Watch this step-by-step Video Walkthrough Episode 1 Part 1 - which will help and guide you through each and every level part of this game, City Of Love: Paris for the Android.

Natasha was training when she got the call. Training was her word for it, anyway, because if any of her fellow Avengers knew what she was really doing, Natasha had no doubt that she'd be mocked and ridiculed to no end. Her days of intimidating them into silence would be over.

When her phone rang—some goofy jingle that Clint had picked and that Natasha didn't have the energy to change—Natasha stopped what she'd been doing and walked over to the singing phone. She flipped it open and held it to her ear, trying to get her breathing under control, and failing.

'Agent Romanoff,' Natasha said in between gasps for air.

'This is Agent Hill,' said the voice on the other end. 'Are you alright, Agent Romanoff?'

'Yeah,' Natasha said, nodding even though she knew Hill couldn't see her. 'Intense workout,' she explained.

'Alright, well we need you for a meeting immediately. A helicopter will be there to pick you up in approximately ten minutes. Inform Barton.' Agent Hill hung up.

Natasha sat down on top of a medicine ball until her breathing went back to normal, then grabbed her stuff and headed towards the locker rooms. She changed in record time, out of her flowy dress and into a turquoise silk blouse and a black pencil skirt. She wiped a towel over her forehead and then left the gym, bag over her arm, fastening a barrette into her hair as she went.

Natasha found Clint in the kitchen, making pancakes.

'Better hurry that up, Barton,' she said by way of greeting, hopping up onto the counter across from him. 'We've got a helicopter coming to take us to a meeting in five minutes.'

Clint nodded, his mouth too full of pancake to respond. He made a muffled sound that could have been 'Want one?'

Natasha smiled in amusement but shook her head.

'Come on,' Clint said, swallowing the pancake down. 'Live a little.'

'Fine,' Natasha said, rolling her eyes. She knew how futile it was to argue with Clint when it came to pancakes. 'Just one, and then you have to go get ready, Mr. Pyjama Pants.'

'I don't see why,' Clint said. 'I'm sure whoever's at this meeting would appreciate my PJs. They are, after all, fabulous.'

'Somehow I don't think Agent Hill would be too pleased.'

Clint shrugged. 'No one has any taste,' he said. With a final flip, he handed Natasha a plate with a steaming pancake on it. 'Just make a few more for the guys,' he said, handing her the spatula.

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'Wait—what?' Natasha spluttered, but Clint was already out of sight. The redhead grumbled but made the pancakes to the best of her ability. After she'd piled ten on a plate, Natasha realized she only had a minute left until the helicopter arrived. She turned off the stove and hurried out into the living room, where Tony, Bruce, Steve, and Thor were squeezed onto the couch watching cartoons. All four men looked up as she came in.

'Wow, Spidey,' said Tony. 'Do you think it's a good idea to eat all those? Might ruin your figure.'

As if anything could ruin her figure with the amount of training she did. 'They're for you guys,' Natasha said.

'Aw, how sweet,' Tony said with mock sincerity. 'The Black Widow has been domesticated.'

'Let me rephrase that,' Natasha said, matching Tony's sickly sweet tone. 'They're for Steve, Bruce, and Thor.'

Tony stopped, closing his mouth quickly. Apparently the threat of losing pancakes wasn't worth another quip.

Natasha set the pancakes down on the side of the table furthest from Tony and then grabbed her bag from the kitchen and hurried up to the roof. She met Clint on the stairs, and their hands automatically tangled together as they took the steps two at a time.

'Do you know what this is about?' asked Clint.

'Probably a mission,' said Natasha. 'We were given six weeks leave after New York, and it's been seven.'

'It hasn't been seven weeks,' Clint said, confused.

'No, seven days,' Natasha clarified. 'You didn't really think Fury would give us six weeks off, did you? It's a wonder we got a whole week.'

Clint huffed. 'Someday I want a real vacation.'

'That's what being dead's for,' Natasha replied.

Clint looked over at the harshness of Natasha's voice. He reminded himself that she'd never had more than a week between missions since she was young, unless she was debilitated in some way. Vacationing was a foreign concept to the Russian spy. 'I'd take you with me,' he told her. 'We could go to Venice, or Paris, or Rome.'

