𝒑𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒕 || s. rogers & b. barnes

9||; 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

⤷ may ??, 2012
━━━━━━━━━━━

Under the scepter's influence, Irina thinks.

She thinks about her job.

She thinks about Danny.

She thinks about May and Ben Parker.

She thinks about Peter.

She thinks about the good life she's built for herself, amidst the darkness that ate her alive. The whispers of the dead, the ones she murdered, forever cursing her in her dreams.

And she remembers each and every one of their faces.

She remembers her first ever kill. A small politician, working his way up too quickly. It was feared he would overshadow a friend they had in that government party, so they sent her out for her first ever mission.

They didn't send her out alone, of course.

They'd brought the man who had been training her — her mentor, you could say — alongside her to observe her, make sure she was a worthy investment for them.

She remembers his eyes burning into the back of her head as she stared down at the weeping politician, begging for his life.

She remembers pulling out her gun and giving him a quick death, silently begging for her own to be spared.

From then on, her missions grew steadily more important, and more frequent. They never put her under, for they were positive in her loyalty to them, her will to obey. Years passed, and she grew to have a reputation.

A killer's reputation.

What had broken her?

She still remembers the day it happened the clearest in her mind.

𓆩*𓆪

"Цель в поле зрения," she mutters in heavy Russian into the comm embedded in her ear.

Asset No.1998 sat upon a rooftop, eye peering into the scope of her sniper, eyeing the moving car as it slowly rolled through the cheering crowd. The woman in her clear view was waving to the people, smiling brightly.

After a moment of static, a deep voice came through, professional Russian rolling off his tongue.

"Сделайте снимок," he commands, though not to her.

The boy they'd hired charges through the crowd, gun in hand. He raises it and pulls the trigger, the sound bouncing off the walls in the area. People naturally duck for cover, and the woman lets out a cry. She eyes the scene, before flicking up a small flap on her sniper's handle.

"Goodbye, kid," she mutters into the comm. In her scope's view, she sees the boy look in her general direction with wide eyes, filled with confusion.

With little hesitation, she presses the button.

The bomb sets off, and people cry out in fear.

Asset No.1998 stands up straight, taking apart her sniper at lightning speed, experience and memory carved into her hands as she tucks the pieces away into her black case. She clicks the locks, picking up the handle and going to turn, but not before a child's cries caught her attention.

"Baba!" The little boy cries, shaking his limp father's form, which lay close by the car. The small boy was covered in ash and blood, but it was most obviously not his own. "Baba!" He sobs, clutching his father's form.