A/N: thank you to everyone who added this to one of their lists! I highly reccomend I Dare You, a fanfiction by shadowsontherun on fanfiction.net. If you search I Dare You Avengers in the search bar, her story will be the third result. She's an amazing author :)

I've had complete clarity of mind since the day I had to kill my 'friends'. I know what to do, and when to do it. No moral problems, no shock. I get it done, and that's it. What else is there supposed to be?

        But now, for the first time in years, I understand what's it's like to be shocked, to be indecisive. I don't know what to do. I'm a SHIELD agent. For SHIELD, who I've fought against for years. I'm one of their agents.

        Not only that, but Barton wants to be my partner? No one likes me. They're not supposed to, unless, of course, I'm supposed to be seducing a target, when the liking goes a little deeper than just that.

        He wants to work with me. Not just get me into SHIELD and run as fast as he can. He wants to be my partner. He's willing to put up with all the crap I'm sure he knows I'll give him, and he's willing to leave the field because I'm doing paperwork.

        And that's another thing. Paperwork? How does that have anything to do with being a good field agent? I know that SHIELD just does that to "get to know your true personality," because apparently paperwork brings out the worst in everyone; and even me, with the emotionless face I put up, hate paperwork almost as much as I hate the Red Room. I don't hate them for trapping me there for years and forcing me to kill. Oh, no. I hate them because they stole my childhood, an innocence that eight-year-olds are supposed to have, even in Russia; and even more than that, I hate them for injecting me with who-knows-what crap to make me see straighter, run quicker, react faster. They've changed me physically and emotionally, and now I can't go back. I can't walk into a Starbucks and buy a latte like anyone else can without ten guns trained on me and without seven targets in my sights. Everyone I haven't met is a threat, and most that I have are also that way.

        It's odd that most of the people I've met I've killed.

        I'm standing still in the middle of Fury's office, frozen and confused, not knowing what to think. I'm a SHIELD agent. I'm Barton's partner. His partner.

        I'd call their shit, but it seems that they're both being serious, which is even more confusing. Bullshitting I can understand. But letting me into a SHIELD base as an agent? Pure insanity.

        Barton glances over his shoulder at me. "Come on, I'll show you the way. It's not too close to the training rooms, so we won't have to sleep through the constant thump of junior agents hitting the mat. They get knocked out all the time." The smile that he gives me is so kind that I'm shocked. He has a heart. And he doesn't hate me. What an odd situation.

        We begin walking towards the door, me still in shock, when Fury calls out to us. Well, more to Barton really.

        "Wait," he says, and Barton stops and glances over his shoulder. "Barton, are you sure? She's a threat, and you've always worked alone. And you have to do paperwork when you could be out on the field. Do you really want to do this?"

        "Yeah, of course. Nat here won't kill me, will she?" He winks at me, and I simply raise one eyebrow. Honestly, his personality is getting more and more annoying by the second, He's one of those people that jokes around pain and laughs so he doesn't think about the dead bodies at his feet. He's so cheerful. Ugh.

        Fury sighs. "I don't know how you manage to be one of our best agents, Barton. I really don't. Both of you will be coming back to New York with me just after your first mission, okay? Romanoff, you need to go against the juniors in a week. Barton will show you where it is, and please, don't kill any of the newbies." It's the first time he's addressed me directly, so I decide to acknowledge it. My nod is cold and emotionless, and I'm pleased with the mask I'm managing to hold up.

        Barton leads me out the door, and as soon as it closes behind us, he laughs and looks down at me, almost like we're friends, or something equally nauseating. "See? Didn't I tell you he'd let you in?"

        I don't respond. I don't see a reason to.

        Barton leads me around corner after corner, and my hand seems to be glued to my knife handle (this knife is simply tucked into my tight pants). My every nerve screams that this is enemy territory, that I need to run, that everyone and everything is a threat, but I force my face to remain cold and distant, and I don't let myself fidget. I need to seem like a threat to them, not them to me. By them I mean the agents scurrying around like ants. Everyone gives Barton and I a wide berth, but no one recognizes me until a junior agent, short, female, and brunette, sees me and shrieks at the top of her lungs.

        "Enemy! Code red! Backup needed in hall 2F immediately! Immediate backup to hall 2F!" Her face is paper-white with fear, and when I catch her eye with my icy glare, she shivers and shrinks away, but she doesn't stop shouting. Agents are searching for the threat and failing to see me, the black sheep hidden in their flocks. I almost smile, despite my jittery nerves.

