The smoke hung thick in the air like a bad decision you couldn't take back, curling around the rooftop vents and the crumpled forms of the four Widows sprawled across the gravel. It was the kind of fog that burned your eyes and clawed at your throat, laced with the chemical bite of the sleeping gas Peter's drones had dumped on them like confetti from hell. Gwen landed beside me with a soft thwip of her web line retracting, her boots crunching the loose stones as she crouched low, mask lenses reflecting the dying wisps of vapor back at me like twin full moons
Gwen: You think that got 'em?
Her voice was muffled but steady, the modulator turning her words into something sharper, more hero-like than the girl I'd kissed an hour ago.
I kept my shield raised
Peter: I'm not sure, Ghost-Spider. Don't let your guard down. Not yet.
The gas cleared in patches, swirling away on the wind that howled off the Hudson, carrying the distant wail of sirens that sounded a lifetime away. The Widows stirred first as silhouettes, then as women—dark suits torn at the knees and elbows from the fall, masks cracked but intact, bodies twitching like they'd been dipped in ice water and pulled out too soon. They were weakened, yeah, the sedative hitting them hard enough to slow their reflexes to human levels, but you could see it in the way they moved: muscles coiling under the fabric, eyes behind those red slits burning with something primal, annoyed as hell and radiating bloodlust that hit me like a slap from a wet towel.
Gwen startled beside me, her body going rigid for a split second, spider-sense probably lighting up her nerves like a Christmas tree. I felt it too, that wave of raw intent rolling off them, but the serum buffered it, turned it into background noise I could shove aside. She took a breath, visible in the way her shoulders settled, and nodded once, tight.
Gwen: Right. Guard up.
One of them the leader, I figured, from the way she'd hung back during the chase pushed to her knees first, gloved hand scraping gravel as she shook off the fog. Her mask was spiderwebbed across one lens, but the other eye locked on us, cold and calculating, like we were lab rats who'd just chewed through the maze walls. The other three followed suit, slower, groaning low in throats that sounded like they were full of broken glass. They didn't speak; Widows didn't waste breath on threats. They just rose, suits creaking, knives and batons materializing in hands that trembled but steadied fast.
Peter: Okay then.
I said, rolling my shoulders, the Adaptive Suit shifting with me like a second skin.
Peter: Plan B.
Gwen glanced my way, lenses narrowing.
Gwen: And what's that?
Peter: Take 'em down the old-fashioned way.
I snapped the shield open fully, the disc blooming to three feet across with a resonant snick that echoed off the water tower.
Peter: Pure, unfiltered violence.
She nodded, short and sharp, web-shooters whirring as she flexed her fingers. No hesitation in her now, just that quiet fire I'd seen flicker to life on the rooftop when we'd decided this was us, together or not at all.
I didn't bother holding back. Energy pool sat pretty at 750 out of 750 and I dumped 500 into psychokinesis without a second thought. The air thickened around me, heavy as wet wool, the power coiling in my veins like a live wire itching to arc.
Peter: All Mighty Push.
I growled, slamming my palm forward.
The force erupted like a freight train derailing at full speed, invisible but brutal, ripping through the rooftop in a shockwave that buckled vent pipes and shattered a satellite dish into shrapnel confetti. Gravel exploded outward in a storm, the Widows caught dead center—two of them lifted clean off their feet, bodies tumbling like ragdolls hurled by a giant's tantrum, slamming into the far ledge with bone-crunching impacts that echoed like gunshots. One hit the brick wall headfirst, mask cracking further, blood spraying in a fine mist that painted the concrete red; the other fetched up against a rusted AC unit, legs folding wrong, a low, wet gasp escaping her modulator as ribs gave way under the pressure.
The other two braced better, digging heels into the gravel, but the push hammered them back anyway, suits tearing at the seams, one staggering into a crouch with a baton sparking wildly in her grip. They were tough like I've been trained to fight like John wick and then genetically enhanced tough but that hit had to have cracked something deep, left them tasting copper and regret.
Gwen launched before the echo died, a blur of violet and white as she fired twin lines to the ceiling struts, yanking herself into a flip that carried her over the fallen pair. She landed boots-first on the baton-wielder's shoulder, driving her down with a crack of vertebrae compressing, then twisted mid-air, web spraying wide to tangle the knife-woman's legs in sticky strands that yanked her off balance. Gwen hit the gravel rolling, coming up with a punch that connected with the baton-girl's jaw, snapping her head back hard enough to loosen teeth.
I followed, shield leading, the disc catching the knife-woman's desperate slash mid-swing. Metal rang on metal, sparks flying like angry fireflies, and I shoved forward, serum strength turning the push into a battering ram that sent her skidding ten feet, boots carving furrows in the gravel. She rolled with it, cat-quick despite the hit, coming up in a crouch with the knife reversed for an underhand stab. I parried with the shield's edge, the impact vibrating up my arm, and countered with a psychokinetic flick—nothing fancy, just enough force to wrench the blade from her grip and send it spinning into the dark.
