[right] 
August ████
Madripoor
[/right]

Her target is selling secrets, she knows. KGB, Red Room, perhaps simply Ivan’s, she doesn’t know, only that he can no longer be allowed to live. She knows his face better than her own; dark eyes, heavy beard, white lines of scar tissue bisecting gnarled lips and hands marked with fading ink.  He stands to slip a knife into the belly of the Kremlin with every sale. She will find his buyers and slit their throats before they can cause more damage. And then she will handle Kostya. 

This is everything she’s made for. 

She finds him in a resort that could double as a fortress, flanked by mountains in the guise of men, indulging in colourful drinks and beautiful women. She follows him for days, lifting information off his bulky laptop, tapping his phones, bugging his suits. She learns and learns and learns.

They are to have an auction, she discovers, in the resort’s glittering ballroom. They will sell her motherland’s secrets like chattel.

She will not let that happen.

[hr]

[right] 
Lisbon, Portugal[/right]

[color=#cc0000] “I’m thinking Thai,”[/color] Natasha said lightly, handing off the case to Clint, as if she was already assured of her victory. Her skin hummed in anticipation, streaks of red painting across her vision. She’d never stop loving the dance of battle. And here they were only fighting men; there were no gods, no monsters, no cities plummeting through the clouds. This was [i]her[/i] playground.

Clint took the men at the front door. Natasha was halfway out a window when the first had  fallen, swinging out to strafe (and, subsequently, position herself closer to the car) their attackers.

They were well armed, well-coordinated, but entirely too focused on assaulting Clint. His trick with the grenade had caught their attention, and Natasha sprinted, her hands manipulating a garrote from her bites. She sprang on one of their men from behind, winding the metal cable about his neck once, twice, thrice, elbows snapping out. He made a gurgle. One of his friends turned, shouted, but she’d shifted her victim’s body to catch the spray of bullets. She sank into the fight, firing electric stings and dancing around her prey, her lips split into a grin and her eyes shining like acid.

Someone managed to catch her neck with an arm, but she shifted her weight, spilling him off balance and swinging her thighs about his neck. A twist brought him crashing to the earth, and she unholstered a glock in a smooth motion. The bullet found home in his throat, gunpowder and blood arcing across her hands. She gave it no thought, already honing in on her next target.