Natasha Romanoff was home.

Granted, she had spent the last two months since waking up in the Moscow hospital recovering from an inordinate amount of injuries suffered at the hands of Doctor Doom*. Also granted that technically, her home was Volgograd, formerly known as Stalingrad, a couple thousand miles SouthEast of Moscow. However, for all intents and purposes, Natasha was home.

* (Natasha got the royal beat-down last issue. ~Vince McJason)

Natasha's injuries had been severe and many. A broken ankle, six broken ribs, a fractured skull, and a bruised lung just topped the list of medical problems she would have to overcome. She had come far these past two months, but still was far from peak condition. She currently walked with a cane, was unable to participate in any activities that would cause her injured lung to work to hard, and her hair was just now long enough to cover the scar of where they had stitched her fractured skull back together.

However, it was the mental side of things where the real problems lie. The trauma of seeing the Sentinels ringing Doom's castle and her responsibility in the destruction of the Symkarian village of Feasalburg had left her an emotional wreck. The normally iron-willed Natasha would find herself crying over inconsequential matters. Also, frequently at first, but diminishing a bit as time went off, she would suffer flashbacks back to that mission. No matter how she tried to rationalize it, that it was Doom's machine, that she had been badly injured, that the Sentinels had been stopped*, she just couldn't quite seen to divest herself of her guilt.

* (In Operation: Sword Stroke. ~Jason)

But she had discovered that alcohol helped to dull the guilt some.

As soon as she had been able to, she was debriefed by SHIELD, and her account of her encounter with Doom and his weapon was promptly covered up to prevent panic in the general public. Behind closed doors, the UN Security Council discussed possible responses, but, as is usually the case, a resolution could not be agreed upon.

Natasha had also contacted her business partner, William Peak, in the United States as early as possible. After assuring her that he was able to handle the sudden surge of business Widow's Peak Enterprises seemed to be experiencing, he tried to convince her to take a well-deserved vacation in Russia. For the physically and mentally exhausted Natasha, the word 'vacation' sounded wonderful, and she agreed.

Surprisingly, Natasha quickly discovered that, in this post-Communist Russia, she was a bit of a celebrity. Her adventures and leadership of The Avengers had apparently been taken as a source of homeland pride. She quickly found herself inundated with invitations to various social functions, and she dived into the Russian social circle, hoping to distract herself from her troubles.

Tonight, Natasha had come to a function for a former U.S. President, who had come to Russia to apparently speak about some important topic or another. Natasha figured he had really come to Russia to get away from his wife's autobiography, which chronicled their time in the White House.

She now sat at a table, surrounded by the former President, as well as Russia's current one, and their respective security entourage's. The two men of power were bragging about their accomplishments to Natasha, and she was finding herself quite thankful for the waiters who were constantly bringing her drinks at regular intervals.

The American dignitary was boasting about how, while he had been governor, he had raised his state's education from 50th to 48th in the union, when Natasha felt the need to use the ladies' room. She never knew she could be so happy about urinating as she stood up and interrupted the conversation.

"Excuse me, gentlemen…but I must go visit the little babushka's room," she said and then downed the remainder of her champagne. The two men nearly fell over each other telling her how much she'd be missed. She ventured off toward the lobby as quickly as her cane and inebriated feet would take her.

After freshening up, Natasha decided she had had enough of the party, and decided to retire back to the hotel she was staying. It was only a half-dozen blocks away, and a lovely night, so she told her limousine driver to take the rest of the night off, and strolled off into the clear Russian evening.

She was humming a tune quietly when she heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Despite her condition, her years of action immediately caused her attention to focus, and her body to prepare itself for trouble. She continued walking, making a random turn down one street, then a random turn down another to make sure the footsteps were actually following her. Sure enough, the sound of the footsteps continued to trail her. She figured she heard three sets of feet. Their heavy, clumsy footfalls seemed to indicate non-professional men…probably muggers or gang members. This was one of Stalingrad's nicer parts of town, but scum always found a way to seep into the cleanest of kitchens.

