Spider-Man of Earth 65

Felix Faeth sat at the interrogation table of the NYPD, hands folded neatly in front of him. He smiled. He was cool, calm, and collected. The overhead light cast sharp shadows in the cold, clinical atmosphere of the room. Across from him, Nick Fury leaned back in his chair, one eye fixed on Felix like a hawk assessing its prey.

For a moment, there was only silence between them.

"You look confident," Fury finally said.

Felix allowed himself a small smile. "I appreciate the compliment."

Fury raised an eyebrow, leaning forward just enough to make the space feel smaller. "Setting off an EMP and escaping my spies... not bad."

Felix didn't flinch. His smile remained neutral. "I apologize for that."

Admitting it confused Nick Fury. He should have denied it. What was Felix planning? Well, he would see.

"Uh-huh," Fury replied, the skepticism in his voice sharp enough to cut steel. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Felix's face. "You know, we deal with men like you all the time. People who think they can take things into their own hands. Do their own investigations." Fury crossed his arms. "One of my best men was like that. Sharp. Unrelenting."

'Must be talking about Clint Barton.'

Nick wasn't done. "Let me tell you about another guy who thought he was above the rules."

Felix didn't react outwardly.

"Frank Castle," Fury began. "You've probably heard the name."

Felix nodded slightly. He had. The name had been plastered all over the news a couple years back when Gwen Stacy was active. 

"After 9/11, Castle enlisted in the Marine Corps. The guy was a war hero. Iraq. Afghanistan. Purple Heart, Bronze Star—you name it. He survived one of the deadliest firefights during his service, and he even got married in a field hospital afterward. Sounds like a happy ending, right?" Fury didn't wait for a response. "But then Castle joined the NYPD. Climbed the ranks. Eventually became captain after Captain Stacy got relieved by the mayor. That's when things started to go sideways. Castle became obsessed with a certain case. I'm sure you know it: Peter Parker's death."

The high schooler that died by the hands of the Lizard—or Spider-Woman according to some. It was the biggest case against Spider-Woman. It was the most vital incident to the role of vigilantes in this world. 

"The death of Peter Parker and the hunt for Spider-Woman. He let it consume him. Drove his family away. His wife took the kids and left while he buried himself in his crusade. And it wasn't just about Parker. The guy started doing secret, shady things even the Bugle couldn't report—destroying buildings, blackmailing Norman Osborn to clear his son's name. It all caught up to him eventually."

Fury's voice dropped slightly, as if savoring the final twist. "Captain America herself had to take him down. Brutal fight, too. Castle ended up unconscious and in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. A war hero, turned cop, turned vigilante, taken down because he couldn't let go of justice."

Felix's face remained neutral, but Fury's sharp gaze studied him carefully.

A rare smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Guess the Daily Bugle didn't dig deep enough to report on that one, huh?"

Felix straightened himself, hands still folded, letting the silence hang for a moment before speaking. "I don't want to talk to you."

Fury cocked his head. "Come again?"

Felix leaned forward, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "I'm willing to talk to—" 

He whispered a name.

Fury's visible eye widened slightly, the first sign of genuine shock Felix had seen from the man. "How do you...?"

Before Felix could answer, the door opened. A SHIELD agent disguised as a detective stepped in, his expression tense. He moved to Fury's side and leaned down to whisper in his ear. Nick didn't want to hear it until he heard the first name.

Felix's enhanced hearing caught every word.

"Yelena Belova, sir," whispered the fake detective. "One of the Russian widows we've been searching for. She's turned herself in."

Fury stiffened. "What?"

"And she was carrying with her—"

Felix wanted to smile. He didn't. He couldn't. From here on, he had to play his part perfectly. 

Fury's face hardened as he stood abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. Felix's face betrayed nothing.

The room filled with tension as Fury shot Felix a final glance before stepping toward the door. "Stay put," he ordered. "I'll be back."

"What about what I requested? I really don't feel comfortable moving forward if you're gone and I'm left here alone."

Fury clicked his tongue. "I suppose we do owe you an explanation. I'll get them here."

***

'I love my life.'

The Chameleon smiled to themselves, stepping briskly down the pristine, brightly lit corridor of the SHIELD facility. Everything about their movements radiated casual confidence, from the slight swing of their arms to the subtle but deliberate way they avoided prolonged eye contact with any passing agent. The suitcase in their left hand was unassuming—black, scuffed at the edges, the kind of luggage anyone might carry on a business trip.

