"Is this the 'protagonist' you were talking about?"
On a tar-papered rooftop in Queens, Natasha leaned against a rusted ventilation unit, her arms crossed. She watched with a mix of professional analysis and second-hand embarrassment as a teenager in a baggy sweatshirt tried—and failed—to shoot a web, eventually sprinting off the edge of a building and slamming face-first into a massive billboard.
CLANG.
The sound of a body hitting hollow metal echoed through the alleyway.
"That's him," Rosen said, a nostalgic smile touching his lips. "Kid's got heart, even if his landings need work."
To Rosen, seeing Tobey Maguire's Peter Parker was like watching a living memory. In his old life, this movie had come out when he was in elementary school. It was the OG. The classic. But to Natasha, it was just a clumsy kid with a death wish.
"He's naive," Natasha critiqued, her eyes tracking Peter as he shook off the impact and looked at his hands in confusion. "But that webbing... it's coming out of his wrists? Organic?"
"Genetic mutation," Rosen explained. "He was bitten by a genetically engineered 'Super Spider' at Columbia University. DNA rewritten. Super strength, precognitive senses, wall-crawling, and yes—organic web glands. He is the first and only superhero in this universe: Spider-Man."
That was the tragedy of the Raimi-verse. Peter was alone. No Avengers to back him up, no S.H.I.E.L.D. to cover his tracks. Just a kid fighting a gauntlet of science experiments gone wrong.
"A spider," Natasha mused, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "I'm a Black Widow. He's a Spider-Man. Seems thematic."
She turned to Rosen, that dangerous glint returning to her eyes. "Do you know where these spiders are?"
Rosen chuckled. "I know that look. You're feeling left out, aren't you? T'Challa threw you around, Jessica tanked your bullets, and I... well, I'm me. You want an upgrade."
"I want to not be the only person in the room who dies if I get shot," Natasha admitted bluntly. "If a spider bite can do that, imagine what it could do for someone with actual training."
"It's not that simple," Rosen warned. "The mutation is unstable. Peter got lucky. He got superpowers. You might get bitten and just die. Or worse, turn into a literal human-spider hybrid. It's a genetic lottery, Natasha. We aren't biologists."
"No," Natasha countered. "But I know one."
She looked at him meaningfully. "Melina Vostokoff. My 'mother.' She's the lead scientist for the Red Room. Mind control serums, floating fortresses—she builds the impossible. If anyone can stabilize a spider mutagen, it's her."
Rosen nodded slowly. "You're right. Melina is the key. If we want to take down the Red Room, we need her brain just as much as we need your skills."
"So, we grab the spiders, we grab Melina, and we make a better serum," Natasha plotted. "Sounds like a plan."
"We'll get to the Red Room," Rosen promised. "But not yet. We need a distraction in the main universe first. Something big enough to pull S.H.I.E.L.D.'s eye away from Europe."
He checked his mental timeline. Tony Stark was due for a fateful trip to Afghanistan in a few months. Once the "Merchant of Death" went missing, Nick Fury wouldn't care about a few missing Russian spies.
"For now," Rosen gestured to the kid swinging clumsily in the distance. "I have a different job for you."
"You want me to recruit him?" Natasha asked.
"Too early. He's a mess," Rosen said. "I want you to guide him. Be the cool aunt. Teach him how to throw a punch so he doesn't break his wrist. Keep an eye on his family. This kid... his life is destined to be a tragedy. I want to smooth out the rough edges."
Natasha smirked. "You want the Black Widow to babysit a high schooler? You aren't worried I'll corrupt him?"
"If you can corrupt that kid," Rosen laughed, "then you deserve a medal. He's practically a Boy Scout."
He reached into his inventory—which he could access across universes—and pulled out a heavy steel briefcase. He set it on the roofledge and popped the latches.
Inside, rows of gold bars gleamed in the afternoon sun.
"Here's your startup capital," Rosen said. "Gold is universal. Sell it, launder it, set yourself up. Get an apartment, get a car, get a life. This is your world now, Natasha. Enjoy the year 2002."
Natasha ran a finger over the gold, calculating the value. It was millions.
"You're a generous boss," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Most handlers just give you a fake passport and a pat on the back."
"I'm not a handler," Rosen corrected. "I'm an investor. And you're a high-value asset."
"Right," Natasha closed the case, hefting it effortlessly. "Capitalist pig."
"What was that?"
"I said," Natasha smiled sweetly, switching to flawless English, "thank you for the opportunity."
"Just remember," Rosen grinned as he prepared to open the portal back home. "I'm not just a capitalist. I'm a feudal lord. I expect loyalty... and maybe the right of first night."
Natasha rolled her eyes, turning to walk away with her fortune.
"Suka blyat," she muttered under her breath. "You speak Russian too well."