Subject Age: 13 years, 4 months
Red Wolf.
That is Blue Eyes name. She wears her scars like badges of honor, not symbols of failure. A curious thing. She carries herself with an unnamed confidence that makes almost everyone subtly flinch away.
Everyone except the Black Widow. Because she carries herself with an equal amount of confidence, perhaps with a touch more egotism. A potent combination that makes most of her opponents incredibly wary when the time came to face her. But not the Wolf.
After their first sparring session, a rivalry had developed between the two. Their fighting styles are similar—they both favor cool cunning over brute strength to beat their opponents. However, the Wolf achieves victory by delivering strategically placed blows that slowly incapacitate the opponent while the Widow is known throughout the compound for her uniquely acrobatic-style combat that is quickly becoming the envy of the other students and the trainers alike.
The Widow notices that many of her peers have been attempting to replicate the style, but none of them can quite achieve what she can. Besides, she thinks with an arrogant smile, she's been training in her form of combat since before she could remember.
Today is no different. The red-haired assassin walks in to the gym, early as always, and finds her sparring partner from the assignment sheet posted next to the door.
Black Widow—Lioness
Disappointment that she will not be facing the Wolf that day tweaks for a moment. It's followed quickly by confidence sweeping through her. Pure exhilaration surges. The Lioness is a large girl. Even at their relatively young age, the girl with corn silk hair and violent mahogany eyes towers above the rest of the others at six feet tall, and every inch of those six feet is solidly packed with large muscles. Easily one of the strongest girls the Widow has ever seen.
Her strength and size are her only redeeming qualities. She isn't particularly fast or agile, and the Widow plans to exploit that. She's only sparred with the Lioness once, but she'd been unable to keep pace with the Widow's prehensile skill.
She is the first one to the sparring gym every morning. Not even the Wolf can beat her. She is a naturally early riser, and without having to have an escort to her destination any more (a privilege she will never, ever take for granted), she is free to arrive at whatever time she so desires. And most of the time that means 0530 hours when hand-to-hand began at 0630.
In the early hours of dawn, the Widow practices. Usually just simple boxing with punching bags that would leave her knuckles battered and bloody by the time practice officially began. She was tempted to tape them the first time it had happened, the bruised knuckles a slight annoyance. But nothing, nothing, could beat the look of complete and utter intimidation on the face of her opponent that day when the saw her strut onto the mats with bright red blood running down her hands and a feral look it her eye.
She doesn't allow herself the luxury of tape. She is not irreplaceable, but she will show them that she is unique. She will show them that she is the best. The bloody, bruised knuckles is merely a bold statement to her peers that pain and blood and violence do not scare her.
Today is not one of those days. The Widow calmly does her warm-up stretches like she always does, watching her reflection bend and reach in the wall of mirrors, clad in the skin-tight black suit the trainers had given to her not too long ago. She soon begins to practice a few moves she has picked up from fighting the others—the Wolf in particular. She wishes that she could do weapons training, but the trainers are sure to keep those safe somewhere. Never know what might happen in a facility full of assassins.
A practice dummy, its body a canvas of precision targets, is the subject of the Widow's calculated flurry of kicks and punches to those places on the body that would drop a 200-pound man in seconds. This style is an interesting way to fight, but she much prefers her own aerial fighting. Her blood flows, her heart races, her muscles bunch and release and the exhilaration is amazing in its simple pleasure.
She revels in the physical challenge.
As she jabs her heel into the dummy's ribcage, she hears a chuckle from at least 20 feet behind her. "Your lines are sloppy. You need to be sharper if you want to be effective." Natasha doesn't turn, only stares at the dummy. The Wolf likes to criticize.
"And yet, I've still beaten you more times than you've beaten me when we spar," Widow throws back, finally turning. The Wolf scowls. The Widow grins.
"I'm the only one who has beaten you. So," The Wolf says, "I'm adjusting to your peculiar fighting style."
"You'd like to think so."
The Wolf shakes her head. "Always with the pride, Widow. I find your lack of humility refreshing."
"When you've got nothing to be humiliated about, it's hard to act like you do, Wolf."
"I was under the impression they were attempting to teach you that."
Widow laughs, "You're a funny one." The Wolf is the only one she considers a match for her. She is smaller than Widow, only by an inch or two. She keeps her black hair short, the tips brushing her ears. Sometimes it falls over her face, but she tosses it back in place with a practice flick of her head. Her blue eyes are hard, but that's nothing new. All of her peers seem hard.
"I aim to please," Wolf says, lips quirking into a reluctant smile. "Are we sparring today? They seem to like pitting us against one another."
"They're just sick of watching everyone I fight get their ass handed to them on a silver platter." Widow stops a beat, walking further from the Wolf. "I got put with Lioness today."
Wolf actually looks disappointed. She turns away, headed back towards the sparring assignments.
The Widow doesn't watch her go.