Natasha knew that whoever it was following her, they would intercept her long before she reached her hotel, so she decided to confront them here. She turned around to see three shabbily-dressed men in their early-20's approaching her.

"Is there anything I can help you with, boys?" she asked, her voice firm.

The middle of the three men spoke up. "Just hand over your purse and jewelry and you won't get hurt."

Muggers it was, then. She held out her expensive handbag and dropped it in front of her. The man on the left quickly approached, dropped to one knee to pick up the bag, and promptly received the handle of a cane full force into his chin. With a loud "Unhh!", the man fell onto his back, nearly unconscious. The man on the right reacted quickly and reached into his jacket, probably to grab a concealed weapon of some sort. As fast as he was, however, Natasha was faster. Using a trick she had learned from her ex-lover, Daredevil, Natasha threw her cane at the man's neck, sending him to his knees, choking.

That left only the one who had asked for her things. With a grunt, he lunged at Natasha. She dodged to the left and planted her knee in the man's sternum. She had to put a great deal of her weight on her bad ankle, and, with a cry of pain, it gave out on her and she fell to the ground. Her pain only infuriated and frustrated Natasha, and she decided to take out her anger on the young punk. With a snarl on her face, she pulled him to the ground, and started wailing on him.

Meanwhile, the mugger she had struck initially was getting to his feet. He reached into the rear of his jeans, and pulled out a small revolver. He aimed at Natasha, deciding to kill her for what she had done to him and his friends. The blonde lady who had paid them to hassle this rich bitch had ordered them not to kill her, but he decided he didn't care. If the blonde had a problem with it, he'd shoot her, too. He took careful aim, and…

Natasha stiffened instantly as the nearby sound of gunfire went off. She twisted to see the mugger she had nailed first holding his hand, blood coming through a hole in the center of his palm. He took off running, shouting obscenities in Russian the entire way. Natasha looked around to see what had happened, and saw a man across the street, partially illuminated by a streetlight. She saw the gun still smoking in his hand. She couldn't identify him in the half-light.

"Who are you?" she asked, struggling to her feet.

The man stepped closer. "Really, princess…your injuries have left you quite sloppy."

Only one man called her 'princess'. "Ivan?" she asked cautiously. The man stepped close enough to be seen and Natasha's face lit up in delight. "Ivan Petrovitch Bezukhov! It is you!"

Ivan was about 6'1" tall, with grey hair and a mustache. He had been part of Natasha's life almost as long as she could remember. From childhood, to her days as a spy, to her beginnings of a super-hero in America, Ivan had been there. He was both a confidant and father figure to Natasha. She limped over to him and threw her arms around him. She quickly withdrew them when she realized that blood from the mugger was all over her hands. She slumped back to the ground, and began sobbing.

Ivan kneeled down beside her. "Now, now, little princess…this is most unlike you," he said, taking off his jacket and putting it on her shoulders. As he lifted her gently to her feet, he said, "Let us go inside and speak of things past and future."

Back in her hotel room, the once-again collected Natasha poured herself a drink. "To what do I owe the honor, Ivan? Last I had heard, you were back to working with Russian intelligence." She paused, taking a large drink of her beverage. "Russian intelligence…hah! There's an oxymoron if I ever heard one."

Ivan stood nearby, watching as the woman he had cared for since she was a child gulped down the remainder of her alcoholic drink and began to pour another. A look of stern concern came over his face for just a moment, and then he spoke.

"Yes, yes," he began. "I have been working with this post-KGB era security organization. It is not bad…much better than the Gestapo it once was. However I recently discovered something two things which, I'm sure, will be of great interest to you, little Princess."

Natasha recognized the tone in Ivan's stoic, baritone voice. This wasn't going to be good or happy news. She limped to a nearby chair and sat down. She threw back the rest of her drink and put the glass down. "Go ahead," she said matter-of-factly.