Except inside was the last remaining radioactive spider.

A high-tech containment unit was inside the case. Shielded from radiation detection and thermal imaging, it was a marvel of engineering—perfect for smuggling something this valuable out of one of the most secure facilities in the world.

No alarms, no suspicion, no one even knew it was missing yet. The Chameleon might as well have just borrowed a stapler.

The building itself buzzed with activity, though nothing out of the ordinary. Agents in bland office attire carried clipboards, pushed trolleys stacked with boxes, and filed paperwork at desks positioned just so. SHIELD's New York hub was always like this: unassuming on the surface, a hive of espionage and counterintelligence underneath.

The Chameleon strolled past the reception desk. Cue a polite nod to the man stationed there. He barely looked up from his monitor. 

The Chameleon had done it. Against all odds, they had bypassed layers of security, avoided detection from some of the sharpest minds in the agency, and were about to walk out scot-free. Their heart should have been racing, but years of practice had dulled the edge of danger into a manageable hum. They were steps away from freedom.

The exit was in sight. A nondescript steel door with a keypad lock stood just ahead, leading to the outside world. Freedom was just a few steps away.

Their phone buzzed in their pocket.

The Chameleon's smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. They slowed their pace, subtly shifting their grip on the suitcase. Pulling the phone out, they glanced at the caller ID.

Nick Fury.

'Well. That's inconvenient.'

The Chameleon's mind raced. Fury didn't call without a reason, and even his idle conversations carried weight. Did he know? Was this a test? A trap?

They adjusted their grip on the suitcase, scanning their surroundings discreetly. The room hummed with ordinary activity, but the Chameleon knew better. The man in the corner typing furiously on a laptop could have a gun tucked under the desk. The woman loading boxes onto a dolly could easily be trained in ten ways to kill someone silently.

'If they knew,' the Chameleon thought, 'they'd have made a move already. Wouldn't they?'

The phone buzzed again, insistent. Nothing was amiss…right? Right? The Chameleon inhaled deeply, calming their nerves, and pressed the screen to answer. 

"Deputy Director."

"Agent," Fury's deep voice rumbled. "I need you at the NYPD HQ. Now."

"Of course, sir," they replied smoothly, masking their unease.

Fury's tone gave away nothing, which only made the situation more nerve-wracking. "Good. A car will pick you up outside."

The line clicked dead.

The Chameleon lowered the phone and stuffed it back into their pocket, their fingers tightening on the suitcase handle.

'This isn't good. I should leave now.'

They did not waste time and pushed through the steel door and stepped outside. The street was bustling with pedestrians and delivery trucks. The cool air bit at their face. The plan had changed. Walk away. Disappear. Change their face, their name, their identity, and vanish into the crowd with the spider. It wouldn't be the first time they'd done it, and it wouldn't be the last. Run before the car…

…arrived.

A yellow car rolled up—a taxi. Or at least it looked like a taxi.

'Already here. How quick.' 

The faint glint of reinforced panels on the car's frame was a detail most would miss but not a SHIELD agent or the Chameleon. This wasn't just any taxi—it was a SHIELD transportation vehicle intended for discreet witnesses.

The Chameleon approached cautiously, their free hand resting casually in their coat pocket, close to a concealed weapon. The driver rolled down the window. "Agent 19? Get in."

Shoot him and steal the car. The suitcase was in hand. Getting away was simple. 

No, no, it wasn't. A shooting right outside SHIELD HQ? Getting away would be impossible. Every SHIELD agent in New York would be chasing them. Not to mention the driver was Wolverine. A bullet would do nothing to his Adamantium skeleton.

Agent 19 had to play along. 

Open the door. Cue a thin smile. "That depends. Am I in trouble?"

Agent Wolverine shrugged and proceeded to smoke a cigar. "Don't know. Orders are just to get you to HQ, bub."

Sliding into the backseat, the Chameleon rested the suitcase beside them.

Fifteen minutes later, the taxi pulled up to 1 Police Plaza. The Chameleon stepped out, suitcase in hand, and adjusted their tie. The agent gave a curt nod, muttered something into his SHIELD-issued earpiece, before pulling away. 

The Chameleon was escorted inside by a pair of SHIELD agents in plain clothes, one of whom was Agent Shadowcat. Another Adamantium skeleton. Once again, the Chameleon was not confident in their chances of winning in combat, so they kept playing along.

