Budapest- Oneshot

What really happened in Budapest? Entry for the Fanfiction Royale comp. In the Other catergory and this a Oneshot (a single chapter short story, often canon)

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1. The Begining, Middle and End

"It's just like Budapest all over again!" Gunshots ring out over the voice.

"You and I remember Budapest very differently!"

 

 

Lights shine below the plane, twinkling in the twilight. The redhead stands with her head against the window. It's like nothing she's ever seen. Russia is cold, barren; this place is full of life, even from the air. She almost feels sorry about what she has to do.

"We're about 5 minutes out," the jets pilot barks in Russian, "Suit up, agent."

Without pulling her head away from the window, the familiar shape of a gun finds its way into the girls hands. The barrel is reloaded and locked into the place, the safety taken off. Her eyes are still on the city. It's so beautiful to her, like a cocktail of a million multi-coloured stage lights and shimmering ballet costumes. As the jet closes in on the landing site, a river whirls into her view, as black and as deep as the abyss. Yet it is still so beautiful. Often the things that cause the most harm are the most beautiful.

The jet lands with a bump. Cool night air gushes through the now open plane door like a child running from their nightmares. With the clip of her heeled boots being the only sound, the redhead exits the plane, not bothering to look back. She knows exactly what she has to do. The plane takes off as she walks away down the landing strip and they both disappear into the Budapests night. Keeping her head down, the redhead makes her way through the sidestreets until she reaches the immense market hall. Stepping inside, she can't help but catch her breath. Stalls filled to bursting with colorful food and ornate furnishings line the fiery room. People of all ages wander around her; the elderly couple buying fruit, a young army man buying a tie from a Jewish stall holder, children playing tag with gleeful cries. The scent of freshly baked bread and something sweet fill her nostrils, taking over her senses with ease. The girl wanders through the market, taking in as much as she can. Her fingers flutter over a dress stall, the fabric soft and silky underneath her gunpowder stained fingers. The dress is a floor length gown made of luxurious pink silk with diamonds skillfully sewn on the bodice. A full skirt barely touches the ground, layers upon layers of chiffon visibly underneath. A dress for a life that never was.

A hand grabs the girls wrist. Her whole body tenses, her hand firmly on her gun.

"Don't scream," a voice purrs in her ear. The hand pulls her away roughly, her eyes lingering on the dress. The lights and smells of the market disappear behind her, the hand taking her into a damp, dark alley.

"Have you got your orders?" the voice growls. She doesn't even bother trying to figure out who she's talking to. She learnt a long time ago that it's best not to know.

"I do."

"And you can complete them?"

"Don't I always?"

The voice chuckles darkly. A key is pressed into her hand.

"Good luck, agent."

Footsteps fade into the night and the redhead is left alone. The key is cold in her hand. Pulling her fur coat tight around her body, she walks down the streets, avoiding the lights. The apartment that the key fits is on the other side of town, deep in the heart of the downtown district. Few people are out at this time of night. The streets are deathly silently, the only sound being her heels on the cracked concrete. Something clatters above her.

Her head whips towards the sound, her gun pointed steadily. A arrow comes flying out of a hidden alley. The redhead ducks and fires blindly, walking forward. Another arrow. A lurch sideways. A figure stalks out and flings a punch at her face. Discarding the gun, the girl aims a kick at her assailants head. Somehow he catches her foot and throws her back. Flipping herself up off of the ground, she continues the fight. It's the only thing her knows how to do.

"Stop!" the archer cries. The redhead keeps going.

"I don't want to kill you!" She keeps punching and kicking. Sighing, he grabs her arms and pushes her up against a wall.

"Will you just listen to me!" She spits in his face, still struggling.

"Right in the face? Dick move, Russian." The redhead stops fighting, her eyes now mixed with curiosity.

"How do you know who I am?"

"I was sent to find you, Russian."

"Why?"

"It's my job. And can you tell me your name? I'm not overly keen on calling you Russian."

"You tell me yours and I'll tell you mine," she chokes out. The man loosens his grip, letting her drop to the floor.

"Clint Barton."

"Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff."

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