"The first is that the Red Room is back in operation."

At the mention of that name, Natasha's mind flashed a million images at once. The Red Room was the intensive training program that turned a newly widowed ballerina Natalia Romanova into the femme fatale Black Widow. Many women had begun the training; she was the one who had survived. The program was scrapped shortly after due to the deepening financial troubles of the USSR, Natasha's defection to the United States, and the development of the Soviet Super-Soldier program, now known as the People's Protectorate. She still had occasional nightmares of her time in the Red Room, and her body bore the physical scars, as well.

Natasha rubbed her forehead. "That is…unfortunate. I had hoped this country had moved beyond such brutal practices. I can't wait to hear what your second tidbit is…has my business partner been replaced by an imposter in an attempt to prove he is my better as a spy?" she said jokingly.

Ivan chuckled, albeit hesitantly. He rubbed the back of his neck. "No, I wish it were something that easy to deal with, Natalia. Perhaps…perhaps we should wait until you are stronger. I would hate to hurt you with this news."

"Well, with that kind of intrigue, you know there's no way I can wait now. Spit it out, Ivan…it's not like you to beat around the bush like this," Natasha stated.

Ivan sighed deeply. "Very well."

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Recently, purely by accident, I came across a list of former agents of the KGB that were under active surveillance for one reason or another."

"This is nothing new, Ivan," Natasha said, confused. "It's common practice in most security circles. I don't understand what the big deal is."

Ivan passed the paper to Natasha. "It's not the practice I thought you'd be interested in…it's one of the names I came across."

Natasha opened the slip of paper and scanned down the names to one Ivan had circled.

Many years prior

A young ballerina prodigy stood upon the stage, soaking up the applause upon the completion of a performance of Swan Lake. The sound of a multitude of clapping hands filled her with joy. With a final bow, the glowing dancer nearly floated behind the curtain. Backstage, her longtime confidant, Ivan Bezukhov, was waiting for her. She hugged him.

"Wonderful performance, little Princess," he said, pecking her on the cheek. "The audience seemed quite pleased with you."

"I know it is an arrogant thing to say, Ivan, but I'm quite pleased with me, too," the teenaged dancer beamed. "I love their attention. Their applause fuels me."

"Pardon me, Miss Romanov?" A man in a military uniform approached. In his arms he held a large bouquet of roses.

"Yes?" she asked.

The handsome young soldier handed her the flowers. "These are for you. I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your performance. I feel you dwarf even Barishnikov," and he smiled embarrasingly as he added, "and infinitely more beautiful, as well."

Natasha chuckled. "You flatter me, sir…I think. I'm afraid I didn't get your name…?"

The young man seemed a bit flustered. "Oh, my name. My name is…it's uhm, oh yes. It's…"

Four months later

The young ballerina stood upon the stage, soaking up the applause upon completion of a performance of Swan Lake. She only heard one set of hands clapping among her throng of fans. She looked at her lover in the audience and it made her smile all the harder. With a final bow, the glowing dancer practically floated behind the curtains. Waiting backstage, her longtime confidant, Ivan Bezukhov, greeted her. He hugged her.

"Spectacular, little Princess. You never cease to amaze me."

"Thank you, Ivan. I tell you, love has made me light as a feather," Natasha gushed. "Where is my loyal soldier? He usually meets me backstage."

"He is waiting for you in your dressing room, Princess." Ivan held out his arm, and Natasha took it. They walked to her room, and Ivan stopped outside the door.

"Aren't you coming in?" Natasha asked.

Ivan looked at her briefly with a look that appeared to be equal parts sadness and joy. "No, little one. I shall leave you two alone for now." He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead lightly. As he turned and departed, she could have sworn she saw wetness welling up in his eyes. Puzzled, she opened the door to her dressing room.

Inside, lit candles adorned the room. In the center stood her lover, kneeling on one knee. Natasha put her hand to her mouth and drew closer to him.

