The truck roof slicks beneath your boots, the city lights casting sharp reflections in the puddles at your feet. You’re drenched, mildly vibrating with adrenaline, and standing directly in the spotlight of the convoy below. A dozen armed guards have their weapons trained on you. Which is fair. You did just somersault onto their shipment truck and declare, “Ladies and gentlemen, the entertainment has arrived!”

You twirl your knife between your fingers, your grin borderline maniacal. Time to stall.

“I told him,” you say, pacing like a deranged theater kid mid-monologue, “if you’re going to underestimate me, at least buy me dinner first.” You flick your wrist for flair, the blade flashing in the floodlights. One of the guards shifts uncomfortably. Good. He’s confused. Keep it up.

The comms in your ear crackle.

“Natasha,” Bucky’s voice cuts in, dry and tense, “what did you tell them to do?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I gave them the script,” Natasha replies, calm as ever. “They’re improvising.”

“Did they twist their ankle, maybe?” Steve asks. “Why are they walking like that?”

“They’ve never flirted before. Give them a break,” Natasha sighs.

“They’re just… what is that? Are they waving? Is that supposed to be seductive? Do they have a bug in their hair?” Steve again, baffled.

You don’t stop your performance—if anything, you add a dramatic hair flip for emphasis—but your jaw tightens as you press a finger to your comm.

“You guys know I can hear you, right?” you mutter under your breath, still smiling at the guards like you aren’t ready to murder your entire team.

There’s a pause. Then Bucky’s voice slides in, smoother this time, low and laced with something like amusement.

“You’re doing just fine, doll.”

And just like that, your grin sharpens. You refocus on the nearest guard—poor guy looks like he’s questioning every life decision that brought him here.

Showtime.