Smile.

Walk.

Relax.

The interior of the building consisted of uniformed officers and undercover operatives milling about. No tension. No one seemed to care for the Chameleon's presence for a few glances.

Right?

Those glances…it was nearly impossible to tell what the intent was. Mere curiosity or something else? 

The agents led the Chameleon to a small interrogation room in the underground section. The Chameleon's pulse quickened when they saw the iconic eyepatch of Nick Fury.

'Smile. Relax shoulders. Tense up back. Be alert but not suspiciously so.'

The Deputy Director wasn't in the observation room. In other words, whoever they were interrogating, the Chameleon wasn't able to prepare in advance for them. It wasn't a mattering of acting, they truly did not know what to expect. 

"Agent 19, good to see you. Was this a bother?" Fury asked, arms behind him, his one good eye fixed on the agent.

'Weaken smile. Look nervous enough for him to tell.'

"Not at all, sir," the Chameleon replied smoothly. "When the Deputy Director calls, I come running."

Fury's lips twitched into what might've been a smile—or a smirk. "Good. Head on in. I'll join you in a minute."

'Hesitate, then go in.'

The Chameleon did as they had practiced: hesitating for only a fraction of a second. In that brief pause, Nick Fury openly gestured to the door. Go inside, he said. So the Chameleon did. Pushing open the door, the suitcase still firmly in their grip, they went in. The room was sparse—just a metal table, two chairs, and a mirror that was undoubtedly one-way glass.

Sitting on the far side of the table was Felix Faeth.

A nobody. An inconvenience. He had only been on her radar twice and both times she thought about killing him right then and there. The only reason she didn't?

He was cute.

And killing, as she learned, was more trouble than it was worth.

The Chameleon's step faltered upon seeing him. For the first time in a long time, the Chameleon began to feel the cracks in their confidence.

"Hey," Felix greeted. "Good to see you."

"Hi, Felix." 

The young scientist was too comfortable. Smiling, hands folded on the table, and making direct eye contact. Felix's eyes flicked down to the suitcase, then to the SHIELD agent. "So it's true. You're apart of the CIA?"

CIA? What? Was he…? Ah, he either didn't know of SHIELD or was pretending not to know. What game was he playing? 

"No need to answer him, agent." Nick Fury entered the room and stood beside her, arms crossed. "I brought her like you asked. Now what?" 

Nick...was he playing along? What for? Stupid question, she knew what Nick Fury was like. Results over all else. Protocol did not matter. He was opposite to Director Carter.

"We talk," Felix said, smiling.

'What do I say or do here? This man...his eyes...'

Somehow, it felt he was watching her without trying. It was an odd, light feeling that didn't make sense even to her sixty years of experience.

"Reed Richards died four months ago now; or is it five? You know, so much has happened in that time, I sometimes can't remember stuff. I'm always working. Always thinking about that day when those mercenaries attacked us. When Reed was shot right in front of my eyes and explosions erupted…I don't think I've ever admitted this to myself or anyone else but I don't think I can look at fire for a long time because of it." Inhale, exhale, and Felix's eyes closed. Then they opened and judged her. "What about you? You were there that day. What did you think?"

"...Alistair was shot right in front of me. My ears are still ringing from it," the Chameleon lied.

Felix looked emotional about it. "I remember when we met, you were so prickly. I was a novice and you were "

That was because she wasn't a scientist and had to pretend that she knew what she was talking about. "Was I?" Ensue fake laugh. 

"Mhm, everybody said it was because of your divorce. It's what Maya told me. Imagine when I learned it wasn't a simple divorce, that there was a huge story behind it. I probably should have asked."

"I…prefer not to talk about it."

"That's fair. Sorry for being intrusive." That damn smile. It was unnervingly polite. "Can I ask you something then?"

Nick Fury eyed her to make sure she had no choice but to answer.

"Your throat, how is it?" Felix tilted his head. "I remember Mr. Negative choked you. You were in the hospital for a couple days and couldn't speak, could you?"

Not true. She spoke to Spider-Man when she was saved by him. A mistake but one she risked for the sake of survival. Even if she had revealed herself, she couldn't have defeated Osborn's freak accident. It was the one time in her career where she considered abandoning a mission early.

"That's right."

"Good to know." Somehow, that seemed to confirm something in his eyes. "Where were you when Harry Osborn's factory blew up then?"

