There's a woman at one of the cafes in the fire sector still running, sitting at an outside table where she has a clear view of the foreigner suites down the street. She's not immediately recognizable as Natasha - her hair's been darkened, her features slightly altered with a touch of makeup, light enough that it's difficult to tell it's even there, and her posture's all wrong, spine and shoulders slumped, half curled in on herself.

There's a mug of weak tea at her elbow and she seems absorbed in the notebook in front of her, neat lines of handwritten Cyrillic. She hasn't actually read a line since she got here. All her attention's on the door that leads to Loki's suite, all her muscles tense and every nerve on edge behind the outward appearance of calm and distraction. She's never been an impatient person. You can't be and be successful in her line of work, but...

Right now, it's all she can do not to drop the surveillance and subtlety and see just what it takes to take down a god.