"Natalia," he began, pulling a small box out of his jacket, "in these last several months, you have shown me a joy that I thought was only possible in fairy tales. You possess a beauty, both inside and outside, that cannot be compared to anything because they are so great. I know I am only a pilot in the state's military, but it would cause me no greater happiness if you would become my wife. If you would be Mrs.-"

Two months later

The bride and groom stood upon the stage, soaking up the applause upon completing the marriage ceremony. She heard none of it; the only sound she seemed to hear was the beating of her and her new husband's hearts. They seemed to be beating in unison, their union as much spiritual as the state had made it legal. With another kiss, the newlyweds turned toward the crowd of relatives, guests, and well-wishers. The state official who married them held up his hands, quieting the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said with a smile. "May I present to you…Mr. And Mrs.-"

Some time later

Natasha stood proudly, joining in the applause of the military personnel attending the commendation of her husband. In just a few years, he had risen from a mere pilot in the Republic's armed forces, to its premier test pilot. Natasha was nearly bursting with pride and love for her husband. After the military leader pinned the medal on his chest, the pilot saluted the crowd and, with a quick, slight wink to his wife, turned on his heel and marched off the stage.

Backstage, Natasha met up with her husband, jumping into his arms and kissing him.

"Oh, but I'm so proud of you, my love," she praised. "At this rate, you'll be the youngest cosmonaut ever!"

He set her down, and chuckled. "Patience, dear. Let's not get our hopes up. I haven't even been accepted into the space program yet."

She beamed a smile at him. "They will," she said with a fake sternness, and she poked a finger into his chest. "Or I'll make them regret they ever heard of-"

Months later

Natasha stood silently in the soft rain, soaking in the silence of the people around her as her husband's coffin was lowered into the ground. The sound seemed deafening to her, and she momentarily debated screaming as loud as she could. She decided against it since she felt as if she barely had enough strength to breathe, let alone show emotion. After the coffin was lowered, people walked heavily by her, offering words of comfort and solace. With a great deal of effort, she thanked each one of them.

A short while later, Natasha was still at her husband's gravesite when a man in a dark suit approached her. Natasha instantly recognized him as KGB; for secret agents, they were ridiculously conspicuous and easy to spot.

"Pardon me for interrupting, Miss-" he began, but was quickly cut off by Natasha.

"Mrs.," she snapped. "My husband may be dead, but I am still his wife."

The KGB agent was momentarily taken aback, not used to a citizen talking to him in such a way. He started over again.

"Ahem, yes…I just wanted to pass along the state's sorrow over your loss. Your husband was a great asset to our nation, and a true patriot. His love for his country was almost as great as his love for you. The state wants you to know that if there is anything we can do for you, you have but to ask."

Natasha and the agent were quiet for a few moments, then Natasha looked through her dark veil at the agent. "You are correct. My husband loved this republic. He gave his life in service to it, and I believe he would do so again, if he had the chance." She turned back to the grave and spoke, resolve replacing the sorrow in her voice. "I can think of no better way to honor his memory than to offer myself to any service the state would see fit to use me in. That is what you can tell your superiors that I want."

The merest hints of a smile crossed the agent's face, and he put his hand on the back of the widow in black. "My superiors will be glad to hear this. In fact, we have a training program that may suit you perfectly called 'The Red Room'. Your acceptance will do great honor to the memory of-"

Almost one year later

Natasha stood, bleeding from her busted lip, soaking in the sound of her opponent 'tapping out' on the workout mat. The sound was music to her ears, for it signified her completion of The Red Room's intensive training. All that was left were the final scores to be tabulated, and learn whether or not she would be allowed to do field work. With a smirk of satisfaction, she released the man beneath her from the hold she had subdued him with. She got up and walked to the edge of the training area, where her friend Ivan waited with a towel.

"Congratulations, Princess," praised Ivan. "I think you may have set a time record with that match."

Natasha smiled coldly. "Well, he was only barely twice my weight. Barely a challenge at all."