'Sudden topic change. This man...' Her brow twitched. 'Play it cool. Don't be fazed. The records speak for themselves. I can't and shouldn't lie here.'

"I was there."

"There? Like at the factory?" Felix looked at Fury, then her. "I don't remember seeing you."

"...I was in the experimental section."

She worked there part-time after all. It was the answer Felix had been looking for too.

"Ohh, you were, weren't you? Yeah, I think Liv did mention it but I bet she thought it was just to help out Harry Osborn. You know what I think? I think that's not the case." Felix finally unfolded his hands and made direct eye contact. "Did you know I found something at the day of the explosion?"

A discreet glance at Nick Fury. Whatever Felix was saying, he didn't seem to entirely understand; however, he did believe him. Why? Ha, like it mattered.

'I know you were there. But unfortunately, you didn't take photos—' 

"Which I took photos of."

The Chameleon's expression shifted ever so slightly as did Nick Fury's. 

"I saw a dead body," Felix continued. "And then the factory blew up, as if somebody didn't want me and the CIA agent with looking."

She didn't. She caught him digging up that troublesome body in that room and she had to do something. But...

'CIA agent? What is he talking about?'

"Luckily, the agent took some pieces of hair before everything went to hell. To be honest, I wasn't able to get into contact with her. Apparently, she lied. She wasn't a CIA agent, she was a mercenary. And I, well…" He smiled happily. "I was able to convince her to turn herself in."

That was when Nick Fury put a hand on her shoulder and muttered, "Just thirty minutes ago, Yelena Belova turned herself in. She was keeping photos of a dead body in a location that we were able to confirm were taken at Harry Osborn's multipurpose factory."

"Wh...at?"

Yelena Belova.

The memories rushed through her head.

Her past. Her old world. The life of Natasha Romanoff. The memories of the Red Room.

The first test had been almost laughably crude. A man in a crisp uniform had approached her—a child of barely eight years old—with a doll in one hand and a scalpel in the other.

"Which one do you want, Natasha?" he had asked, his voice sweet with mock sincerity.

The child Natasha had pointed to the doll.

The man gave her the scalpel.

"Use this," he had said. "If you want the doll, you'll have to earn it."

She had cried, of course. But by the end of that session, she had learned to bury her tears deep enough that no one would see them again.

Almost every day, they would learn. Almost everyday, he would say, "You are here because you are nothing and I will make you into everything."

A room of twenty-eight girls, malnourished but hopeful, handpicked from orphanages across the Soviet Union.

The lessons grew harsher. The instructors replaced pliés with combat drills. Wooden practice swords gave way to steel. And the girls... they obeyed. They adapted.

She committed her first kill when she was thirteen. She messed up when the poison wasn't properly administrated and had to choke the old man to death.

That was when her addiction to choking started.

Through Felix's eyes, she saw herself. Her old self, Natasha Romanoff without the make-up and mask. Just her. The years had worn away the softness of her face, replacing it with the sharp angles of someone who had lived and worked too long.

The memories came unbidden now.

Natasha sat strapped to a chair, her arms pinned tightly to her sides. A device hung over her head, wires coiled like a serpent. Professor Pchelintsov stood before her, a syringe in his hand.

"This will hurt," he had said.

And it had.

The serum burned through her veins, searing her from the inside out. Her screams had echoed in the sterile chamber, but no one came to help. It was part of the process. Pain erased identity. Pain made room for the new memories.

She had woken up the next day in a haze, surrounded by images of a life she had never lived. She was a ballerina. She danced at the Bolshoi. She was graceful, elegant, perfect.

And yet, the cracks had appeared almost immediately.

The experimental process hadn't fully worked. Snatches of the truth bled through the false memories. The ballet lessons became fractured visions of combat. The instructors' smiles turned into the cruel faces of interrogators. Natasha had learned quickly to keep the discrepancies to herself.

The others hadn't been so lucky.

The ones who questioned too much were taken away, their screams cutting through the silence of the Red Room like knives. When the remaining girls asked about them, they were met with blank stares and shrugs.

"They couldn't keep up," Pchelintsov would say. "But you will. Because you are stronger."

The memories became more rigid and so the girls became stronger.

And Natasha had been the strongest.

For years, she endured, perfecting the craft they had designed for her. She became the Red Room's crowning achievement, their first and greatest creation. But the knowledge of what had been done to her festered, eating away at her from within.

