The Red Room despatches its superior.
A girl, young and sweet, who owns bloody knees, sore palms, and a frown. The day has been tiresome.
Sometimes, she recounts the amount of deaths she's conducted.
Like the swing of music. The girls––they say murder is a dance, and one must move as one with the rhythm. Perfection is a tune. A vibrant, delicate tune that must be rehearsed again and again. Murder is something which ought to be rehearsed. Murder is a dance, a step, a breath, a fluid motion.
Sometimes, she wonders what it is like to cry.
She wonders what it is like to mourn.
That should be nice. Mourning. Feeling an emotion for her target. Feeling a sense of empathy for the man she stabbed in the heart this afternoon. Feeling a wave of sympathy for the woman she killed at dawn.
A girl, young and sweet, leans against a pillar. Her clothing is dirty, shredded slightly, and people pass her uncaring. Nobody notices the little ones. The tiny girls. Children, orphaned and moulded into warriors. The immortal, the brilliant; the Black Widows, merciless and so, oh so terribly young.
They call her the best.
And the best always carries the heaviest burden.
The day has been tiresome. The day has pained her. The day does not bring good fortune. The day does not bring love or embraces or the soft kisses of a mother. The day is cruel, like every other day.
She is a child, at heart, and huffs.
Today is a day in which she is impatient, she is angry, and she's thinking too much about freedom.
'Why the frown, my love?'
A voice, too warm, too powerful, reaches the girl's ears.
She blinks and looks up, gaze sharp. Immediately her body reacts, her muscles tense; she's prepared for danger.
But the woman who approaches is everything but danger. She's built like a soldier, and stands like all soldiers do: mighty and proud. The girl is fascinated by her. Women don't carry themselves like this woman does. Why, anybody who expresses such confidence is surely unheard of.
The girl hasn't been taught about women.
About female soldiers.
The girl manages to detract her gaze. She looks away, and prefers to be left alone.
However, the woman is stubborn. And the girl is aware of the woman kneeling beside her, is aware of the woman's eyes on her. Those large, brown eyes––deep with riddles and questions and certainty.
'It is too beautiful a day for one to frown.'
The girl turns her head, only slightly. The woman watches her fondly, and the girl is enticed in those eyes again. They are so heavy. Too heavy. A past, begging to be unfolded; a past too haunting, too forbidding.
And then the woman smiles.
A sudden light in the misery. She smiles with a broken heart. She smiles, as if only she and the girl were the last on earth. She smiles as if all hope is lost, but there is still something worthwhile to fight for. She smiles in a way the girl wishes to smile as well. She smiles, desperate for justice.
The girl returns the smile, for she cannot resist.
Only a small, faint one.
Barely noticeable.
Of course the woman notices. She notices everything.
'You have a few bruises,' she says, 'Have you had a fall, my dear?' The girl doesn't provide an answer. The woman does not expect her to. 'Do you know the trick about falling?'
The girl squints.
Then, ever so lightly, shakes her head.
'You only need pick yourself up again.' The woman offers a hand. 'And, sometimes, people require a friendly face to help them.'
The girl studies the woman's hand. She does not take it.
'Come now, dear. I am a friend. Let me help.'
Ever so cautiously, the girl accepts the offer. The woman's hold is gentle, but secure, and the girl endures something special. She looks at the woman, and the woman smiles that same smile, and what the girl endures is respect.
She finds an equal.
And it is relieving. Calm to her soul.
'I hear the ice cream cart has returned to the park. What say we treat ourselves?'
The girl still says nothing. But, after a while, she nods.
Ice cream.
She's seen ice cream before, imagined the taste.
Never touched.
The woman guides her, as if she were a child, and she a mother. The girl looks up at the woman, her escort, and tries to read her. Tries to understand her. Tries to decipher everything that she is.
She thinks about whoever waits for this woman at home. A man, perhaps? Or an empty room? She thinks about where this woman will go next. To an office? To a Church? To a train station? To nothing at all?
The girl drops her gaze to the woman's lips.
