(Yes I know, another Black Widow orientated fic, what a wild deviation from my usual theme :p)
Okay, so this story is based on the majority of MCU cannon, but is warping a few fairly major parts in a way that'll seem to be more in accordance with some of the comics. Anyway, please don't assume the storyline is going to follow either of the universes perfectly - it's a bit of the mix of the two, with the prevailing story arcs being taken from the movies.
Thanks!
Existence isn't a result of life. It's simply what remains in the absence of death.
I think I'm dying.
My hands are tinted blue and I last recall feeling my legs over half an hour ago. This is a problem, because without feeling where I am stepping, I am running on memory alone. And considering there's only so many rocks I can lay placement to in my mind, and I'm struggling to remember where the remainder of them are located, I am doomed to trip and fall over, again and again, until I can summon the memory of the floor and make more ground from the clearing.
My dress is dirtied...
My knees are scratched and bruised...
The cloth secured around my eyes has been tied the tightest it has been so far.
I don't enjoy this game.
"Stop running!" bellows a breathless voice from not far behind me. It is a voice that has been following me for about half a kilometre.
The command, as the ones before it have been, is in Russian, so I know it is not one of the elders. The elders stopped speaking to us in the mother tongue a few weeks ago - they're teaching us a new language called 'American', which is a form of English. In the future we will learn many more languages, of all the countries we might ever cross on any missions we are sent on. American is just the start.
"Little girl, stop!"
The voice itself doesn't scare me, but the realisation that my pursuer has gained so much ground on me does. My mind falters as I try to remember which way is clear for me to go, and soon enough I miss another rock, and I'm on the floor once again. My hands are so cold, I feel genuine surprise when they make the movements I want them to. Feeling the ground, my fingers push into the snow again to allow me to stand up. But before my feet have a chance test the ground, mysterious hands hook under my armpits and pull me to my feet.
I think of screaming, but decide against it. If I scream, I'll lose the game.
Instead, I stand there, deadly quiet. Or this is my aim; my breaths are not only audible but short, rapid and pitiful, completely ruining any façade I'm trying to put on here. The man - I think it is a man - is trying to calm me but is struggling to cope with his emotions himself. Panicked, he moves behind me and cracks a few of the branches in the snow. A curse is whispered under his breath and his fingers start fumbling at the knot at the base of the cloth covering my eyes. He's unfastened the most of it and I can feel the material loosen around my head. But I can't allow this. He mustn't ruin the game.
"No!" I scream at him, so loud that he stumbles backwards. "Dima says we can't take off the blindfold!"
He asks me why but I just purse my lips. I know I have made a mistake by raising my voice.
The man's stubby fingers untie the rest of the knot and remove the cloth, reassuring me as he gently folds my hair back in place. Adjusting to the light again, my eyes struggle to register the man's appearance. While I am relieved that it is not anyone from the compound, I know a stranger is not always good news. For starters, this could easily be a trap. I've seen them trick the older girls like this, punishing them if they are too kind, or if they accept the kindness of those whom they do not know. And if it isn't a trap, then I'm afraid that the man's kindness with be far from rewarded...
"What is your name?" the man asks me, and for the first time, I see his face. It is sooty and surrounded with dark brown locks that I think constitute a beard, though it is difficult to tell because there doesn't seem to be any separation of it from the hair on his head, or even from the lower half of his neck. He is like an oddly shaven bear, and I have to suppress the urge to giggle.
Still, I do not answer the question.
"Why were you running?" the man asks this time. He's crouched on the floor so he can talk to me without having to look down. "Is Dimitri - Dima - chasing you? Where have you run from?"
"It's a game." I tell him, in Russian, not American English.
His eyes drink me in, concerned and confused but curious all the same, and I find myself lost in his expression. At the focus of my gaze, his face makes me lose sight of the rest of the world.
It's almost... peaceful.
And then, all of a sudden, the face swishes out of sight and is replaced by the butt of a gun. The bear man is nursing his head, groaning as the feeling of the snow against his roaring head sends shocks up his body.
A gasp escapes my lips. I notice that they were reluctant to pull apart, and I think I've torn away some of the skin at the corner of my mouth.
"Natalia." says a disappointed voice from by my side. My breathing has steadied automatically, my spine straightening now and my feet steadying on the ground. The voice's owner touches my shoulder.
"Have I lost the game?" I ask, this time in my best English.
The voice lets slip a sigh, and then its hand places something into mine. A feminine touch, someone I know well. She has to move my finger into position, because I don't know quite where the trigger is for this model, but when she releases her grip I make sure not to drop it, or slip my hand out of position. I know I shouldn't be holding the gun, but if I let go of it, things will be worse.
"Dima says not until the summertime." I protest.
"It is almost summer." the woman assures me. My pigtails are swinging slightly and I notice I am shuffling from foot to foot. I can't shoot this man. Maybe if I had a knife, something small like they teach us to play with at the compound, maybe then I could kill him. Or hurt him, at least. For all the sparring with the other girls and the training with the weapons, I don't have a real death to my name just yet. Stabbing him might just be feasible. But I can't shoot this man. I look down at the ground in what I hope comes across as shame. Madame Letova has to know that I am trying. That I am angry at what I cannot do. That's how you play the game - you run, and if you don't run fast enough, you lose. But you must not show that you are sad about performing badly. You must be angry at what you cannot do.
The woman raises my arm for me. She is looking at me expectantly, patient but forcefully so, as if she has to remember not to punish me for my non-compliance.
"Shoot the man lisichka." she says gently.
I'm still not looking up, and I think Letova knows that I'll miss horrendously if I actually try to shoot the bear man. I'm not so good with a gun yet. Sighing now, her hands make their way around my hand and prop it up; a finger slithers down to rest by mine on the trigger, and the last bone of it settles a little bit further on the body of the gun than mine.
"Don't look away." she says, though she's not checking to see whether my head has turned. I am watching all-right, encapsulated by the features of the surprised man in front of me. The fingers of the hand supported by Letova's pop into my line of sight, and I see they are bluer than I thought they were. My eyes settle back on the man. His eyes are pleading.
Madame Letova adjusts her aim slightly, then, together with me, pulls the trigger. Blood splatters onto my face and I can imagine it spread out on my cheeks, like a second set of freckles.
I am five years old.
I should know not to talk to strangers.
Second part next week!
