Most of them were metaphoric for her, the kind of things that haunted her sleep. People she'd killed. Broken regimes that eventually destroyed the people living under them. Failing to stop Thanos. The weight she felt when they discovered the Stones were destroyed. The pictures of Clint's victims, no matter how evil those people were. Those were the kind of ghosts she was used to. She couldn't fight them; she'd had to learn how to live with them. It wasn't easy, and it was every day. It meant waking up and choosing not to be the person she used to be. It meant doing something to balance the deep-seated hatred of herself by making the right decisions.
Real ghosts…
Those were impossible.
Each day, so far, she was lucky to make it out alive. Some of them had limitations that Natasha exploited to get past them. One of them didn't want her dirty soul. Unclean. That's what it called her. She couldn't really argue, and wouldn't have in this case.
Natasha didn't have magic. She wasn't spiritual. She'd never used a Ouija board or played with spirits. Her strength was in finding ways to get the job done with whatever physical means she could. She used her body to twist and turn the tide of a fight, or an object that gave her the one little advantage she needed. If she hadn't died on Vormir, Natasha suspected she'd have an extreme case of arthritis and so many aches and pains she'd feel as if she was 90 when she was 45.
Supply runs were the only way she could really help. She'd gained super speed and durability in Fillory. Not that that mattered, even if she hadn't, she'd still be doing this. Natasha Romanoff would never be accused of being a wilting wallflower. She put in the work, even if the work was snagging food for people.
She went out with a group — Baymax and Fandral — and everything seemed fine. Jump scares and running were normal. Ectoplasm — or whatever that woman called it — that was a given. Daylight was the best time for the runs, even if there was no true sun here. The shadows were where the ghosts liked to hide, but they could also create their own shadows. You had to be aware.
Her gun was unholstered, held between her hands, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. There was nothing around to shoot that would do any damage to a ghost. Still, be prepared. Like a good Boy Scout. The ghosts played by a variety of worlds' rules; that meant they could be taken down by physical things.
"It's too quiet," she whispered. Her breath crystalized as soon as it left her lips, and Natasha felt the cold. It was the kind of cold you felt in your bones. The hair on the back of your neck stood up. It reminded her too much of Vormir, that icy fall. Waking up in a warm room always felt like she was shattering into a million pieces — from one extreme the other. When there was no reply, she turned around to look at her companions.
They were gone, and the hallway was desolate and dark. She'd missed the reality warp, but that was the point, wasn't it?
Something was coming for her.
An ethereal grappling hook ripped through her shoulder and took hold. Natasha saw the blood before her body reacted to the pain. Pain burst through her shoulder. Her instinct was to pull on the hook before it sank into her skin and shoot the line, but her fingers slipped right through it. Physicality was what Natasha had to offer, and it was useless in this fight.
The line went taut, hard even by her newly super powered standards. One of her boots squeaked on the floor for an instant as her entire body was jerked backwards — off the ground — by her shoulder. The hook dug deep into the meat, right to the bone. She could feel it scraping. She landed hard on the hard vinyl tile and flipped over onto her stomach to get a grip on the floor.
It was an old Widow move. With the hook firmly implanted in her body, she was at the mercy of whoever held the line. Considering the nature of her attacker, Natasha's eyes scanned the area for anything she could use. All she saw was her ghostly attacker.
It was Antonia Dreykov. Taskmaster.
But it was Captain America's movements when a shield — entirely too familiar and yet eerily ghostly — slammed down on the hand furthest from her, severing the fingers at the knuckles.
Natasha screamed. The morbid humor in her head reminded her that at least it was the hand attached to the injured shoulder. It could have been the other one, and then she'd really be screwed. Cap's boots kicked her face: once, twice — that was when her nose broke — and on the third time she reached up to stop it. Her own hand smacked her in the face along with the apparition's boot.
Once again on her back, Natasha struggled to get up, her feet caught under her hip from the awkward landing. She wished she had something to wrap the arm against her body so she wasn't tempted to use it.
"I don't wanna fight you, Antonia." They'd already done this a few times, and the only reason Natasha got the upper hand was because she'd had the damn antidote to the chemical agent controlling the other woman. Not Antonia was untouchable.
Antonia wasn't listening though. The Black Panther bared her claws. Natasha wondered if they were actually vibranium or just something strong enough to compare, and even though she knew that none of the hits she attempted or the shots she got off on Antonia would matter, she still tried. Natasha wasn't worried about wearing herself out. Adrenaline kept her on her feet, even as her fist sailed right through the ghostly figure.
A slash to the chest with Panther claws broke Natasha's resolve a little. Her howl of pain reverberated in the hall. Does anyone hear me?
The good arm held the gun up. One more bullet left. Natasha thought to keep it in case something revealed itself to aid her. Anything that might scare a ghost. Antonia had other ideas. Brock Rumlow's hand snapped out, grabbed Natasha's wrist and twisted it backward until she felt the bone snap. Then Antonia jerked Natasha's arm downward and broke her elbow over her knee.
This is it, Natasha realized. Without at least one of her hands, she stood no chance. That didn't mean she'd given up though. Her footwork was sloppy as she tried to fight back, but Antonia barely moved to dodge anything, even if she didn't have to.
Natasha stumbled. Winter Soldier grabbed her by the throat with her vice-like grip and pulled her up, squeezing hard. Adrenaline overrode pain as those injured arms tried to fend off an attacker who couldn't be touched. Her feet kicked for something — anything — to try and get out of this situation. The more she moved, the harder her throat was squeezed.
There was nothing she could use to her advantage.
Just before she blacked out, Taskmaster opened her mask. It wasn't Antonia. It was Natasha, scarred, and grinning at her. One of her eyes had been badly injured, looking milky even with her ghostly appearance. "Look at what you did," the ghostly version of herself said. "You can never escape me."
Everything went black, but it would be a few more moments before she died. When she did, Taskmaster dropped Natasha's limp, lifeless body to the ground.