'What would we do?' Natasha asked, unwilling to even entertain the idea because she knew that all it would do was get her hopes up.

'We'd eat all the pastries in Europe, drink ourselves dizzy, spend our days exploring and painting and dancing…' He looked over at Natasha with a smirk. '…between the sheets.'

Natasha glared at her partner, but she had to admit that it did sound nice. Even a day in that life would be heavenly. 'It'll never happen,' she told Clint with conviction.

'You never know,' Clint replied. He pushed open a door and then they were on the roof, with all of Manhattan below them. A helicopter with the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia on the door was waiting. Both assassins ran for the door, which opened as they approached, keeping their heads ducked.

Once inside, Natasha seemed to realize for the first time that she was holding Clint's hand. Her fingers stiffened up for a second, but then she relaxed them. They were partners, after all, and they had done much more than hand-holding on missions where they posed as couples.

A voice at the back of Natasha's brain whispered to her that this wasn't a mission, it was real life, and behaviour like this was exactly what led to becoming compromised. But Natasha liked the feeling of Clint's warm, strong hand in hers, so she ignored the voice and, after buckling herself in, took Clint's hand again. He looked surprised, but didn't mention it, afraid she'd become embarrassed and snatch it back. They enjoyed the ride, alternating between comfortable silence and witty banter, their hands clasped the whole way.

Once they reached the Helicarrier, Natasha pulled her hand away. It was one thing to hold his hand in the seclusion of the helicopter, but surrounded by her fellow agents Natasha had a reputation to uphold. She was supposed to be a ruthless killer, and ruthless killers did not hold their partners' hands.

Clint sighed mentally when she drifted away. She was always so distant when they were around people, and it annoyed him to no end. If she wouldn't hold his hand, then he decided to just loop an arm over her shoulder. Clint expected her to throw his arm off—and then cut it off, most likely—so it surprised him when she let it stay, only glaring to show her disapproval. Clint smiled. It may have seemed like a little thing to anyone else, but Clint knew how much trouble Natasha had opening up, and to him, this was a huge step in the right direction.

As Natasha had suspected, when they entered Hill's office (Natasha finally shrugging Clint's arm off her shoulder), the agent was holding two folders that were very familiar to the two assassins. Clint had no doubt that they held his and Natasha's new identities for an upcoming mission.

'Agent Barton, Romanoff,' Hill greeted them. 'Close the door and sit down.'

They did as they were told, sitting gingerly on the chairs across from Hill. For whatever reason (probably by Hill's request, Clint thought), these chairs were the least comfortable in any office of the Helicarrier—possibly the whole world. On the contrary, Agent Hill's own chair looked extremely comfortable.

'As you may have guessed,' Hill began, 'We have a new mission for the both of you. We regret that your six-week leave has been reduced, but we trust that you will enjoy this assignment. It's a deep undercover mission, so you will assume the identities of Mr and Mrs Dupont, a high society French couple, for almost two months. Your task is to acquire invites to the Rousseau annual Christmas ball. We have intel suggesting that some very high-profile criminals will be attending. You will incapacitate them until we arrive and are able to interrogate them. As long as you can get the invites, between now and Christmas is your own time to enjoy Paris, so think of it as the rest of your vacation, but with different names.'

Natasha frowned. It all sounded well and good, but for one thing. 'You said we'd be attending a ball,' Natasha said. Hill nodded the affirmative. 'But Clint can't dance.'

'Hey!' Clint protested. 'That's not true.'

Natasha just gave him a sympathetic glance. 'It really is.'

'Well I sing better than you, so there.'

'You do not sing better than me!' Natasha exclaimed. Sure, he was good, but she was fabulous.

'I do too,' Clint said.

'Do not.'

'I'm going to stop you right there,' Hill said, just barely avoiding a round of 'Do too,' 'Do not,' that could last hours. 'Romanoff, you're a trained dancer, so in the months leading up to the ball, you can teach Barton. Here is the information on your new personas,' she handed them the folders. 'The plane leaves tomorrow at eight a.m.'