For years, she had lived in that lie. And for years, she had been the perfect agent. New generations of Widows appeared and were trained. Natasha would oversee some of their training. One in particular impressed her, Yelena Belova. The time to manipulate her memories was nigh. Natasha was fine with it.

Until the memories began to fade.

Not from untested technology but age. Natasha was growing old. All of a sudden, she could see wrinkles. She saw her mortality. She saw her mistakes and the red cage she lived in. So much servitude. So much sacrifice.

All for men she cared little for. All for a country that would collapse soon.

Twenty-five years ago, she found her new purpose. She found herself sitting at a desk and typing away letters. She had sent letters to every man responsible for the program. Each letter was signed in elegant script, inviting them to see the Red Room's newest protégé: Yelena Belova.

'The greatest of us,' Natasha had written.

The men had come, eager to see the fruit of their twisted labor. Natasha had greeted them with the cold poise of a perfect hostess. She disarmed their caution. She made one think the other had started all this. They knew what they were here for, only not by whom.

The girls were instructed to pour wine, and the men had laughed, congratulating themselves on their brilliance.

When the poison took hold, the laughter turned to choking.

Natasha had watched impassively as the men fell one by one, clutching their throats, their faces contorted in agony. Yelena had stood beside her, wide-eyed and trembling, too young to understand the full scope of what was happening. Natasha had knelt before her, gripping her small shoulders.

"You're free now," Natasha had told her. "But you will never be yourself. Do you understand? Be free and use your gifts."

She had walked away that night, leaving the Red Room and the lone girl behind, vowing never to be Natasha Romanoff again. Vowing never to see her.

The little girl grew up. The little girl wanted to see her again. She couldn't. Natasha would not let her.

That night, one of the dead men was an oligarch amongst the richest in the country and Natasha had stolen that identity. No, just that specific identity, she stole the faces of every man in that room. She had become a ghost, a shadow, slipping through the cracks of the world. She was no longer bound by gender, identity, or history. She was whoever she needed to be.

She became the Chameleon.

Today, the Chameleon couldn't believe it. Someone was playing her own game better than she was. Felix had set this up. Fake testimony. A fake smile. Fake people.

Felix was lying as she would.

"Ah, and there it is." Nick Fury stood up straight, a finger to his earpiece. "We've just confirmed that the hair belongs to…huh." Nick Fury glanced down at her. "Agent 19…the dead hair cells belong to you. Our records matched them."

Once a SHIELD agent reached Level 5 Clearance, all evidence of their DNA was wiped in the public record. In a normal investigation, the DNA of the SHIELD wouldn't have been found.

'No—!' 

But Felix created the circumstances to involve SHIELD.

'He set mE UP...!' 

A dark expression came over her. Eyes almost demonic, blearing red. But like everything else about the Chameleon, it was but a flash. No one saw.

No.

Felix saw it.

"Your hair is apparently matching with a dead body. That's so strange," Felix said with that same stupid, arrogant smile. "Unless maybe it isn't. Let's check your DNA to see if it was an error in the system. A simple mistake. That kind of thing can happen."

"Agreed," Nick Fury said. "Better to be safe than sorry."

'No—! NO—!' 

Her emotions twisted. She had to kill this man. She had to kill everyone here and get away. Except all she could do was stay seated and say, "I...prefer not to."

Nick Fury's gaze had never been stronger. What she just said would not slide. A dead SHIELD agent having her DNA had two strong implications: first, the evidence was faked; or two, the current agent was not the real one and had stolen the identity of the dead SHIELD agent.

"Should I bring over Clint Barton to make it more comfortable?"

The suggestion from Felix caught the Chameleon sideways.

'Mentioning Clint Barton now...!? This man...!'

As much as she wanted to move past it, with Nick Fury's growing suspicion, she couldn't. She feigned shock and put a hand to her chest. "Excuse me?"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding." Never had a smile annoyed her so much. "I know how tough that would be for you. But this lack of conviction on your part, it does remind me of him."

"..."

"During his trial, from the photos and interviews, he seemed...confused. As though he didn't know what he did. As if he didn't recognize his own wife." A long pause ensued. Felix looked down, pretending to be sad about it. "That's fair, his child did die and his wife insisted that she was attacked and choked by him. I checked out his testimony and, well, he didn't have any. His vocal chords were gone after all and he didn't seem to want to write."