        Barton keeps walking, and so do I. Might as well follow his lead; he's proved that he doesn't want to kill me, and that's the most I can ask for here, I guess. I've never really been concerned with other people's opinions – why should I be, I'll kill them if I don't like them – but I need to keep up the emotionless front here more than anywhere, because I'll be considered a threat, and for the first time, I'll have competition that I can't just kill off. I have to beat them without really beating them. For me, winning means being the only survivor, but here winning will mean surpassing each other in skill. I'm sure I can beat almost everyone here, or maybe even everyone, but I won't be allowed to go up against them until I prove myself. That much was clear; I need to prove my loyalty. While Barton is an ally at best, that's all. I'd have no trouble betraying him or anyone else here. My loyalties lie with myself, and that's as far as they reach.

        Barton attempts to start a conversation. "We'll be on hall G9, in case Fury ever lets you out of the room. I'll bring in some punching bags and throwing knives, guns, whatever you need to train." I can tell he's trying to be nice, but it's not working.

        "The only thing I need to train is a target. That I can kill." Everything sounds as cold and calculated as ever, but for some reason I find myself worrying that SHIELD will change me, that I'll get emotional and vulnerable. Automatically, almost on instinct after all these years with the red room, I start throwing up barriers between myself and emotions, trying to make the rumors that I can't feel anything true. I need to be emotionless, I need to be a blank face and a gun. I need to be a threat.

        "Kill missions are only given to the best and most trusted agents, Red."

        "Don't call me Red." I'm not just a product of the red room. I can tell that he only said it because of my red hair, but it runs much deeper than that. I need to make it clear that I'm not one of them, that I never was and never will be.

        "Did you hear anything but the nickname? I said you need to be the best."

        "I heard you." My voice comes out stiff and cold and professional. Good.

        Wait, what? It makes sense that you have to be the best to get a kill mission, but Barton got a kill mission. How good must he be?

        That explains a lot, but there's no way. He's such a rule-breaker, bringing me here, and somehow he's a good agent? No good agent would bring me anywhere near their base, let alone ask to be my partner. He's going to spend days with me, and I'm not exactly a master in the "approachable friendly person" department. He'll have to do paperwork with me, for heaven's sake. All of the other agents must really suck at their jobs if Barton can be one of the best. I'll pass him in no time.

        I'm surprised to find myself wanting to beat him, wanting to be the best, wanting to prove myself. Since when did I care? Clearly it's crept up on me as I've been here. I need to up my control over myself. I can't let things like this get to me like they have before. Last time that happened, I sobbed for weeks straight and had nightmares about killing. Now I know that murder is just murder. I couldn't be that little girl again. I'll die before then.

        I need things to be clear, and I'm not going to beat around the bush. The only time I do that is when I'm torturing someone; it's more fun if you stretch it out. Here goes nothing.

        "You're one of the best?" My voice is still hard and calculated, almost like a machine, but it comes out a little doubtful. Barton picks up the undertone, and his face goes from open to offended.

        "Hey! Of course I'm one of the best." The sarcasm dripping from his voice lets me see much more than he probably intended – he's got a sense of humor that he'll probably try to use on missions (ugh), he worked hard for his place, he's far too softhearted for an agent (I already knew that one), he's got tough skin, and, shockingly enough, he is a good agent. Something in the way he says it makes it click for me – suddenly I can see that he's a good agent – and it knocks the breath out of me. Metaphorically, obviously. It's much harder than that to knock the air out of me without getting killed.

        The shock also must register on my face, even though I can feel my face muscles relaxed in their typical cold appearance. "Oh, don't be surprised. I'm a brilliant agent." Now he's exasperated, and it's even clearer that he's a good agent. If he picked that up from my finger twitch, he's better than I thought. He wears his heart on his sleeve, though, somehow managing to be naïve and an agent. It'll get torn up if he isn't careful.

        He stops in front of a door and unlocks it. Sure enough, the kitchen leads off to the left and the living room to the right, with a more heavily locked door in the middle. This door Barton opens, revealing two twin beds on opposite sides. I immediately walk towards the bed on the right; an old wall-mounted TV screen will be easier to break through than the kitchen counters. Barton shrugs and walks to the bed on the left, but I know that he saw the reason I picked the right bed. He isn't complaining. Maybe he's softhearted enough to help me escape if I get blocked in. He seems to trust me, and I can manipulate that any way I want. It'll be fun, I think, messing with him. Maybe he only trusts me because I'm a pretty face, but since he's at the top of the SHIELD charts I think he's better than that. Fury wouldn't accept someone who fell for opposing agents and spies because they were attractive. They'd be out the door in seconds. While I hate Fury already, I also hold a begrudging respect, I realize. I beat it down. One doesn't respect their enemies. One eliminates their enemies, painfully one by one.

