Silver and Red

Red in the Night

A/N: Anything recognizable belongs to Marvel.

Warning: Brief gore and mentions of torture.

Chapter 1: Red in the Night

Red covered her hand...

Beautiful, ruby red, sparkling in the light. A river, running back and forth on its way to the ground, glinting in the moonlight.

She watched it with detached interest, admiring the deep crimson colour. In the back of her mind, she knew that this was not good, that she had to do something about it, but she did not have the energy. She had barely been able to drag herself to the roof in an attempt to escape, had used the last of her strength to fight off the final two men.

The torture had almost broken her, and she had been at the end of her endurance, when hope came in the form of one of the jagged pieces of metal that had been embedded in her side, the result of the explosion at the safe house. She had stealthily, soundlessly, agonizingly dug her fingers into the wound during the brief periods of respite that came when the guards changed. Slowly, carefully she had opened the half-healed wounds, biting back moans and whimpers at the pain that cut through her side and pulsed through her bloodied fingertips. She had lost her last fingernail three days ago, and, no matter how many times she was injured, she always felt it, despite the training she had gone through in the Red Room. There, an admission of pain was an admission of failure, and failure resulted in immediate elimination.

Some girls had failed on purpose, unable to handle the daily beatings, fights, and mentally crushing training techniques employed by the teachers. They had chosen failure (sweet respite), and had been removed from the program. Others had just not been strong enough.

Not so the Widow.

Thought she, too, wished at times to be free from the constant pain and deadly competition, she had forced herself to ignore that option. It was no option, really. There never was an option for those other girls. Their path had lead to death, from the day that the Widow had put on a mask of indifference and promised herself to survive.

It was that determination to live that had kept her going in these last few weeks.

Now, with her life bleeding out of her, her thoughts turned to the one who had saved her, redeemed her, given her a second chance. The one who had asked the world to believe that she was still human. He had met her at her darkest, bloodiest hour, and had brought her back to the light.

She smiled wryly. Clint would be so disappointed in her. The infamous Black Widow, taken down on the doorstep of rescue.

Trembling with weakness, and with her eyes shut against the pain that was sweeping over her in agonizing waves, her blood-stained fingers reached for her necklace, caressing the tiny silver arrow. They had removed her Widow Bites when she had been captured, but they had not taken this, her most precious possession.

It had been a gift from Clint, given to her a year after he had made a different call, after he had given her a second chance at life.

She had received it without emotion that day, had thanked him and walked away, feeling utterly unworthy of anything so beautiful, so pure. But later in her room, she had taken it from its box and clasped it around her neck, admiring the delicate workmanship, and feeling grateful (oh, so grateful) for all he had done for her.

It had always been in its place around her neck after that, except for one time when the chain had broken during training. The next day Clint had noticed its absence from its usual place, and had offered to have it fixed for her. He had brought it back, whole, two weeks later, with a grin on his face as he handed her the little box.

"I shall always be there to rescue you," he had said in a dramatic voice, light shining in his eyes.

"In fact, if your blood is spilled on this arrow, I shall come, my lady, and I shall rescue you from the clutches of the dragon!"

Sweeping his hat off, he had bowed at the waist, glancing up at her and grinning even wider when he saw her feeble attempts to hide a smile at his antics.

A hint of tears glimmered in her eyes as she remembered this now. He had always enjoyed being funny in an attempt to make the team laugh, though his forte was in witty sarcasm.

But she would never see him again.

She would bleed out on this roof, and he would never know what had happened to her. Or maybe he would eventually find her body and take her back to the Compound, where she would be buried beneath the flowers, those innocent blossoms growing above her a stark contrast to the black and red that had filled her life.

Blood smeared the silver fletchings as she grasped the necklace in her hand, holding on the her last bit of hope, her last bit of comfort. If only she could have dodged those final bullets as she had run from her captors. But the pain had made her slow, and now she was paying for all the blood that she had spilled during her life.

Paying with each drop of blood that left her body, the crimson liquid splashing on the concrete and creating a startling mural of repentance.

She felt her hands grow cold, then weak, and her grip on the necklace gradually loosened, till she lost her hold on it completely as darkness washed over her, and all pain left her.

A little red light glowed faintly.

A signal reached out through the darkness.