[ Natasha's first instinct is to play along. She nods when the nurses wave off her questions, as if that's perfectly understandable, and smiles when they tell her they hope she'll be able to make a life here. It's an uncertain smile, the kind that wants to please, that worries about fitting in. Not the kind that questions. People will explain a lot to a woman who doesn't ask questions.
She continues like this, filling out her release papers, making small talk. They don't know who she is, Natasha realizes. She isn't sure if this is good or bad. On the one hand, it makes it easy to keep up the act. But on the other hand, it means she's dealing with a total unknown. Natasha doesn't like unknowns, as a rule.
In the hospital waiting room, with her patient bracelet still attached, she glances outside the window, as if absently. Her eyes scan the horizon, searching for some familiar punctuation. It doesn't come. She wonders if they have messed with her head. But what she says, to the stranger standing next to her, in a generic midwestern accent, is: ]
Nice weather, huh?
II.
[ Of course, the second she's thinks she hears something like danger, she drops the act. Not all at once, but in bits and pieces— the bland, Sears catalog expression washes off her face, her legs pick up a determined tempo once she doesn't think anyone is watching. Natasha wishes, not for the first time, that she had a gun, or her gauntlets, or something, but swallows those thoughts. She definitely heard a scream. Someone could be hurt.
Her determination carries her close enough to see the wall clearly, but she has to stop, breathe. Then Natasha hears a crunch, the sound of footfall. Without thinking, she turns towards the noise, and takes a fighting stance. It makes her tired, and she doesn't know why. ]
Who's there? [ Her voice doesn't falter, but her breathing is audible. ]
Natasha R. | Marvel Comics
[ Natasha's first instinct is to play along. She nods when the nurses wave off her questions, as if that's perfectly understandable, and smiles when they tell her they hope she'll be able to make a life here. It's an uncertain smile, the kind that wants to please, that worries about fitting in. Not the kind that questions. People will explain a lot to a woman who doesn't ask questions.
She continues like this, filling out her release papers, making small talk. They don't know who she is, Natasha realizes. She isn't sure if this is good or bad. On the one hand, it makes it easy to keep up the act. But on the other hand, it means she's dealing with a total unknown. Natasha doesn't like unknowns, as a rule.
In the hospital waiting room, with her patient bracelet still attached, she glances outside the window, as if absently. Her eyes scan the horizon, searching for some familiar punctuation. It doesn't come. She wonders if they have messed with her head. But what she says, to the stranger standing next to her, in a generic midwestern accent, is: ]
Nice weather, huh?
II.
[ Of course, the second she's thinks she hears something like danger, she drops the act. Not all at once, but in bits and pieces— the bland, Sears catalog expression washes off her face, her legs pick up a determined tempo once she doesn't think anyone is watching. Natasha wishes, not for the first time, that she had a gun, or her gauntlets, or something, but swallows those thoughts. She definitely heard a scream. Someone could be hurt.
Her determination carries her close enough to see the wall clearly, but she has to stop, breathe. Then Natasha hears a crunch, the sound of footfall. Without thinking, she turns towards the noise, and takes a fighting stance. It makes her tired, and she doesn't know why. ]
Who's there? [ Her voice doesn't falter, but her breathing is audible. ]