Dusk is falling on Kiev, clouds weakly smearing the horizon, framing my silhouette in the reflection of the shopkeeper's glasses as she keeps me in her sights while calculating what I owe her. She has two sons in the back who keep finding excuses to be in the shop instead of working, and she's grown exhausted of it. I pay her for my groceries, and she's glad to be rid of me.
Six turns through alleys and behind churches before I am sure I'm not being followed. I abandon the groceries on a doorstep, keeping the paper bag and a candy bar, and continue on until I find the copper door, green with age.
The man and woman inside stand up, he with his hand on his weapon. I show them the bag and what's inside, and they relax.
"You're early," the woman accuses.
I flash a disarming smile, dimples and all, and the man allows me backstage. In the flurry of performers I see two of my sisters preparing for their missions tonight, pulling stockings over stout legs and applying lipstick to thin lips. They see me too, but we only make eye contact for a moment before returning to our assignments.
Natasha's memories were always like this, bizarre combinations of shadows and spotlights. Even now, she's not sure which seconds were accurate. All she knows is the ballets and everything to do with them was a mental decoy, but to cover what, she doesn't always know. After SHIELD worked wonders to deprogram her, and Clint sat up nights helping her sort her thoughts, she'd still have dreams of blood smeared across a stage amidst applause.
Order was important, lining up the "memories" chronologically. Kiev, the bag with the candy bar, she eventually connected to other events, hoping a specific date would form, a grounding rod for a pivotal moment in her life. The "ballet in Kiev" was the night that she met…that she found James.
Standing in the darkened wings, suited in tulle and satin, our faces painted, we await our cue. We stand in an elongated row, the lead girl up front, nearest the stage, the last girl with her heels in the hall. I am four dancers back, head held high in a fixed pose as we are taught to hold; no relaxing just because we are not on display. I can see the lights beyond the lead girl's head, but I cannot see the stage.
Above the music and the paces of performers already onstage, I hear a single footstep. My sister ahead of me does not hear it, my sister behind me does not hold her breath. I'm the only one who knows there is someone unexpected in the shadows with us.
The mildest glint of a metal knuckle and I stare straight ahead, my throat tight and my heart racing like a snared rabbit's.
Seconds pass. The music swallows itself mournfully. The shadows squeeze tighter around me until—
I can feel his breath, but I do not look at him. When he moves I know better than to move, better than to distract him, knowing it's like stepping out of the road when a vehicle hurtles by, it's destination immensely more important than your own. So when the movement grazes my cheek I remain statuesque, but out of the corner of my eye I look.
His right hand made of flesh and blood touches my cheek, fingers gingerly tracing my cheekbone. They trace a curve down the side of my face and under my jaw, and too late I tremble. His hand still touching me, I turn my head incrementally to look into his eyes for an explanation, thinking this is a test, but really not thinking at all.
The eyes gazing back at me show no fury. They are not cold. They are not blank.
The Soldier is admiring me, and not with dilated pupils or calculating lust, but like he's found a piece of art he enjoys, eyes following the trail of his fingers. I hold every muscle still just as I've been doing, watching his eyes as he drags his knuckles back up my cheek.
He hesitates. He sees me looking, and the admiration is drowned. His eyes portray a dilemma, a lost man, a little boy. He drops his hand and I look straight ahead, about to break a bone or strain a muscle from how tightly I hold myself in place. I hear him slip into the wings and I do not look back, but I listen, focusing all my attention on listening through the one ear aimed in his direction.
Our cue sounds, and we advance onto the stage, curtain rising, audience sighing. Throwing my attention into the dance, I forget the Soldier completely. Mind and body stay in the dance, senses stay on the audience, cues taken from fellow dancers, but the side of my face burns throughout the performance.
It all ends. We take our final bows. The girls attend to their missions and I to mine; foreign entertainment. The mark takes me to dinner where I recoil like a flower, pretending at once to not be used to good food while also casting no shadow on the Republic's ability to provide.
I attend him to his hotel, play the flower, act the virgin, treat him to a good time. He's exhausted after one lovemaking and sends me away with what he believes a new outlook on men; cheeks flushed, hair tousled, pure thoughts now smattered with filth. If only all my marks were that easy to please.
These memories didn't hurt as much as the others. She learned quickly what promiscuity was a cover for, that each memory of spreading her legs was actually a fight with an opponent, sometimes an execution, but always a staged trial. They didn't waste the Widows on acts any common girl could do. Still, the violation felt the same.
Pieces fell away from that memory, always did. After the dinner and lovemaking, she forgot what happened next, a large blank space from a hotel room to the cold autumn street.
The stones and pavement shine wetly under the streetlights. Some lights are out, leaving a black void that I feel safer walking through. It feels dangerous to know that whatever waits in the shadows is my equal, that I belong there, that I am the thing awaiting innocent passersby. I shake my head to clear this thought, trying to remember the spotlights and shimmering satin. This can't be who I am.
Still, when the next lamppost is out, I hurry to pass through its gloom.
I'm yanked backward by my elbow, heavy hand over my mouth as I'm dragged sideways into the darkest part of the alley. I halt my defenses not when he pins me to the wall, but when I realize it won't matter anyhow. Breathing heavy into a leather glove, metal fingers gripping my cheek, I brace myself. Light is nonexistent here where the curving wall blocks the view from the street, but I know he's staring into my face. He relaxes the hand over my mouth before moving it to my collarbone, a less threatening way of saying he could snap my neck in an instant. The hand on my arm also relaxes.
Seconds go by. I wait, but he does not speak. My eyes adjust to make out the edges of him. They'll notice me missing if I'm here any longer, but I know why he doesn't let me go.
I swallow hard and speak with a level voice. "Don't tell what isn't asked."
Nothing changes. This may still be a test, despite the person I saw in those eyes. Unlike us, the Soldier was not trained to play parts, but to be the curtain that falls.
"Forgive me, sister."
I bite the inside of my lip. He does not intend to kill me, yet I'm more afraid than ever. I fight not to show it. "Forgiveness is nonessential. There is nothing to forgive."
My skin aches where his metal hand has been resting, and now he takes it off. He lets me go and disappears, again, out of sight.