Two of them were on me now, the baton-girl recovered enough to lunge from the side, crackling tip aiming for my knee. I twisted, the strike glancing off the suit's hex panels, hardening on impact with a dull thud that numbed her arm. Gwen was a whirlwind beside me, webs flying to pin the knife-woman's arms, but the Widow twisted free with a knife-hand strike to Gwen's shoulder that drew a grunt of pain. Gwen fired back, line wrapping the woman's ankle and yanking her off her feet, slamming her face-first into the gravel with a wet smack that left blood pooling under the mask.
The baton-girl pressed, swinging low for my thigh, high for my throat, a blur of blue electricity and black leather. I blocked the low with the shield, the high with a psychokinetic barrier that stopped the tip an inch from my jugular, the air warping around it like heat haze. She cursed in Russian—something about my mother and farm animals—and kicked out for my knee. I caught her leg mid-swing, grip clamping like a vice, and twisted, flipping her over my hip into the rooftop door. She hit with a clang that dented the metal, baton skittering away sparking, but she was up in a blink, drawing a second from her belt, eyes promising murder.
Gwen was trading blows with the knife-woman now, fists and webs against knives and grapples, the rooftop a chaos of thuds and grunts and the occasional crack of bone. Gwen landed a solid hook to the jaw that snapped the Widow's head back, blood spraying from under the mask, but the woman countered with a knee to Gwen's gut that folded her double, gasping. Gwen webbed her attacker's face in retaliation, yanking hard enough to pull her off balance, then drove an elbow into the exposed throat. The Widow gagged, staggering, but lashed out with a boot to Gwen's knee that buckled it, sending her down hard.
I roared—something animal and raw—and charged the baton-girl, shield bashing her guard aside, the impact jarring her arms numb. She spun away, baton arcing for my ribs, but I was faster, psychokinesis wrapping her wrist like an invisible cuff, slamming her hand into the rooftop until the weapon dropped. She headbutted me instead, her mask cracking against my nose she grunted with a burst of pain and blood, stars exploding in he is vision. Red splashed against my visor, shook it off, and drove my fist into her solar plexus, my strength turning the punch into a sledgehammer that lifted her off her feet, ribs cracking like dry twigs. She hit the gravel wheezing, but rolled, drawing a pistol—suppressed, 9mm, aimed center mass.
Time slowed. I flung the shield, disc spinning like a buzzsaw, edge biting into her forearm with a wet crunch that severed tendons and sprayed blood in an arc. The gun clattered away, her scream muffled but piercing, and I was on her, knee pinning her chest, psychokinesis crushing the mask's lenses until shards rained down. Her face was pale, scarred, eyes wide with shock and hate, blood bubbling from her lips as she gasped for air.
The knife-woman broke free of Gwen's web, lunging with a blade that caught Gwen across the arm, slicing through suit and skin in a red line that welled fast. Gwen yelped, kicking out to sweep the woman's legs, but the Widow twisted, pinning her with a knee to the chest, knife raised for the throat.
I released the baton-girl with a shove that cracked her skull against a vent pipe, leaving her twitching and still, and hurled psychokinesis at the knife-woman like a freight train all over again. The force hit her mid-stab, slamming her off Gwen into the ledge, body folding over the edge with a scream that cut off wet. She dangled there, fingers scrabbling for purchase, blood dripping to the street thirty stories below.
Gwen rolled to her feet, arm clutched to her side, blood seeping between fingers, but her eyes were fire. She webbed the dangling Widow's hands, yanking her back to solid ground with a thud that rattled the rooftop, then fired a line to pin her arms. The woman thrashed, knife still clutched in one hand, slashing wild until Gwen stomped it free, boot grinding the blade into gravel.
The baton-girl stirred, groaning, and I was there, shield edge to her throat, psychokinesis holding her down like gravity had tripled.
Peter: Stay.
I snarled, blood dripping from my mask onto her mask.
Gwen webbed the knife-woman's legs, then turned to the two we'd dropped earlier. They were rising slow, battered but not broken, suits torn, faces bloodied under cracked masks. One clutched a broken arm, the other spat red onto the gravel, baton sparking fitfully in her grip.
Gwen fired webs at their feet, thick ropes that stuck and pulled, yanking them down again. They slashed free, but slower now, movements labored, the gas and the push taking their toll. The broken-arm one lunged at Gwen, fist connecting with her jaw in a crack that snapped her head back, but Gwen absorbed it, countering with a knee to the gut that doubled her over, then a web-wrapped fist to the temple that dropped her limp.
