Red Pointe Shoes
It had been so long since Natalia had danced, but she still remembered. That thought almost made her laugh as she laced up the red satin pointe shoes she had found. She didn't really remember. The Red Room had simply programmed her with the memories so deeply that she believed then, that her muscles had developed the same memory they would have from twelve years of dancing.
Slowly, Natalia stood up, lifting easily onto her toes. She had already stretched. Well, that was a bit misleading. She had stretched, and then she had danced back and forth across the floor until she was gasping for air. But her breathing was back to normal now and she wanted to dance. Really dance, the way they made her believe she had.
She pressed play and the music started. It was "The Waltz of the Snowflakes" from the Nutcracker. Natalia had chosen it for two reasons. One, it was long, over six minutes. Two, it was a song they had never played for her.
Sauté, run, run, run, arms sweeping over and back. Feel the stretch, the weightlessness, her heartbeat picking up in anticipation.
And then again, back the other direction, legs pushing her off the ground momentarily.
Now a waltz turn, arms held low and curved slightly, fingers curved as if holding the stem of a flower. Balancé, one arm slanting up to the ceiling, one down to the floor.
The music slowed for a moment and her movements slowed with it. Then it sped up again and she was off.
Coupé, turning gently on one foot, then sauté again. Then repeat. Stretch and contract, stretch and contract, dancing a wide circle around the room.
She kept dancing, her legs pushing her up and across the dance floor, back perfectly straight, feet pointed. The song continued at a steady pace and her movements matched it.
Piqué turn, piqué turn, piqué turn…
The simple step carried her in a tightening circle, coming to a stop in center of the room.
Tendu to forth. Right arm up, left down. Switch and switch again. Bend forward, bend back.
A bullet hissed towards her and she bent backwards, nearly double, to avoid it. The guard behind her yelled as the bullet buried itself in his stomach.
She took off, running to one corner of the room.
Piqué, arabesque, tour-jeté.
She jumped, wrapping her legs around a man's neck. It snapped like dry wood and he fell.
Natalia kept pushing herself through the dance, but each step brought more memories.
Bone snapping under hands. Crushed by a powerful kick. Picking her way over fallen bodies, their blood staining the leather of her suit until it shone red under the floodlights.
The music slowed and she slowed with it. Burrée, burrée, burrée… feet barely moving, she glided in a tight circle, dropping smoothly into every time the music swelled. But the memories flooding her mind now were worse.
She was five, picking her way through the snow back to her family's house.
"мать, отца?" She called. Mother, father?
There was no response.
Nataliya opened the door and stepped into her house. Warmth seeped through the thin soles of her shoes and when she picked up her feet, the patched leather was stained red,
"Mama! Papa!" She screamed.
Her footsteps squelched and sucked sickeningly on the blood soaked floor. She pounded down the hall, her tiny feet leaving red footprints in her wake.
And there they were. Her mother and father lay crumpled on the floor, heads lolling on half-severed necks.
Natalia sped up tearing around the room until the muscle in her arms screamed and her legs ached, but the memory would not stop.
Men dressed in black carried her away, took her to a room that smelled of bleach and blood and metal and then there was nothing but pain. So much pain that she screamed her throat bloody, red liquid bubbling up on her lips. And that was when they began to undo her, planting memories, triggers, behavioral patterns. They reprogrammed her and turned her into the perfect soldier.
Natalia's legs gave out and she collapsed onto the floor, unwilling or unable to move, she wasn't quite certain.
She had escaped eventually, undone their mental conditioning until she vaguely resembled a human again. Nataliya had left and found work, snapping necks, torturing, putting the training they had given her to use. Until he had found her.
Clint's voice dragged her out of the memory. "Tasha?"
She looked up slowly. That was right, she was Natasha now, not Natalia or Nataliya or Natalie or anything else.
Understanding filled his eyes and he wrapped his arms around her, sheltering rather than caging. With one hand, she pulled off the pointe shoes, throwing them into a corner.
Her feet were not stained in blood and she was tired from dancing, not fighting.
Slowly she took a breath and let it out. "Thank you, Clint."
He said nothing, only held her while she fought back the tremors threatened to steal control of her body.
She had promised herself that no one would control her again.