Wishing I Could Be Captain America

In the quiet suburbs of New York, 6-year-old Brent was glued to the television screen. Muscled superheroes danced around in technicolor brilliance, his favorites being the almighty Avengers. However, Captain America, with his unwavering courage and classic charm, stole his heart. His heart ached with longing, an innocent desire to meet his idol, oblivious to the fact that he was a mere figment of fiction. His secret wish was to embody his hero, to actually be Captain America. One day, alone in his solitude, the adventurous Brent romped around the house donning his Captain America costume. Settling himself comfortably on the sofa, he flicked his favorite show on. Glistening eyes filled with excitement, he whispered wistfully, "I wish I could be Captain America so bad." Suddenly, an unsettling feeling stirred inside him. He was dizzy, his vision blurred, a strange levity grasped his little body that started to float, drifting away from the comforts of his home. His vision blackened as he was swept into unconsciousness. Awakening in a strange place, bewildered, Brent felt different; he was taller than usual, his body seemed different. He took a clumsy step, almost tripped. He glanced down and noticed his flaming red hair cascading down his shoulders and a slick black suit clinging to his body. Long, immaculate nails adorned his hands and a pair of sleek high heels adorned his feet. Confused, his gaze fell upon his hands where a pair of guns rested and then on his reflection in a mirror. "I'm.... Black Widow? Not fair! I wanted to pretend to be Captain America! I want my mommy! I don't wanna be Black Widow!" He screamed in a mature voice that he didn't recognize as his own. The heels made him nervous and the guns felt unfamiliar. Suddenly, a woman appeared, a fellow agent. "You ready to start the mission, Natasha?" she asked. Taken aback, Brent replied, "Natasha? I'm Brent! I'm not supposed to be here! I wanna go home!" She looked at him and quickly retorted, "This is not good! Hang tight, Natasha. I'll rewrite your memories for you." Within moments, metallic hands guided him into a room. A helmet descended over his head. His heart raced as the memories of Brent, the innocent child, were being altered, replaced with Natasha Romanoff's. A struggle ensued, but was short-lived; memories now filled with training, missions, and everything that formed the Black Widow. With a newfound sense of calm, Natasha stood up as the mechanical arms retreated, the helmet was withdrawn. Frustration twinkled in her eyes as she holstered her firearms, walking confidently in her heels. She stopped in front of a mirror, her reflection glaring back. "What are you looking at, bitch? Oh shit! Just my reflection. Why do I have a damn headache? Haven't even had to show those worthless men how a lady like me can kick their ass yet and already frustrated? So happy I have some sense. Stupid sexist men see my boobs and my ass and forget I'm here to stop them from committing crimes." With a final look in the mirror, Natasha, the Black Widow, left for her mission. Her memories of being the 6-year-old Brent were concealed, locked away in a corner of her elaborate mind. She no longer craved being Captain America; she was Black Widow, ready to face whatever came her way.