#no. 13

[seasononesam]

WHUMPTOBER 2025-No. 13: alt prompt (unreality)

[zegalba]

Alexander McQueen: No. 13, spring/summer 1999

Winged bodice and skirt of balsa wood with trouser of cream wool and cream silk lace

[lostwhump]

@whumptober | Day #13: "Death Will Do Us Part" Captain America: The First Avenger (2011); Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014); Captain America: Civil War (2016)

[fitsofgloom]

Made In The Shade

[assortedcriminality]

To Rust Unburnished - no. 13

never enough | insignia | forced retirement

CW: none

Hero stood on their deck, elbows resting on the railing, cupping a warm mug in their hands. It was a brisk autumn morning, and the trees in their backyard were rapidly turning shades of brilliant red and orange. They wore an old agency hoodie, the emblazoned logo so faded it was barely legible anymore. The same insignia was tattooed on their upper arm. It was eight years old now, given to them the day they graduated from a trainee to a full-fledged crimefighter. Hero was lucky to have lasted so long. Everyone said so. Most only made it to year three or four before dying in action or receiving a career-ending injury. 

‘It was a miracle Hero had gotten in so deep with some of the most dangerous criminals in the city. Really, Superhero should have stepped in sooner, they had put Hero’s life on the line with every mission they signed off on those few years. It was about time the agent with the best record on the team got their well-deserved rest. After all, how long could they have kept that up? Surely they would have gotten tired eventually, and started slipping up. Better to stop now and avoid a tragedy. Besides, everyone knew that Supervillain had been eyeing them for a while now. In the end, they would have either recruited Hero or had them killed.’

That was the commentary the announcement of Hero’s retirement had gotten. Some of it was accurate, sure. But it didn’t matter to Hero. They had planned to go out the same way as all the agents who came before them. None of them had been forced to give it up. Now, all they had was this simple, boring life.

Hero took a sip of their tea, eyes following a hawk soar across the clear blue sky. Their loose hair tickled their face, an unfamiliar feeling. Their nails had grown out, no longer ripped or bitten down. No bruises or cuts decorated their skin, only scars. The dark circles under their eyes had all but disappeared. Their clothes were comfortable rather than functional, and not a single weapon was strapped to their body. They had a beautiful house and an unlimited budget. They had no missions, no paperwork, no investigations to stress over. They were in no danger whatsoever. 

And they were absolutely miserable. 

“You look good,” a voice said behind them. 

Hero didn’t flinch, still focused on their view. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find me.” 

“Well, the agency has updated their security in the last few months.” Villain came up to stand at their right, surveying the backyard appraisingly. “Probably because of this exact situation.”  

“If you could get past it…”

“Don’t worry about Supervillain. I have it all under control.” 

Hero gazed into their half-drained mug. “Superhero doesn’t agree.” 

“They can’t trust me, and I don’t blame them. I just didn’t think they’d pull the trigger so soon.”

“I asked for more time,” Hero said bitterly. “Now that’s the only thing I have. And you’re still out there, with no one to watch your back.” 

“That’s not your responsibility, love.” Villain laid a hand on their arm. “I’m just glad I can know you’re safe.”

Hero shook their head, frowning. “I didn’t want to be safe. I wanted to do my job. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“And you did,” Villain pressed. “For years. You did so well. Better than anyone else ever has.”

“It’s not enough,” they muttered. “It’s never enough.” 

The criminal sighed, releasing a small cloud into the cool air. “I know.” 

“I always thought I’d die a martyr. Ever since Leader was killed, that was what my mind came back to on missions. Any of them could have been my last. Someone could’ve just—” Hero mimed firing a gun with their left hand— “and that would’ve been it. That’s what happened to them. And now that’s what people remember. They’re a symbol for the cause. I’m just the one who couldn’t hack it.”

“Hero, you gave everything you had to ‘the cause.’ Retirement wasn’t your choice, nor was it your fault. Something bad didn’t happen to you. That’s a good thing. You have a chance to live your own story. To do what makes you happy without the risk of winding up dead.” 

“I don’t know what that is, Vil,” Hero said quietly. “The agency was my entire life for more than a decade. I have no interests or hobbies. I barely own anything sentimental. I don’t really have likes or dislikes. I don’t even have a favorite food.” 

“That just means it’s time to find them,” Villain told them, gently tapping their sleeve before taking their hand away. “Time to learn how to be your own person.”

“My own person,” they echoed. “It’s… terrifying.” 

“I know. But I also know that you can do this, Hero. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. Nothing is impossible for you. Trust me, love.” 

Hero exhaled through their mouth, watching as their breath turned white and vanished before their eyes. “I always have.”

Villain kissed them on the cheek and stepped back. A moment passed in silence, and Hero didn’t have to turn around to know they were gone. They took a sip of tea, now cold, and watched the color-steeped leaves fall, one by one, into the dewy grass. 

@macknus @whumplicity @whumpwritinglover222 @lazytoshiko @jumpywhumpywriter (ask to be added/removed for Whumptober)

[quietlyimplode]

Everything in Transit

An accident leaves Natasha without her memories, without anyone to guide her, and the Red Room chasing after her, the odds are not in her favour… unless those that love her find her first.

Whumptober 2025: Day 13 - insignia

Warnings: red room flashbacks

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: Natasha contemplates her situation, and tries to remember.

Whumptober Masterlist/Masterlist of Fic / ao3

.

LONDON / OCTOBER 03 / 20:50PM

There’s a quietness is Diana’s apartment.

It’s the first time she’s been alone, really alone since she can remember.

