Natasha crawled out of the rubble, filthy and battered. The dust before her eyes had yet to settle, but she could vaguely make out Stark lying farther away. It made sense—according to the information provided by the Behavior Analysis department, this evil Iron Man had no special abilities. He wasn't a Superpower User.
This was the best chance to capture him. Ignoring the lingering pain in her chest and arm, Natasha braced herself and leaped out of the ruins. Only then did she notice a long gash along the back of her forearm. Judging by its shape, it had probably been caused by shrapnel.
"Damn it, who throws fragmentation grenades in urban combat?" Natasha cursed again under her breath in Russian, steadying herself as she stood. Then she discovered that she had twisted her ankle too, and it was already badly swollen.
She took a deep breath and focused. Usually, doing this would speed up her wounds' healing, but she had no time to rest. Stark was lying at the mouth of the alley, his fate unknown. If another grenade came, he would be finished for good.
Natasha staggered toward him. She had only made it halfway when a grenade trailing green smoke rolled behind her. Natasha sharply inhaled, then threw herself forward and covered Stark with her body.
Another explosion boomed. When the smoke cleared, there was a gash over twenty centimeters long across Natasha's back, shrapnel embedded in her thigh, and blood streaming down her forehead where it had struck debris.
When Stark woke from the earlier blast, he saw that the beautiful female agent now looked like an evil ghost that had just crawled out of Hell, her head and face covered in blood.
He instinctively drew a short breath. Only when he saw Natasha's murderous glare