Rosy red. Lipstick stained.
She wonders who has kissed those lips. Who has tainted this woman, who has hurt her. She wonders what has made this woman so fragile. And she wonders what has made this woman so brilliant.
Ice cream tastes cold.
That is the girl's first thought.
Ice cream tastes sweet, sugary, and she smiles up at the woman. Suddenly, she's gleeful, and it's a strange, awful and wonderful sensation. The woman is pleased she has made the girl smile.
'Pray tell, my love: what is your name?'
The girl stops enjoying her ice cream. This is intrusive, and she refuses to answer.
'My name is Peggy. It is only good manners we introduce ourselves. Now, why not tell me your name?'
'What good will a name do?'
The woman is pleased the girl has finally spoken. 'I see. You are not from around here. I can tell by your accent.' The girl freezes. 'I am not from around here, either. Perhaps we are both wandering tourists, yes? Searching for peace of mind?'
'Peace is a fantasy only the foolish believe in.'
'Ah. That is where you are wrong, sweetheart. Peace is something the strong strive for. Optimism is a sign of strength. You must never be afraid to delve in it.'
'I have never known peace.'
'That does not mean it does not exist.' She cocks a quizzical brow, and she's splendid. 'Does the ice cream not give you a sense of peace? You smiled at me, the first time you tasted it. Were you not suddenly at peace, then?'
The girl doesn't reply, for she has been defeated.
However, the woman is not victorious.
This isn't a battle, the girl realises.
'My name is Natalia.'
'And that is a beautiful name.'
Natalia twitches a smile, and looks down.
'Do not be shy of my praise.' Peggy leans in, and raises Natalia's chin, so their eyes meet. 'I fear you do not receive enough as it is.'
'I don't require praise in order to survive.'
'No,' Peggy agrees, eyes now adoring. 'How very proud you are. Yet, there is no harm in receiving it every once in a while. Am I not right?'
Natalia is quiet. She indulges in more of her ice cream.
'Here.' Peggy passes over a clean handkerchief. 'You're mucky now. I can't have you walking around like that.'
Natalia takes the handkerchief and roughly wipes her mouth.
'Much better.' Natalia watches while Peggy's hand disappears into her pocket and comes back out, a few dollar bills in hand. 'A gift.' She places them into Natalia's free palm, 'From me. This shall buy you dinner for two nights. Spend it wisely.'
'I do not accept your charity.'
'Not charity, dear.' Peggy shakes her head. 'This is only a friendly gesture.'
Natalia doesn't object and takes the money.
'Smart,' Peggy remarks.
'What are you, Miss Peggy?'
'A curious girl, aren't you? I am quite like you, I believe.'
'What is that?'
'A lost, little soul.' She cocks her chin. 'Do not fret: we shall find home soon.'
'Where is home for you?'
'Far away.'
'I do not know what my home is, but I have no need of one.'
'You will. You will know what it is one day, and, that day, you will need it. I admire your fortitude, but be careful––' She taps Natalia's nose playfully, '––for I'd truly hate it if you grew reckless.'
Natalia lowers her ice cream, insulted. 'I am not reckless!'
'Aha, and stubborn too. Those are strong traits you possess, however you must not allow them to own you. Trust me, I have endured the consequences of that.' Peggy's smile falters a little. Her armour is only a little dented, and Natalia is certain she has spotted her weakest point.
Her bullet.
'You are a pretty thing.'
Peggy straightens; she stands, the soldier she is. Prepared for the next war.
'Farewell, Miss Natalia. I hope we see each other again.'
No objections are voiced.
Quiet and still, Natalia observes Peggy walking away, a magnificent tread; a woman she won't forget.
Even years on, she remembers Peggy. The kind woman, a veiled gentle spirit. The first Director of SHIELD.
She, the lady who birthed her home.
author's note: This entire idea haunted me, so I had to write it down. I'm pleased with how it came out. I may or may not continue this story, however I think I'll leave it as it is.
Thank you for reading!