#clintthehawkbarton

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    Well....Hello there~.

New York was a colorful city, but no color was feared so much as red was. It was more than the Communist threat, more than the propaganda that led people to hate and fear both Cuba and Russia – it was closer to home than that. She was Natalie Rushman, but there were whispers that her real name was Natasha Romanoff, and she was a Commie, worked for the Reds. A fresh faced highschool drop out, she was tough and beautiful; her hair was a ruby waterfall and she didn't abide by the matronly way of dressing – showing her long legs off in daisy dukes and a leather jacket over her slight tank.

The back of her jacket had a red hourglass emblazoned on it. She was the pack leader, the head of the gang of the Black Widows. All women, all fierce, all willing to kill if need be. They controlled the majority of Brooklyn, mercilessly crushing any rival gang that tried to encroach, but their base of operation was ironically in the 'good' part of town, Brooklyn Heights.

Natasha sat on the hood of her car, her leg dangling over the edge and swaying slightly. A girl leaned next to her, dark haired and fair skinned. Maria, her second in command. Natasha had a lit cigarette hanging from her lips as she surveyed the foot traffic on the side walk, pleased with how nervous the people got upon seeing her. Her eyes fell on a boy, likely no older than she, who looked painfully square.

It had been some time since New York. Loki had been returned to Asgard, allegedly to face justice there, and no one had seen hide nor hair of him since that day. Thor would not speak of it to anyone, but he assured them of Odin's justice and fitting punishment.

Yes, Loki had gone in chains back to those golden halls. Yes, he had endured a sentencing he found nigh unbearable. But Loki Laueyson was nothing if not resourceful and slippery. He often left Jotunheim, where he was forced to reign as puppet king, for Midgard's slightly greener pastures, and fed up with his lot and his failures, secretly distracted himself there.

He blended in with society, though he was still an attention grabber, even just walking through a well-dressed crowd. He looked as immaculate as he had in Stuttgart when he passed within eyeline of Barton on the streets of Prague, seemingly oblivious to the marksman's presence in his general vicinity. He merely strode up to the entrance of a boutique hotel, into its ground floor cafe.