I faced the spitter, baton-girl's sister, as she charged, weapon arcing high. I blocked with the shield, the impact jarring my arm, sparks flying, and shoved back, psychokinesis amplifying the force into a wave that lifted her off her feet, slamming her into the rooftop door again. The metal buckled inward, her body folding around it, a gasp escaping as air fled her lungs. She slid down, coughing blood, but rolled to her knees, drawing a second baton, electricity crackling blue.
Gwen was a storm beside me, webs flying to tangle the rising pair, fists and feet a blur of violet. The broken-arm Widow broke free, tackling her low, driving her back toward the ledge. Gwen twisted, using the momentum to flip them, landing on top with a knee to the chest that cracked ribs. The woman bucked, knife flashing from nowhere, slicing Gwen's thigh deep enough to draw a hiss of pain. Gwen webbed the hand, yanking the blade away, then drove an elbow into the throat, cartilage giving with a wet pop.
The spitter came at me low, baton sweeping for my ankles. I leaped, shield coming down like a guillotine on her shoulder, the impact crunching bone. She screamed, staggering, but swung wild with the other end, electricity grazing my suit and sending jolts through my nerves. I gritted my teeth, psychokinesis clamping her arms to her sides, squeezing until she dropped the weapon, face contorted in agony.
Gwen's opponent broke free again, knife slashing for her back. Gwen spun, web line wrapping the wrist, yanking hard enough to dislocate the shoulder with a pop. The Widow howled, but Gwen was already moving, boot to the knee that buckled it sideways, then a punch to the jaw that snapped teeth loose.
The spitter twisted in my grip, headbutting my chest plate, the impact jarring but harmless. I released the psychokinesis just enough for her to think she had a chance, then slammed the shield edge into her collarbone, the bone snapping like dry spaghetti. She crumpled, gasping, blood bubbling from her mouth, but her legs kicked out, sweeping my ankles. I stumbled, gravel shifting under me, and she was on me, hands clawing for my throat, nails raking the suit.
I rolled, pinning her under my knee, fist coming down on her mask until it shattered, shards cutting her face into red ribbons. She bucked, knee driving into my ribs with force that cracked something, pain blooming hot and sharp. I gasped, vision blurring, but held on, psychokinesis crushing her wrists until bones ground together.
Gwen's fight turned ugly—the dislocated Widow slashed wild, catching Gwen's side with the knife tip, blood welling dark through the suit. Gwen grunted, webbing the arm to the rooftop, then stomping the elbow until it hyperextended with a sickening snap. The woman screamed, knife dropping, but kicked out, boot connecting with Gwen's knee, buckling it. Gwen fell, the Widow on top, hands squeezing her throat through the mask.
I flung the spitter aside, body tumbling like discarded trash, and hurled psychokinesis at Gwen's attacker, the force ripping her off and slamming her into a vent pipe that bent like taffy. She slid down, coughing blood, but rose staggering, eyes promising hell.
Gwen gasped air, coughing, hand to her throat, but nodded at me—keep going. We circled the remaining two, the rooftop a mess of blood and broken gear, wind howling like it was cheering the carnage.
The spitter lunged again, broken arm dangling, good hand drawing a garrote from her belt. Wire sang through the air, but I caught it mid-swing with the shield, yanking her forward into a knee to the gut that folded her double. She retched, wire dropping, and I followed with a headbutt that split her lip open, blood spraying hot across my mask.
Gwen webbed her opponent's legs, yanking her down, but the Widow twisted, knife slashing Gwen's calf deep, blood sheeting down her leg. Gwen hissed, stamping the wrist until the knife flew, then driving a knee into the woman's face, cartilage crunching, blood exploding in a mist.
The spitter recovered, grabbing my leg, tripping me to the gravel. Strength flared in my elbow as I hit, but I rolled, shield bashing her temple with a thud that caved the side of her mask. She went down twitching, blood pooling under her head.
Gwen's Widow broke free, tackling her low, driving her toward the ledge. Gwen fought back, fists raining down, but the woman was relentless, knife grazing Gwen's arm again. Gwen webbed her face, yanking hard, slamming her head into the concrete with a crack that echoed.
Natasha had been moving for four hours straight, and she was starting to hate Queens.
Not the borough itself; Queens was fine. It had good pizza and people who minded their own business. What she hated was the way every rooftop looked the same after midnight, the way every alley smelled like wet cardboard and piss, the way every lead she chased turned into smoke the second she got close. She'd followed what she was ninety percent sure was Ghost-Spider for six blocks, only for the figure to flicker out like a bad hologram halfway across a parking garage. A drone. A damn decoy. She'd almost put a bullet through it just for wasting her time.
