A dark room. Heavy breathing, shifting, rustling sounds, a click.
Moscow, December 24, 1991.
The beam of a single flashlight pierces the darkness. It’s held in the mouth of a man in his mid to late 30’s hanging upside down from a ceiling vent in a ramshackle storage closet. He’s blonde, blue-eyed, his British accent elegantly cast in cheekbones, rogue written in three day’s stubble along the flawless square of his jaw, and despite the awkward position, his tuxedo is bespoke perfection. He unhooks a cufflink, revealing a tiny grappling hook which he flings across the room, catching a tin and pulling a hidden latch to open the shelves. Behind it is a high-tech secret control room full of men and women in sinister looking uniforms and lab coats. He drops, catlike, into the doorway, re-linking his cuff with a cool smirk.
Sorry I’m late. My invitation was lost in the mail.
Chaos ensues. Everyone is shouting in Russian. A dozen security guards appear, heavily armed, as the lab coat people rush to either destroy evidence or escape. The man strolls through them as if passing through the mundane hubub of the stock market, dispatching guards effortlessly until he reaches a scientist at the far end, desperately trying to stuff vials into his pockets and case.
The 432-XR. Now.
He extends one hand, the other pressing a spring-loaded blade from his watch into the scientist’s throat. The terrified scientist hands over one of the vials extremely reluctantly.
SCIENTIST (heavily accented):
You don’t understand what this can —
Oh, but I do.
The blade retracts, and a quick punch knocks out the scientist. More guards have arrived, but he twists the face of the watch and the ceiling caves in with a tremendous crash, taking out a dozen guards as a sleek black hovercar comes in. The door opens, we get a glimpse of a shapely leather-clad female leg. The man grabs the lip of the doorframe with one hand and pulls himself in as the car takes off, flipping a quick salute to the helpless guards firing uselessly up at him. He smirks as the door closes, adjusting his tie, brushing off his lapels.
WOMAN’S VOICE (husky, sexy, Russian):
You crazy bastard, you have it?
MAN: (pulls out the vial)
Like candy from a —
Her boot catches him in the ribs, slamming his body into the door as her hand grabs his hair, yanking his head in the other direction and breaking his neck. The door opens, and she grabs his jacket…just long enough to take the vial before letting him fall hundreds of feet to the city below. The door shuts, camera shifts and we see its Natasha Romanoff, who kisses the vial, tucks it into her cleavage, and flies off into…
A perfect, stylized, animated homage to the classic James Bond credit sequence, but gender flipped, with extensive badassery from her and lots of sexy, sweaty men used as decoration the better to show her off. At the end, she walks into the famous irised circle…which expands to the eight legs of a spider, her own body cast in a silhouette that provides the signature hourglass when it freezes and goes flat scarlet, the outline flipping photo-negative black against white.