Teach Clint to dance? Impossible, Natasha wanted to scoff. He was a graceful fighter, but when it came to dancing, two left feet was an understatement. Natasha was about to say so, but Hill shot her a glare that told the assassin to either agree or be assigned horrible missions—where she had to seduce unusually disgusting men and didn't even get to kill them afterwards—for the rest of her life.

'We'll be there,' Natasha said. The pair stood, and with a nod to Hill on Clint's part, they left.

As they walked back to the helicopter, Clint's arm found its way back to Natasha's shoulders, and she decided that it wouldn't be that bad to teach Clint to dance. It might even be fun. She wasn't the best teacher, thanks to her lack of patience, but Clint was a fast learner and she knew that he had grace in him. She'd seen him glide across the floor to get the right angle before shooting somebody, seen him pivot effortlessly to fight people on both sides of him, seen him whip around people so fast that they'd only just realized he wasn't in front of them anymore when he plunged a knife into their back. He had quick feet and a good sense of rhythm, so all she had to do was show him how fighting was related to dance, and he would inevitably pick it up.

Natasha lifted her hand up to her shoulder and slid her fingers between his. Clint smiled to himself. Honestly, he would have been content to stay in that moment, with their hands entwined and their bodies nearly touching, for eternity. But they slipped apart as they boarded the helicopter, and didn't touch again until late that night, when Clint was helping Natasha pack. She only needed one suitcase, since S.H.I.E.L.D. would be sending her a complete wardrobe based on her new identity's personality and style within a week of her arrival in Paris. All Natasha packed were a few outfits, her suit, toiletries, and a thin gold chain with an arrow on the end. When Clint had given it to her, it had been a necklace, but she had made the mistake of wearing it into a fight and it had broken. She hadn't had the time to get it fixed.

When Natasha woke up the next morning, she slid out of bed and padded towards the bathroom, freezing when she heard a yawn. She slowly turned back to face the bed, only to see her partner splayed across her sheets. She didn't remember inviting him to stay, but she supposed they could have just fallen asleep. It wouldn't be the first time they'd slept in the same bed, although it was the first time without being drunk or on a mission posing as a couple.

Natasha decided to leave him, and headed to the bathroom as she'd originally planned. When the alarm rang in two minutes, it would wake him up anyway. Natasha cleaned up a bit, brushing her hair and teeth, washing her face, and applying makeup. She heard the alarm go off, and she heard Clint's hand drop down onto it, trying to shut it up. Natasha rolled her eyes. He never remembered that the button was on the side.

When she walked back into the bedroom, Clint had resorted to clutching a pillow over his ears to block out the noise. Natasha only smirked before turning the alarm off.

'Get up, sleepyhead,' Natasha said. 'We've got a big day.'

'What time is it?' Clint mumbled into the pillow.

'Six,' Natasha told him. She snatched the pillow away, trying to get him up, but all he did was bury his face into her sheets.

'Too early,' Clint whined.

'We only have two hours until take off,' Natasha reasoned, even though she knew that logic did not work on sleepy Clint.

'Two whole hours,' Clint replied. 'We don't need that long.'

'We do, because we're supposed to be a half hour early, it takes a half hour to get there, and moving as slowly as you do in the mornings, it'll take you an hour to eat breakfast.'

Clint groaned. 'Five more minutes,' he pleaded.

'Fine,' Natasha conceded. 'Five minutes, and then you will be out of bed, whether or not I have to forcibly remove you.

Clint gulped. 'Yes, ma'am.'

Natasha tottered about for five minutes, getting dressed, packing things she'd forgotten last night, tidying her room, checking her phone for any missed calls or texts. When the time had finally passed, she turned around, prepared to drag Clint out of bed, only to find him already tugging his pants on. He'd slept in boxers, Natasha realized, but she didn't blame him. Jeans were a bitch to wake up in.

'I'm feeling like eggs today,' Clint said as they walked out of her suite together. It was too early for anyone else to be awake, so nobody would question their sleeping in the same room. 'What do you think?' he asked. 'Eggs and bacon?'

