangel. Still, he had been a comrade, teammate and friend while the two of them had been Champions in Los Angeles. He had given all of the team; Hercules, Iceman, Johnny Blaze and herself an open invitation to come to his desert estate whenever they wanted. A short phone call later and all was arranged.

She had spent the last three weeks resting, recuperating in body, mind and soul. The chalet was well-stocked and overflowing with every decadent extravagance or necessity that Warren’s money could buy. She was lacking in nothing, whether simply reclining in the Screening Room watching DVDs in wide-screen High Definition or swimming in the Olympic Class pool, or cooking in the state of the art kitchen, depleting the well-stocked pantry with dishes that she had long since forgotten that she could make. She listened to music and danced in the studio. She relaxed in the sauna and Jacuzzi. She ran through the desert’s morning chill and tanned in the late day’s waning heat. She climbed plateaus and simply walked, enjoying the peace and tranquility. She mended and thought…

Natasha called New York on a daily basis. Not being without a heart as her code name might suggest, she was concerned over the condition of one of her latest friends. William Peak was still in a coma, still in the hospital and it worried her, and made her feel bad that she was not at his bedside. He had been a good friend and partner, and important in her endeavors with Widow’s Peak Enterprises, screening clients and finding her work for her rather unique talents. There was nothing that she could do to help him of course, but visit and hold his hand, or so she told herself. It tore at her though, and so she called every day at noon only to receive the same message: no change.

She would have to return soon. She owed William that much, and more. She knew people. People that owed her favors; witches and magicians, specialists and mentalists, healers of every sort. Someone would be able to help him, or there would be hell to pay.

It was her third week at the chalet, and she was lifting weights in the gym. She deemed herself 98% and was feeling good about her recovery. The stitches had been removed. The casts had been cut off, the bones all but knitted to normal. She still had not decided on a course for her life to follow, but she was confident that it would come in time. Her life tended to fall into place as easily as it fell out sometimes, and she was long overdue.

The phone rang. Natasha eased the weight machine into standby mode and stood. She felt good, sweating and breathing well. She wiped her skin with a towel, drinking from a water bottle as she casually strolled the length of the Aerie’s Gymnasium to answer the telephone.

“Hello?”

“Fury.”

Nick Fury’s voice was colder than usual, and she felt an icy spear pierce her heart.

“I got bad news… “

Yesterday
St. Vincent’s Hospital, Chelsea
Manhattan

The American’s are either fools or simply arrogant. They stock airports of major cities with armed guards expecting terrorists to fly into their major airports like LAX or JFK. The true threat will come from the outskirts of their nation however. Hawaii with its tropical, resplendent environment, or some out of the way and forgotten way station like Bum-fuck, Montana or Ass-wipe Kansas. Or Alaska…

Customs at Anchorage was no problem. The provided passport allowed me egress for pleasure and an extended stay as Doris Romanova, a little joke from my superiors. The agent at the security station smiled and waved me through, only slightly curious at my lack of luggage, more intent on my dazzling blue eyes and cleavage. Idiot.

I soon found the seedier side of the city, so like any other around the world. That area that is decrepit and decayed, where the ragged people go to be left alone to drown their imposed and alleged sorrows. I ‘found’ money offered by several men that were sent either to the Land of Nod or beyond and would no longer need financial backing. There in the seamy shadows no one cared or heard or watched or helped. Tourists stayed away and city fathers turned a blind eye. I was rich in the space of a few hours.

I bribed passage south with an Ice Road Trucker. A surly man and bigot, he was happy for the company and talked non-stop. I listened and smiled as needed, all the while formulating plans and judging contingencies. We arrived in Vancouver, BC within hours at the speeds he was able to attain once we reached the Interstate. I thanked him and then I booked passage on a bus into America proper.

I passed the borders into Washington State, just another tourist among many. The bus eventually led me to Seattle, where I boarded a plane to Manhattan the next day, the last place that she had been seen according to my outdated resources.

I arrived at La Guardia eight hours later. I slept on the flight, and waking refreshed, found a taxi cab to take me into the city, Times Square, where I called one of the numbers that had a 212 prefix for New York City. A raspy voice answered the phone after seven rings, a hint of Mother Russia lingering in the accent.

“Yes?”

“Lenin was gay,” I whispered into the phone. It was one of the many code phrases that I had memorized during my training in the Red Room. There were several possible responses, but I received the one best suited for my purposes.

“Stalin liked little boys,” the voice answered, tinged with amusement. “How may I help you?”

I knew to speak vaguely. America had become paranoid since 9-11, and she had huge ears. “I’m looking for… the lady with the hourglass tattoo.”

“On vacation,” the voice said quickly. “Tomorrow. Bring batteries. Noon.”

The line went dead. I stared at the receiver in confusion. He had spoken in code of course, but I had no idea what he meant. Codes changed on a daily basis and I had been out of touch, so to speak. I hung up the phone and stepped away from the stall.

Manhattan bustled about me. This was not the Times Square that I had always envisioned. The seediness had been swept aside and the area had been gentrified. Tourists abounded, boarding big red double-decker buses to ride around the city in gaping wonder. The neon lights still flickered and flashed, but chain restaurants and mundane stores, selling over-priced trinkets and memorabilia had replaced the sex shops and foul theatres. There were police present but they were fat and complacent. Cameras flashed and a constant babble of a hundred different tongues flowed by in passing. I had some ten hours to kill, but did not know where I should go.

I boarded a tour bus, looking to learn the land and gain time to think. The huge bus made its way downtown, pausing to pick up more passengers at Battery Park, the southern tip of Manhattan. I laughed it was so plain.