Now she was crouched on a water tower in Long Island City, coat flapping in the wind, watching the skyline like it owed her money. The city was quiet in that fake way, the kind that happens right before everything goes sideways. She could feel it in her teeth.
Her comm crackled. Hill, sounding like she'd been up for three days straight.
Hill: Anything?
Natasha exhaled through her nose.
Natasha: I've got nothing. Four dead assets, a city full of ghosts, and a headache that's starting to feel personal.
Hill: You're sure it was a decoy?
Natasha: Positive. Same gait, same swing pattern, but the heat signature was off by three degrees. Someone's playing games.
A long pause. Hill didn't like games she couldn't win.
Hill: Fury wants you to keep moving. Vector and Ghost-Spider haven't been dark this long since they started. They're planning something.
Natasha almost laughed.
Natasha: They're kids, Maria. Kids who just made four Red Room graduates go silent. They're not planning. They're surviving.
She killed the comm before Hill could argue.
The wind shifted, carrying the faint smell of ozone and blood. Natasha's head snapped east. Three blocks over, maybe four. A rooftop lit up for half a second, too bright, too violent. Then another flash. And another.
She was moving before she made the conscious decision, leaping from the tower to the next roof, boots barely touching gravel before she was airborne again. The city blurred underneath her—taxis, neon, the low hum of a million lives that had no idea a war was being fought thirty stories above their heads.
She landed on the edge of a warehouse roof and dropped flat, peering over the ledge.
And there they were.
Vector and Ghost-Spider, back to back in the middle of the roof, surrounded by four figures in torn black suits. The Widows. Still moving, still fighting, even after whatever hell the kids had already put them through. One had a knife buried in her thigh and was still trying to stand. Another was coughing blood through a cracked mask but had her baton raised like a promise.
Natasha's stomach tightened.
Vector—no mask now, just white hair and blood on his face that didn't look like his and was holding a shield that looked like it had been through a war. Ghost-Spider was bleeding from half a dozen cuts, suit shredded at the arm and thigh, but she was still moving, still webbing, still fighting like someone who'd decided dying wasn't an option tonight.
They were kids.
And they were magnificent.
One of the Widows lunged at Ghost-Spider, knife flashing. The girl twisted, webbed the blade mid-swing, and yanked hard, pulling the woman off balance. Vector stepped in, shield slamming down like a hammer, and the Widow went down hard, bones cracking loud enough to hear from three stories up.
Natasha winced.
Another Widow came from the side, baton crackling. Vector caught it on the shield, sparks flying, and countered with a punch that lifted the woman clean off her feet and sent her skidding across the gravel like a skipped stone.
Ghost-Spider flipped over a low kick, landed behind her attacker, and drove both shooters fired at once—webs and some kind of glowing net that wrapped the Widow tight. The woman thrashed, cursing in Russian, until Vector flicked a hand and she slammed into a vent pipe hard enough to dent metal.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't pretty. It was two exhausted, terrified kids fighting for their lives against monsters who'd been built to end lives before breakfast.
Natasha watched Vector take a knife to the ribs and not even flinch, just grab the Widow's wrist and twist until something snapped. Watched Ghost-Spider get thrown into a wall and come up swinging, blood on her teeth, eyes wild. Watched them move together like they'd been doing this for years, not weeks.
And she felt something shift inside her chest, something old and scarred and tired.
She'd come here to stop a threat.
Instead she was watching two kids refuse to die.
One of the Widows broke free, lunged at Ghost-Spider from behind. Natasha's hand was on her pistol before she realized it.
But Vector was faster.
He spun, shield raised, and took the hit meant for Gwen. The impact sent him staggering, blood blooming dark on his side, but he stayed standing. Stayed between her and the blade.
Ghost-Spider screamed something (Natasha couldn't hear the words, but she felt them) and tackled the Widow, fists flying, webs everywhere, until the woman went limp.
The last Widow standing looked at the bodies of her sisters, looked at the two kids bleeding and bruised and still on their feet, and did the math, and ran.
Vector raised a hand. The air rippled. The Widow flew backward like she'd been hit by a truck, slammed into the rooftop door, and didn't get up.
Silence.
Just wind and blood and two kids breathing like they'd forgotten how to stop.
Ghost-Spider turned to Vector, voice shaking.
Ghost-Spider: You okay?
He laughed, wet and ragged.
Vector: Define okay.
Natasha stayed in the shadows, finger off the trigger, watching them limp toward each other, leaning like if one fell the other would follow.
She didn't move.
Not yet.
Because for the first time in a long time, Natasha Romanoff wasn't sure who the real monsters were.
And that scared her more than any Red Room ghost ever had.
She slipped back into the dark, boots silent, leaving them to their victory and their wounds.
But she didn't go far.
Black widow's appearance in comments