Natasha's New Reality

Author Note: This comes from a preface to an RP I was about to do with a member over on the Bluemoon RP forums. I've asked them how they feel about me using this chapter as an opener here as well, but none of our future RP will be posted. This is just for fun and for authors to take in any direction they like, but I enjoyed the setup too much not to share.

"Yes, a UFO over London. No, this is not a joke. Do I joke? When have you heard me make a joke?"

Director Nick Fury's voice rumbled over the line. Better not to poke the bear. The agent with the phone turned back to the pilot. "Are you correcting course now?" The man in the seat next to him, the one actually operating this thing, didn't turn, but answered. "Affirmative. We'll be on the eastern Atlantic and then entering British airspace within the next two hours." The one agent laughed. "You can drop the field talk, Ramirez. Tell me, what do you make of this whole thing?" Ramirez didn't look but stretched his shoulders in the pilot's seat. "I don't usually ask questions, sir. Just doing my job." The agent laughed. "Well, today your job is to pick up traces of an extraterrestrial artifact scattered in water of the Thames. Sound interesting enough?" Ramirez didn't answer. The agent continued. "Good to know we have your word. It's unofficial, you understand."

The SHIELD airplane continued its course to London with little chatter between the two. And less of it about alien water particles.

Back at the SHIELD headquarters in Washington, D.C about 10 hours later, Agent Natasha Romanoff (Fury's personal choice for the job) was debriefing and exiting a safe-room adjacent to the hanger. She had in her privileged hands a substance hereto unknown by humankind, and that of most other kinds. SHIELD had determined it to be similar in energy pattern to that of an artifact they had picked up years ago, and that had caused them no shortage of trouble: the Tesseract. Taking extra measures would surely benefit them in the long run. And so one of their tightest-lipped agents, a master of espionage, armed and unarmed combat, strolled leisurely through the hangar with two tear shaped vials of water....water that occasionally turned a brilliant, angry red....before settling back into crystal clearness.

Two agents fresh from a surveillance mission (concerning exploits that may or may not have uncovered the resurgence of tangential sects of Hydra) were relaxing and having some down time, watching the planes take off here and there. "I don't get it, Clyde. You could have moved up the ladder, and you choose to hang out in the hanger greasing up every broken down machine as if it was your own. You could have a private fucking jet by now! Do you know how many jets Fury has? I don't know if some of those things even qualify in the definition of aircraft. They're insane!" That was Vic Ryan, Victor Ryan to his parents. To everyone else, he was just "Vic". More importantly, was the man standing next to him. Appreciated by many, known by few. Christopher Clyde. Apparently his parents thought it would be funny to alliterate. Why not? Bruce Banner? Matthew Murdock? (Yes, SHIELD knew all about that guy.). But, hey, he got the job.

"I work this job because I like it. Up at the top? You can't trust anyone. You don't know anyone. Just ask the Director himself, he'll tell you plainly. It's not one of his secrets." Clyde breathed deeply. "It's better to stick with what you know, who you know. Never take it for granted."

Vic just laughed. "Sounds about right. You're a regular boyscout, you know that, Clyde? But you know what gets me?" Clyde ventured a guess. "Everything, everything 'gets' you, Vic." Vic glossed over that. "No, it's the suits. Especially.....the ladies, man. They're painted on. Barely there. Skin fucking tight. If they've earned so much respect, when are they gonna get a proper suit? Say it's for mobility, pfft. They might as well walk around naked."

Just then, Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, made her way around the corner; she was absolutely the stunner (figuratively and literally) that she had been made out to be. She was a beautiful woman. But a beautiful woman was a deadly thing, and she knew that. And when she wasn't being nice to look at, she was as strong as ten men, maybe twenty. Her marks didn't get long to do the arithmetic. Point was, she wasn't to be trifled with, but she was still a sight for sore eyes. "Vic. Anything important this time, or do I need to tell Fury your mouth has become a liability?" Vic actually shook a little. Then she softened. "What? I can crack a joke. I need muscle. Extra muscle. If anyone asks where I've gone, it's off the books. Out of your hands. Understand?" She added. "Directly from the top." Clyde didn't hesitate. "Of course. Our lips are sealed." Vic snapped out of his reverie, and started to do the least helpful thing. But Clyde wasn't worried. It wouldn't fall on his head, everyone knew Vic was....well, he was Vic.

"Oh come on, not even a picture? Would that be a liability too? Come here, Romanoff. I couldn't get close if you didn't want me there anyway-" Natasha grabbed Vic by the collar, but she was still smiling weakly. "Nothing personal Vic. You knew how it would go. Now, I really need to-"

It was a strange sort of coincidence. If the legendary Black Widow hadn't lost her grip at just that moment, if Vic hadn't been talking about what he was talking about, and if she weren't standing feet away from a man who had no idea his bloodline had thousands of years ago encountered radiation which activated the very faintest traces of Celestial DNA.....well, the strangest thing wouldn't have happened. But it did.

Something that Thor, son of Odin himself knew better as the Aether, or Reality Stone, had contaminated the vials that smashed at the Black Widow's boots. I say boots colloquially, because by the time the water-essence had splashed up against her, it was no more. And neither were her boots. Or her gauntlets. Or her suit. Or her underwear.

Natasha Romanoff froze as she felt air on her skin- all of her skin?!? She looked down and saw only white creamy expanse. Her bare breasts bounced slightly, but almost as if nothing had ever protected them with their rosy pink nipples standing out and proud. Her toned tummy from years of strict regimen. Her long dancer-like legs. She shuffled her petite bare feet on the floor, wriggling her red-painted small toes. She felt the air over her naked behind, and in between her thighs, teasing at her bare pussy. And then she screamed. What did she do next?

Well, that's another story.