As she wiped the sweat from her brow, her opponent got to his feet. He had been told that the object of this match was not to beat the woman, but to see how she reacted to a sneak attack from a supposedly defeated foe. He was authorized to use lethal force, and unsheathed the knife he had hidden in his shoe. He stealthily advanced upon Natasha, preparing to slice her throat.

When the attacker was directly behind Natasha, she suddenly whirled around, wrapping her towel around the attacker's wrist holding the knife. She stepped to the side, and with a tug of the towel, flipped the attacker onto his back. He dropped the knife as he landed, and Natasha scooped it up almost instantly. She drew the knife back, and the downed man covered his face with his hands. Natasha brought the knife down into the skin behind the man's left kneecap, and pull hard. The man's kneecap ripped out of the man's leg with a wet, ripping sound. He screamed and grabbed his leg.

Natasha stood up and threw the knife away. She reclaimed her towel and resumed drying the sweat off her. In the observation booth overlooking the gymnasium, several men spoke in the darkened atmosphere.

"That settles it," one voice said. "She has the highest marks of any of our…students. Plus, she has the instincts necessary to perform the tasks we will ask of her. I say we send her after the American industrialist as soon as possible."

"Agreed," said a second voice. "How goes the training of our Red Guardian? Is he ready for duty yet?"

A third voice responded. "Not yet. Surprisingly, the ballerina is more adept than the military man. It may be several months before he is ready."

"Colonel Brushov has expressed interest in using him once he is ready. Something about helping our Chinese comrades," the second voice stated.

The men looked back down at Natasha, who was leaving the gym to shower.

"Do we ever tell her that he is still alive?" the third voice asked.

"No," the first voice said. "We're not sure yet what her reaction would be if she learned the state lied about the death of-"

Six months later

Natasha lay on an emergency first-aid cot inside an Avengers Quinjet. Blood stained a cloth compress on her back, and the Avenger known as Goliath gave her emergency first aid. The Avengers were leaving the site of a battle in China, where they had stopped a plot by a Soviet Colonel and a Chinese scientist to use a device called the Psychotron to drive nations insane. The mountaintop base the battle had taken place in had been a dormant volcano that had been reactivated and caused the death of the Communist conspirators. Before they could have been stopped, however, one of them had shot Natasha in the back, wounding her seriously.

The Communists had also used a Russian-trained agent meant to be the equal to the Avenger, Captain America, known as the Red Guardian. During the rescue of Hawkeye and the Black Widow, the two soldiers had fought. At the end of their battle, the Red Guardian had realized that his foe was honorable and just, while those he was working for were not. He stopped the treacherous Colonel Brushov from shooting Captain America in the back as he, Hercules, and the injured Black Widow were climbing to the awaiting Quinjet. Red Guardian and the villains seemed to perish as the base went up in flames around them.

Hawkeye stood eagerly behind Goliath, desperately trying to see around the giant's large frame to see if his girlfriend was still alive. As much as he was worried that she was survived, he wondered what the revelation that had been revealed to the two of them when they had been held captive by the Red Guardian would do to their relationship. The revelation that the Red Guardian had actually been her dead husband,--

Back in the present

Alexi Shostakov.

The room spun around Natasha when she read the name. She looked at Ivan and opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out. It was over half-a-minute before she found her voice and asked, "My…my Alexi?"

Ivan nodded. "Yes, little Princess. It appears that your husband is still alive!"

On the balcony outside Natasha Romanoff's hotel room, a thin roped descended from above. Down it slid a lithe figure. It touched down on the balcony without a sound, and slinked to just beside the door to the interior where Natasha and Ivan talked. The figure drew a gun, and slowly screwed on a silencer. The figure cocked the gun and prepared to complete her mission.

Next issue: Could it be true? Could the Black Widow's supposedly dead husband still be among the land of the living? Natasha's determined to find out, but what will happen when she finds out the truth? Plus, who is the mysterious intruder getting ready to perforate the former secret agent? Find out next issue!