Days? The passage of time has felt both slow and fast.

She’d waved goodbye to Willow at the window and stepped back, just like she’d promised.

The girl had not wanted to leave.

Diana had looked at her with worry, giving her a small hug as she’d promised she wouldn’t be long.

Natasha had told her to take as long as they needed.

They’d discussed that whoever was after Natasha, was probably going to come back, the likelihood high and that they needed to get Willow somewhere safe.

Well, safer.

Natasha knew she wanted to protect them both, but in order to do so, Willow couldn’t stay.

Diana’s sister lived in the Cotswolds, far enough for her to be out of the city and hopefully, safer.

She’d reassured Natasha that she’d be back before midnight and Willow had pouted before giving Natasha a big hug.

“I don’t want to go, someone needs to take care of you, and help you find your memories,” she whispered, just so Natasha could hear her.

Natasha had shaken her head.

“Take Wolfie, he needs you more than me,” she assured, “I’ll be okay.”

Willow’s braided hair making Natasha’s heart jump, as she touched it gently. She felt so much hesitation in letting them both go somewhere she couldn’t protect them.

“You’ll be okay,” Diana assured.

“Hot shower, redress your wounds, watch a movie,” she advised.

“Then we’ll do some research into who you are from what you remember.”

Natasha had nodded at that.

She’d wanted to look at the broken mask she arrived with, the dress too.

She’d not given them much of a passing glance, and when she did anxiety seemed to hit her strangely.

She didn’t like it.

At times, she felt so drugged, like she had taken something stronger than a painkiller to happen the pain in her head and shoulder. Even her various bruises seemed more angry and blue.

So, they'd left, with another hug, a pat for Wolfie and a goodbye at the window.

“Hot shower,” she tells herself, returning to Diana’s room and gathering some clothes that had been left out.

The heat soothes her, and the questions of who she is and why she’s here sink to a lower priority as she tends slowly to her body.

She checks her stitches and body overall.

She doesn’t tune into her pain only when it pulls or seems to push past the pain thresholds.

Natasha stays until the water gets cooler, feeling herself slowly come back to life.

There is definitely something to be said about the renewing properties of water.

She turns off the shower.

Standing in front of the mirror she touches her face.

Her red hair.

Her cheeks and chin.

She studies it, pulling her skin and making faces at herself.

She smiles.

The face in the mirror doesn’t.

She shakes her head and steps back.

She smiles again and this time the image copies.

Natasha wipes the mirror down, condensation making it foggy and she hopes it was a trick of the light.

She stares at herself.

Everything is back to being a mirror image.

A trick of the light.

She frowns, stepping back and sighing heavily.

As she dries herself she checks her stitches and her wounds, gently touches the bruises and tests her range of movement. Better, maybe.

Better than yesterday.

She snorts at herself.

Weak, she thinks, soft.

She lets the thoughts come and go, agreeing with them as she moves.

Natasha changes quickly and heads back to the kitchen, picking up the mask and glancing at the time.

Diana should be back soon.

Inspecting the lines of the mask, she touches it gently. It has a crack on the temple, the fissure leading down to the chin.

Was she wearing it when she lost her memory?

Holding it up to her face, she puts it on. It seems to fit perfectly.

Her mind feels hazy, dropping into flashbacks, the images soft at first then brighten like she’s been given vision in high definition.

She’s a child, given a mask to wear.

The adults stand above her and hand her a gun.

It’s not strange and it feels at home in her hand. She’s played this game so many times.

Catch the flag.

The objective easy, to tag the team with paint and make sure there’s more of them left than that of the opposing team.

Except.

The shot that rings is a real bullet.

It penetrates the little girls chest and she flies back with a shocked expression.

Dead.

Natasha knows she’s dead.

She’s seen it before. Her small hands hold onto the gun, gripping it tighter as she stares and with all the speed of an eight year old, runs.

She bolts back towards the base, gunfire breaking out around her.

She morphs.

Older.

Stronger.

Hand to hand combat is easier in a body that doesn’t break so easily.

Her anger is palpable and she feels pain in her abdomen.

She takes one punch on the chin, but returns two kicks that knock the other girl back.

A sharp rapping on the wooden floor sends them all into attention.

A man.

“Again!” he orders. “But faster.”

He has horns and a red face.

The devil.

The images morph again.

She’s back in the mask.

She doesn’t think this is a game now. The girl in front of her takes her mask off.

She kneels and kisses the devils ring.

It’s Natasha’s turn.

She knows she needs to but she feels sick. It’s wrong. She feels so wrong.

The mask.

The ring.

Then it will all be over, she tells herself.

She takes the mask off, her hair short and blueish red.

She kneels and feels a hand pressing on her head as she kisses the ring, its insignia a star and scythe. It’s the same insignia that’s on the mask.

“The red room will always be your home,” the devil tells her.

Natasha feels the past merge with the present and rips the mask off.

Nausea rises.

Who is she?

What was that?

She looks over to where she threw the mask, the offending object inert.

Over her rising panic she almost doesn’t hear the knock at the door.

Natasha hopes it’s Diana. Someone to stay with her in this darkness, to perhaps ask what her next steps should be, because she has to know.

Is she a bad person?

How many bad things has she done?

The person knocks again, and Natasha opens it.

“Hello,” says the woman, and punches Natasha in the face.

.

[collectivelycreative]

sorry queen. in my defense i know most of your and Red's special interest's lore because of you two (4/19/26)

PT under cut

sorry queen. in my defense i know most of your and Red's special interest's lore because of you two (4/19/26)