Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Sixty-Four: Human Machinations

The snow dulled every sound like the silencer of a pistol; cushioning footfalls, dampening the sound of traffic, muffling the ramblings of ramblers. It made her meandering deathly silent, but the shock of her red hair stood out like blood on bone china.

Natasha was aware someone was stalking her like a shadow; in her peripherals she could see a silhouette in the snow. Or was it her paranoia haunting her again? Plaguing her with spectral likenesses to men?

Natasha had always learnt to trust her instincts; gut feelings existed for a reason after all.

Her gun rattled in its holster, tucked in the interior breast pocket of her trench coat; the infernal device slotted into sleek silk; much like her: a weapon in pretty packaging. The pressure of the revolver – old fashioned, just how she liked things; well respected, reliable – thumped against her chest like her heartbeat as footsteps jostled it. The clicks and clunks of the chamber and clips, sounded like reassurance.

She traced the bulge of the gun, taciturn, tactile; it would've been a message to any skilled eyes trained on her.

"She knows I'm following her Coulson... She must know," Clint hissed, picking at the hem of his sleeve, a nervous habit.

"Don't give her any more indication. There's nothing more obvious than murmuring to yourself..." Coulson's voice of wisdom transmitted wise words to him.

"Roger that, sir."

An American voice in a United Soviet State? Nothing was more obvious; it was like a bad stitch in the rich cultural tapestry.

Not wanting to lead the shade following her back to her seniors, she went around the houses before she returned to the rendezvous. It made the perfect excuse to peruse and procrastinate; she'd be back in the clutches of the KGB soon enough, why make it sooner?

Natasha departed from the passageways, flocking with the masses to the main street. The road was littered with potholes, and crammed with cars. The snow had been shifted towards the sidewalks, blackened slush, ploughed through by grimy tires and sprayed with exhaust fumes. A satisfying sloshing sound surrounded the road as cars passed by, sending the sludge splaying outwards.

Clouds still hung over the city, a bleak grey, like a roof; trapping the cold beneath, and closing off the sun. But the bite of the wind didn't bother her; she'd spent winters doing assault courses in shorts and a tank top; barefoot on blades of frosty grass.

Though she season to be jolly approached, no Christmas lights lit the city, any joy was stifled by the state. Any public expression of unity could mean trouble for their regime. Natasha tried to picture the place with celebrative strings of lights, but somehow failed: Christmas... How many decades had it been since she'd celebrated it? There was no spirit of giving except of that to the motherland, no spirit of togetherness besides that of soldiers, there was no spirit of celebration except for the evisceration of the enemy.

Small acts of rebellion were something Natasha had always favoured; passing by a bakery, she saw one of the bakers shooing a family away with a broom. They scattered like rats, then rushed into the dank and dark of a nearby alley; hoping the closed surroundings would shield them from the world.

It gave her an idea.

They weren't animals. She knew what it was to be treated like a lesser life form.

A bell tolled as she pushed through the glass door of the baker's shop, and she kicked the snow off her heels as she arrived on the doormat. Scents of cinnamon and baking bread were thick in the air, the smell of domesticity. The windows were clouded on the inside, beads of warm moisture running down – it made her fume to knew a few lived in excessive luxury whilst others suffered with nothing but the bad weather to keep them company.