I disembarked and found a bench to focus my attention, then sat to wait…

Bored quickly, I freshened up in the public bathroom, washing off the dirt of travel. The people that shared that space stared at me as I stuck my head into the sink, washing water through my hair. I smelled I was sure, but did not care. I was not here for their approval. I walked the park, watching the fools as they boarded ships that would fairy them to Liberty Island, or Governor’s Island, Staten Island or Ellis. I bought coffee from an over-priced street vendor and ate a baked sweet that was laden with far too much sugar. I walked through Wall Street, noting the best places for sabotage. I found City Hall and laughed at its security measures.

I returned to my bench and waited, dozing eventually but true sleep evaded me. I blinked as a shadow fell over me and I was on my feet, my hand on the hilt of my stolen knife, secreted in the folds of my clothes.

The scarecrow of a man raised his hands in peace, a warding gesture to stay my defense. He looked ancient, skinny and hollow with yellow skin and a scraggily beard. He wore a long, weathered raincoat and a fedora, a crumpled cigarette smoldering from parched lips.

“Lenin?” I asked, and he nodded.

“Stalin,” he replied, his red rimmed eyes glancing right and left. “The lady in question went to Vegas,” he said, taking a long drag from his cigarette even as he pulled out a wrinkled pack from his shirt pocket. He chained a fresh butt, wadding the empty pack into a tight ball and casually tossed it to the ground at my feet. I placed a boot over it, looking up expectantly.

“Shit happened. Now she’s furious and shielded.” He grinned. “She’s got friends though.” He glanced at my feet, then shrugged. “Talk to them. Only once. She’ll come running.”

He turned and walked away. I waited, contemplating just what he said. After a time I leaned down to retie the laces of my boot and retrieve the crumpled cigarette pack. I stood, shrugging my coat against a sudden chill in the air and strode away.

There was a name, address and room number written in ancient code within the pack. It took some strain to decipher the message, but it eventually led me to St. Vincent’s Hospital, where I found a nurse and easily took her clothes and place. I eventually found the room, spotting the SHIELD agent stationed in the hall. I grabbed a tray from the nurses’ station and strolled – sashayed actually – up to the guard.

“Hiya,” I said, employing linguistics, trying to sound like a Brooklyn-ite.

“Hey,” he said, looking up from where he was seated, taking in my legs and eventually settling his gaze on my breasts. He was good looking, but like any man, easily manipulated by a bit of exposed flesh.

“Time for some medication,” I said with a congenial smile and he smiled in return.

“Lucky stiff,” he mused, looking me up and down with no reserve. “You could medicate me any time.”

I giggled as expected, and pushed through the door.

The room beyond was sparse and sterile: a bathroom to the left, a dresser, side stand and two chairs. There was a bed and monitoring machinery, all centered on the silver haired middle-aged man that lay in coma there on. I approached the bed, setting down the tray and picking up the chart that hung at its foot.

Glancing at the reports I saw that the man had been in a coma for weeks. I knew the name from my own research as one of Romanova’s confidants. A trusted ally in her latest venture as a spy for hire. I smiled, knowing what had to be done and not caring a whit.

I replaced the chart and moved to the head of the bed. I stared down at the comatose man, lost in sleep, oblivious to what was happening around him. Serene and content, though not of his own accord. I looked at the machinery that was keeping him alive in his blissful slumber and chose a convenient tube.

Which I folded closed…

I waited as his oxygen supply dwindled, eventually died. I adjusted the machines as they tried to adjust to his new condition, turning off the alarms that would signal his imminent demise. His eyes suddenly flew open and I’m certain that he would have thrashed about had his body been not so depleted and weakened. I placed a hand on his chest and held him in place, easing the pressure as his burst of energy succumbed to fatigue.

He stared at me, his eyes wide and bulging, begging. I smiled down…

He died, gasping for breath.

I held his tubes for over five minutes, just to be sure. He stared at me, unmoving, eyes wide and locked in pleading mockery. Eventually I undid the killing kink and smoothed the plastic, wiping it clean though it was too small to leave reliable prints – not that I had any. I gathered my pilfered tray and eased out of the room, shaking my ass for the guard as I sauntered down the hall.

I dropped the tray at the nurses’ station and headed for the stairs. I hurried down, not too fast, gathering my hidden bag, and then out to the street, nodding at the fat security guard at the front doors as I pulled a cigarette pack from my pocket, making a show of adjusting my pager. I stepped out into the cool air and took a deep breath as an ambulance screamed towards Emergency.

Killing did not bother me usually, and this was a step towards redemption and revenge. I knew that soon, twenty-four hours at the latest that Natalia would be back to mourn her dead friend. I was certain that there would be an investigation, but I knew too that the investigators would be distracted by the death, thinking that he had simply suffocated on his own spit, or perhaps searching for a blood clot. Coma patients tended to die of natural causes. There was time before they looked beyond the natural.

Natalia would be suspicious of course. Worried and perhaps a little paranoid. All the better if she suspected conspiracy. All the better if she was worried…

Yelena Belova grinned as she trotted up Seventh Avenue to Fourteenth Street where she stepped to the curb, flashed some leg and hailed a cab. She slipped into the rear confines and gave an address uptown to a safe house apartment where she would go, and wait.

Where she would plot…

And plan…

Natalia Alianovna Romanova was dead. She just did not know it yet…

To be continued…

Next issue: At the news of the death of her friend, the Black Widow returns to Manhattan and attempts to salvage the remnants of her company and her life. What to do next, she has no idea, but Natasha Romanoff is not one to accept defeat. But then too, neither is Yelena Belova. But of course, someone wins, someone loses. The Merry Widows continues next issue with Part 2: Shattered Image. Better read than dead…