Whirlwind | W.M.

9

You know how just hearing a name, you picture the face that comes with it— even if you've never met the person? Or sometimes you pass a stranger on the street and for the heck of it, you'd think that a name suits their features and It's always the most amusing thing when they don't match.

I did as I was told, got in a cab with my head hung low until we stopped at an apartment complex that could easily blend in with the city. Brick lines walls, several steps up to the doors. I make my way inside, trying to make myself as subtle and as small as I could.

The inside was much warmer and kept than I had expected. Cream colored walls, with little cracks running down the corners. There wasn't much space, just an array of lockers that lined one side of the room, which I assumed served as some sort of mailbox while the stairs began just a few steps from the door. I wasted no time in leisure and began my journey up the stairs but apparently, I wasn't as keen as I had hoped because as soon as I reach the second level, my body half collides with another.

I'm not given a chance to see who exactly I had nearly knocked back when they scramble to get past me, only leaving me with the sight of a black hood pulled all the way over their head as they rush down the steps with urgency. It was strange, but I had seen stranger so I willed it out of my thoughts and proceeded as I was told.

Natasha's words lingered in my head, her instructions crisp and clear and so when I knocked on Marty's door— I didn't really know what I was expecting. Maybe an old man, around his mid 40's with a stone cold face just like Natasha's and eyes that have seen what lingered in the darkness. Something along those rigid lines.

What I didn't expect, was a 10 year old girl to answer the door.

The little girl stood before me, hair tied into a bun as her light brown eyes looked back at me in irritation. She was in a grey hoodie, barely even looking her age with all that attitude smeared on her small face.

"Is... Marty here?" I hesitate for a moment, easily peering inside over her head as she stood tall, an uninterested look plastered on her face as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"What do you want?" She responds, a brow raised like every passing second was a waste of her time. I've quite literally killed men ten times her size, really powerful men and yet I found myself severely uneasy, almost nervous under her scrutinizing gaze.

"I was told to ask for Marty. Widow sent me?" It falls from my lips with uncertainty, more of a question than an actual statement as her face visibly lightens— once again eyeing me from head to toe before walking away without another word.

She left the door open, creaking lightly with the wind as I took the chance to peek my head further inside. It looked like any other apartment, dishes on the sink, used cups on the tables along with empty takeout boxes. Then my eyes gloss over a cabinet, right next to the television in the corner of the room. It was an armory, little holes punctures into the doors to vaguely show an array of weapons that hung within. When footsteps taint the air, I almost jump back into place, clearing my throat as the girl shows up holding a set of keys that she promptly hands over to me.

"Wednesday is trash day. Thursday is laundry day. Use your own detergent." The girl instructs flatly, almost rehearsed as the key falls into the palm of my hands.

What the fuck?

She could detect my confusion as I stood frozen, probably looking like an idiot with the keys in my hands and a troubled look on my face. She releases a hefty sigh, leaning back against her doorframe as she only looks at me with bored anticipation.

"What?" She finally spits, harsh and irritated as I take a quick step back.

"No it's just— you're Marty?" She rolls her eyes at my words, but there's a look on her face that says she's done this before.