She's beauty, she's grace, she'll punch you in the face

Chapter Two

Okay so here's the second chapter I know the first part was short but I had to figure out where I was going with this. Hope you enjoy and don't forget to review so I know what you guys think!

This Chapter is dedicated to Carmen: the Steve to my Bucky, Happy Birthday!

Also thank you so much to my friend Rowen who helped me through my writers block!

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Though she'd visited Budapest numerous times in the past, this terror-filled escape into the closest non-Communist country was nothing remotely close to her previous visits. For one, she hadn't been on the run from her own people before. She'd also never been left to her own devices- forced to find shelter while dodging a network of spies so large she was doing her best not to think about it. Then the impossibility of her situation might sink in; the reality that escaping Red Room was a far greater task than simply crossing a few boarders.

It would be a far harder task to escape her sisters; people who operated everywhere in the world without the knowledge of a soul outside those responsible for their care and the government that sponsored them.

Dodging through the shadows lining the Hungarian street, she found her eyes tracking every movement. Every flicker of shadow and person who crossed her path. It paid to be paranoid; it was how she survived. The crunch of snow was loudest, echoing in her ears, but to shift her walk so she moved without sound would give her away. To the trained eye, she would be recognized as more than the poor woman bundled in ragged clothing searching for a place to hide for the night.

A fleck of snow suddenly land on her nose, glistening in the flicking light of the street's sparse lamps. It nearly made her laugh. Her sisters used to mock, her calling her 'snows little angel', but every Russian knew snow could never be associated with angels; it was far too deadly to ever be compared to a symbol of hope. Frost consumed everything in its path, killing hundreds and destroying anything it pleased. And Natasha Romanoff was as deadly as any frost. She was the woman who could kill a man whilst blindfolded and bound under six seconds.

Angels didn't have red in there ledgers. Angels protected people, unlike the frost that bit at bone and flesh like some invisible monster. Children loved angels as a beacon of hope. No child ever looked as kindly upon frost and none had ever looked so kindly upon Natasha. They always blinked up at her through either blood or tears and rarely survived the experience.

It wasn't the life she wanted, but it was the one she had been groomed to live. She was used to the killing and death; she was a monster all feared. It was sort of comforting to her, having so much power over someone's life – them begging at your feet praying for their life. It made her feel stronger. It was what she'd been raised to do, for her homeland. "Do what you must for your party and fellow man", "bring glory to your homeland".

It was garbage of course- she'd learned that. It was why she'd run and how she'd come to find herself in Budapest, trapped and uncertain where to go from there. She probably wouldn't be able to make it back into Russia undetected – even with her skills. They wanted her all to themselves, as their weapon to be used and abused by anyone that wanted her. She'd had enough of that though; from this point forward, she would have no master she didn't choose. The trick was escaping far enough from the Soviet boarders to ensure that she would not again be caught.

She knew how to survive undetected of course: don't travel by airport, remain out of sight as much as possible, blend in where capable. Just act normal, as if she didn't have any concerns beyond those of a normal woman or man. Too bad she didn't really know what normal meant. She'd mimicked it before of course, but mimicking a normal life with the knowledge someone is guarding her back and trying to do the same while watching her own back are two radically different scenarios.

Having fiery red hair would not help the matter either. Among the Hungarians, it left her sticking out like a sore thumb and hats could only hide so much. Then again, that was what hair dye was for.

Locking the door behind her, Natasha tried to take stock of what she had and what she would need in the coming days- the farthest she dared think ahead in that moment. For now, she had a safehouse known only to her; a relic of the British MI6, long since lost in their convoluted bureaucratic system. It sat along the edges of Budapest, giving her access to more local stores while providing enough foot traffic that she had a chance to blend in. It was where she'd stolen the limited supplies in her possession, including a bottle of hair dye.

"Bye bye blood red," she groaned out loud as she pulled the brown liquid from her pocket, staring at it. Once her hair was gone, she would be Natalia Everett and her once crimson hair would be the boring dark shade of brown common to most of Europe. It was the beginnings of a plan; she would need more eventually, but for now it would have to do. Altering her identity gave her more options, and that alone would be a boon. If she was going to get out of Hungry, this would be the first step. And she knew she needed to dye her hair now, while she could still bear to stand. It had been nearly 48 hours since she killed her handler and fled across the south western boarder of the Soviet Union to Hungry.

Hair dye, then sleep. Those were her tasks for now. She'd make a more detailed plan tomorrow.