        He's my boss though. Right. I need to respect him, or this'll fail miserably. They'll kill me; I might be a good assassin (oh, right, I'm an agent now – but I don't know if I'll be a good one of those) but I'm no match for hundreds of armed and trained agents. Well, maybe a sort-of match, but not a fair one. I'd be down before I hit the stairs. I let the respect for Fury inflate until it's about as strong as the loyalty I feel for Barton (which is to say, almost not at all, but more than everyone else).

        "There should be SHIELD uniforms in one of these dressers – ah, they're in this one. You can come get them while I get mine to move them to your side. Try them on before putting them away; they might not fit." So he's letting me keep this side. Clearly I was meant to be over there, but he's alright with giving me an escape route. I'm sure he sees it; he's an okay agent, apparently. I've tried to kill him, attempted escape, and been rude to him and his boss, and somehow he's asked for me to not only join SHIELD, but to be his partner (which means loads of paperwork for both of us; I hate paperwork and I don't know how he's voluntarily doing it), and he's given me the side of the room that'll be easier to escape from. Maybe this'll be okay after all. I'll have to make a fake key, though. Staying locked in a tiny bedroom with Barton all night sounds like torture.

        I slip on the SHIELD uniform and it fits like a glove. It's tighter but allows for more movement than what I wore at the red room, and I can tell that it'll deflect knives and bullets easier. I slip it off, satisfied with the outfit itself, but slightly worried about how they knew my measurements. There's no way they just guessed. This uniform is perfect, and I don't know how they knew what size I need.

        Just as I begin to slip on my shirt, a key clicks in the lock and the handle begins to turn. I grab a pen from the tiny side table on my side of the room and click the point out. If I throw it hard enough, it should kill the person who enters, and if not, severely injure them. Maybe the ink will enter their bloodstream and they'll get ink poisoning.

        Oh, right. I'm in SHIELD. I need to play nice. I don't lower the pen, but I call out to the door. "Who is it?" My voice almost takes on the songlike quality that many people use, but I stop myself. I guess I only say that when I'm about to kill someone or when I'm about to seduce them so I can kill them. Really I only say that when someone's death is imminent.

        "Room service." Barton's sarcasm is not lost through the door. I slowly lower my pen as the door swings open, confirming the identity of "room service." He sees the pen in my hand, and he begins to laugh.

        "Were you going to try to kill me with a pen?"

        "I don't see anything else in here that I could have used," I say, still working with the flat tone. I'm used to ranting at the people I murder before I murder them, so I'll need to find a new outlet. It won't be Barton, that's for sure.

        "No, I guess not." He rolls his eyes and drops an untidy heap of SHIELD uniforms on his bed, with two sets of keys on top. He lifts one up and tosses it to me. I'm so surprised that I barely catch them. Is he giving me the keys to our room?

        It's not our room. It's just my room, with a servant.

        "Don't let Fury know you've got those, he'd be really mad if he found out that the number one threat in this building has the keys to her own room." He rolls his eyes again. Somehow I know that he does that a lot.

        "His doubts aren't unfounded." My flat tone comes out a little stiff, and I curse myself. By his reaction, though, Barton didn't catch it. Thank god, if there is one, which there isn't.

        "No, they aren't. It is a little painful, though, isn't it? To not be trusted?"

        Now it's my turn to roll my eyes. Inwardly. "No one trusts me, Barton."

        "We're partners now, you can just call me Clint."

        "We're not partners until we're through with the paperwork."

        Barton drops his head to the table. "Ugh, paperwork."

        I don't respond, just walk over to his dresser and begin pulling out all of my uniforms. I have a connection to SHIELD now. I wear their uniform. I know it's stupid and childish and ridiculous, but it makes me feel more at home.

        It's eleven when Barton stands up to flick the lights off. I open my mouth to protest, but before I can get anything out, he speaks. "We'll be up at three tomorrow. You need to be ready. I know you can run on less sleep, but since you're just starting here, you should get a good night's sleep.

        I don't fall asleep until two in the morning, and even then, I can't bring myself to sleep for long.