'Sounds good,' Natasha said. Clint was a fantastic cook, and she would have been a fool to turn him down. She made their coffee as he cooked, a morning routine that they had established on a deep cover mission in Sydney, Australia. Once Clint had made enough for everybody, he set it out on the table just as the other Avengers started streaming in. Pepper was first, ever punctual, and Tony, loathe to leave Pepper for too long, was right behind her. Bruce, Thor, and Steve all arrived late with killer hangovers. They'd spent the last night seeing who could hold their liquor better: a demi-god, a super soldier, or the Hulk. By the grin on his face despite the hangover, it seemed Steve had won.

Natasha started reading her file during breakfast, and after a pointed glance from her, Clint followed suit. Later, near the end of their flight, they recited what they'd read, twisting it this way and that to make it sound more natural.

'My name's Noëlle Anne-Sophie Dupont, née Laurent,' Natasha told Clint. 'I was born November 18th, 1985, in Bordeaux, France, and I was raised there by my parents, Celeste and Damien Laurent. My mother died of leukaemia five years ago, and my father of natural causes two years later. My mother had been in her fifties when they had me, their only child, so it was evident that they would pass on while I was still fairly young. Still, it broke my heart. The only thing that kept me going was my wonderful husband, Richard Dupont.' Natasha winked at Clint. 'I met him when I was nineteen, having just moved to Paris. We dated for seven years, we were engaged for a year, and our one-year anniversary is this year, on December 6th.

'I had moved to Paris to dance, but injured my leg two years ago, seven years into my career. While I was injured, I decided to teach, and even though my leg's all healed now, I've decided to keep teaching instead of going back to dancing professionally. I'm now the proud owner of a ballet studio and I'm living happily with my husband, who has taken over his father's multi-billion dollar dancewear business. Life could not be more perfect.'

'How sweet,' Clint said.

'Yes,' Natasha agreed. 'Noëlle has a nice life.'

'She sounds lovely. Richard's a lucky man,' said Clint. Natasha was skimming her file again, but she couldn't help but notice that he was watching her, and when she looked up, she found him gazing at her oddly. He was looking at her like she was Natasha, not Noëlle. It almost felt as if he was talking about Natasha, and not Noëlle. But that didn't make any sense. Natasha brushed the thought away, convincing herself that it was just wishful thinking.

'I suppose,' said Natasha. And because Clint's gaze was confusing her, she changed the subject. 'It's your turn,' she said.

Clint sighed, but nodded. 'My name is Richard Brandon Dupont, I was born April 24th, 1983 in Paris, and raised by my father, Matthew Alasdair Dupont, after my mother, Pauline Nicolette Dupont, died in childbirth,' he said. 'My mother and father owned a dancewear empire, and on my twenty-first birthday I inherited it. My father had not been particularly attentive recently, which was mostly due to his developing heart problems, so I decided I would get his business—now my business—back on track by visiting every one of our stores to see how things were doing.

'It was in our Paris branch that I met my beautiful Noëlle. I asked her out for coffee, and then we started dating. I asked her to marry me two years ago. Our one-year anniversary is coming up soon, and I couldn't be happier. The first few years of trying to keep up my father's business were extremely stressful, and it was Noëlle who made me realize that it was my business, and that I didn't have to play by my father's rules anymore because it was my game now. And when my father died, she understood my grief, but she also understood my relief, that I was no longer trapped under his shadow.

'She's the only person I've ever known who truly understands me,' Clint said, and he was looking at her again, like he wasn't talking about Noëlle, but Natasha. It made sense—Natasha did understand him completely—but what he said next didn't make any kind of sense. 'I love her more than anything in the world.'

Natasha's brow furrowed. He wouldn't say that about Natasha because he didn't love her, they were just partners. She was making things up in her head, deluding herself into thinking he was talking about her and not her alias.

'You sound perfect,' Natasha told Clint. 'Like you're not even lying.'

'The best lies are rooted in truth,' Clint said cryptically, but she didn't have a chance to ask what he meant because the pilot's voice suddenly crackled to life over the intercom.

'Buckle up, Agents,' said the pilot, whose name could have been Jerry or possibly Jimmy. 'We're about to land.'

The agents buckled up, and as the plane circled towards the ground, Natasha tucked her head between her knees. She had always hated landings. Clint put an arm around her, and she grabbed at his hand and held on tight. That was how they landed in the City of Love, her knees tucked up to her chest, his chin resting on her head, and their hands clasped so tight that they both felt like all their bones would break.