Because she didn't allow him to write. She always had people in the system to make sure that wouldn't happen. She poisoned him, she had gangs constantly wear him out, she sent anonymous letters that threatened his student Kate Bishop.

"Clint...I think he was guilty is all," is what the Chameleon ended up saying.

"But...look at Clint himself. He, a trained SHIELD agent, was stopped by two cops and lost his vocal chords during the incident. Apparently, they choked him. No offence, but I doubt most men or women could do that to a man like him. Six-foot-three and two-hundred-thirty pounds and still working too. We're not talking about a retired man, we are speaking of a fully trained SHIELD agent at his prime. I would say it's impossible for normal cops to bring him down. And his pregnant wife? Even more impossible for her to live if he was actually trying to hurt her."

She was the perfect agent. She was the best of the best, the same way Clint Barton was. For her, surviving and victory were more than possible.

Felix kept going, "Yet that's the case we're dealing with. We're dealing with perhaps the strongest human on the planet getting beat and choked by two cops. According to the mercenary I met up with though, the choke marks on Clint were very...specific. Yelena says an old friend of hers had a sort-of ADHD when it came to choking. She was obsessed with it. It was her mark. The specific pressure points just spoke to her. Apparently, her friend went from being a Russian asset to becoming an uncaught, unnamed criminal mastermind."

"Unnamed to that mercenary, perhaps," Nick Fury interjected, "but here in SHIELD, we call her the Black Widow. No gender. No history other than maybe being trained in the Red Room. No real name. All we know is that the Black Widow kills, steals, and has left behind choke marks twice in their long, expansive career."

'What!? When!? I checked the records, I didn't see any—'

"You need Class Seven Clearance to see the Black Widow file. We didn't want to risk the Widow knowing we were onto them," Fury said, hand gripping her shoulder tightly. The Chameleon could only sit and listen. "See, we at SHIELD like to keep things tight to our chest. It's how we keep secrets."

Felix's smile only widened. 

"Let's put our thinking caps on then: who in the world could take on a man like Clint Barton? This Black Widow sounds like a great candidate, don't you think?"

"Yes, I...suppose."

"Suppose?" Felix was pressuring her hard. "You know him. He was a star carnival archer and was so good at it that he caught the attention of the government. Specifically, a top-secret organization that I recently discovered called SHIELD."

Since some time ago, Felix and Nick Fury had come to an understanding that talking about SHIELD was okay. That Nick Fury and Agent 19 were not CIA agents but SHIELD agents. It did not matter if it was slightly suspicious on the young man's part to figure that out. What they were currently pursuing might potentially end the existence of the greatest spy in the world.

Her existence.

"That is where you and him met, no? At SHIELD?"

A tilt of the head and a smile from Felix. His acting irritated her because it was exactly what she would have done in his position.

"...we did," she said.

"You don't look so confident," Felix observed. "What was your first meeting like?"

Agent Wolverine patrolling the area in a car, Agent Shadowcat in the building, and fuck, Deputy Director Nick Fury in this damn room! How was she supposed to escape this!? She had to answer! She had to lie!

"It was a mission. I...can't go into any more de—"

"Agent," Nick Fury said, "you and Agent Barton met during a spar. You lost, badly, and you kept challenging him. It's how you got close."

'Fuck, fuck, fuck—!'

The Chameleon tried to stand up. "Look, that isn't—"

Fury's strong hand kept her down. "Agent, you will sit down and you will keep your composure."

Another flash of red-hot rage. Curses swarmed the Chameleon's thoughts. Hate gathered in their eyes and hurled itself at the young man responsible for it all. Just fifteen minutes ago, she was on the cusp of pulling off the greatest heist in her career. And now, all of a sudden, because of this man...

The room was red again. 

"Come on, it's not a big deal. It's just a story. It's natural to forget." Felix Faeth smiled that same smile and blabbered on, "How about I give my personal theory first? If I'm wrong, then I'm wrong. We can move past this."

Felix was not here to talk about Alistair and Eleanor. No, he conjured up this evidence for an older but perfectly acceptable case: the assault of Clint Barton and the death of his unborn child.

"Is that okay with you, Bobbi?"

Bobbi Morse.

Blonde, blue-eyed, and the leader of Team Rebirth.

A SHIELD agent.

The Chameleon.

The sixty-seven year old Natasha Romanoff.

The spy that started everything.