"Do you know what it's like to be unmade?"
"You know that I do."
Underneath the Willow-Root
The New Mexico job keeps them apart for about three years, and Natasha doesn't honestly feel like she's been affected – at least, not by the constant stream of assignments they send her way. It's a kill, an extraction, a kill, a kill, extraction, kill – and barely any rest between each before they have her on the move again. A new place, a new identity, and even if only for a few hours.
It's not that she complains, because she likes activity, because it keeps her occupied. It keeps her from boredom, and it keeps her from the darker side of her mind with the memories of burns from a hospital fire and the hissing thoughts of Russian that lurk in a personalised Pandora's box. The constant move of her body through streets and the rush of chasing a target pulls her instinct to the front of her mind until it becomes all she can feel, requiring her absolute focus. It manages her tensions, relaxing her with the release of every pull of her trigger, every satisfying crunch of a neck under her fingers as she works.
A lack of patience, cultivated through years of the pressure for speed and accuracy leaves her bored as she sits down in Mission Control, uncharacteristically idle and quiet as she stares out of the window of the helicarrier (and it's not a window, she corrects herself absently, it's more an entire expanse of glass she never gets tired of).
The wait for the director has been about twenty minutes and thirty-two seconds at this point, and she figures that a trainee's created a situation in the quarters below as she drums her fingers, soft and rhythmic. (Clint had, after all, made sure they were all well-informed about the, er, possibilities of 'getting on the director's radar' while they experienced their first tastes of basic training in his facility.) Finally, after another two minutes and another eighteen seconds, Fury steps into view, and Natasha stands to greet him with a quirk of her lips. Always, she had been about first impressions, and she isn't about to stop.
As always, the file and instructions are left in her hands within minutes, no questions asked and no comments exchanged about her work. Business with the director is consistently smooth, always clean and efficient, if only to make him less concerned with her case. He hasn't come to trust her just yet – and who can blame him, a defected agent of the KGB? – but she supposes that's for his own good.
Natasha leads through the manila folder, the motion practiced and seasoned by every day of the twelve years she has spent with her loyalty to SHIELD. From the early months as a teenager, when they hadn't allowed her out without Clint, to the constant streams of solo missions that they send her on a daily basis. She likes this, honestly, and it gives her a sense of purpose when Barton isn't around to mess with her mind.
The kill is simple – laughably simple, really. The usual job of dressing to kill, a strangled victim left in their bedroom while the desire she has incited in their eyes bleeds out with the life within them. She figures that they deserve it, because they hardly ever treat her proper before she closes her fingers around their neck. It doesn't bother her, and it shouldn't ever.
With that in mind, she sets off toward the plane she knows is waiting for her, expecting that her outfit and passport have already been prepared. She likes this part, too, affecting the personality that's as far from her as she can afford without losing her focus. Always a challenge, and a welcome one.
While she nurses the vodka glass in her hand, she purses her red lips at him, staring across the hall. She crosses her legs again, allowing the dress to ride up just a notch higher. The victim isn't subtle, not by any standard, and he has been watching her – predator to prey – for the last half-hour. When he catches her gaze, he raises his eyebrows just lightly in suggestion, and she affects a playful chuckle to beckon him over, coy.
He just smirks at her, and he nods back. It's a long while before he disengages from his friend, but he finally comes to stand by her, as if he has sneaked up. Natasha affects surprise, smiling shyly, offering her glass in a small toast. He leans in to whisper words of promise to care for her, promises of luxury for a 'woman like her'. Natasha would have laughed at the eager tone, but she's no amateur, affecting a blush as she looks up at him. At this point, she slides her fingers into his, following him out into the streets, pretending it's cold as she presses herself into his side, giggling.
It's in his room when he starts to hum, leaning in to kiss at her neck as he presses her up against the door. He's desperate to get more of her, to get more than anyone else from this redhead he's managed to capture at a party – murmuring the words of a lullaby into her ear, playful and purring. Natasha chuckles as the rhyme is carefully repeated in Russian, claiming she won't understand it, listening to poor pronunciation in the first stumble. But all too soon, the words steady, and the words of her childhood are bleeding into her skin, crawling under and sinking into her bones but she isn't supposed to be affected–
But then it comes, and she realises it just a half-second too late.
'...и потащит во лесок
под ракитовый кусток'
In an instant – and she isn't completely sure, but she knows that the eyes of her victim are wide open in icy death, staring off into the distance in terror as she's straightened up. She knows the look of a scream dead on his lips, licking blood off her fingers with a careless nod to the corpse on the floor, and then she is gone, her heels fished off the carpet and slipped onto her feet. Her mind is blank, and it is a matter of survival – the kill of a threat keeps her alive, and she has a directive – a death would be unacceptable, no matter her class. Return.
Every machine is given a reset button, and she should have known better than to think she could escape them – who could have guessed she'd have already been programmed. It isn't like she hasn't been honest, but even Clint can't stop her as she leaves toward the airport. With an unknown spur in her eyes, she sets off toward St. Petersburg. Back toward base.
Toward home.
It's a slow descent
but
it hardly
matters
because
she can't
really say
what it is like. Is it orders
(stranglekillreturnreloadkill )
in
the
mind,
cold, nightmarish,
ricocheting?
It fights–
'Natalia!'
'Natasha!' Natasha!
Also available on Tumblr at supergeekwrites if you'd like to see this formatted as it was intended.
EDIT: I've now decided to leave this as a one shot, so I can focus on my other stories and give my effort to that. Sorry!