As the spectre loomed over her in the detritus-filled muck, some recognition twigged in her memory. Old images from med school of the Plague Doctors of old flashed to her mind. The strange, beak-like masks protruding grotesquely from under a wide-brimmed hat, or from within the shadowed confines of a tattered hood.

Natasha gasped, though no breath was drawn into her lungs – which in and of itself was a strangely surreal experience.

”Because…of me?” She asked, ”I’m…dead…aren’t I?” From the cracking voice, it was clear she was afraid of whatever answer she would receive. Even as the memories of the gunshots and choking on her own blood lingered in the periphery of her mind.