A/N: Warning for graphic depictions of violence. I also wanted to note that I read several BW comics in preparation for this chapter to better understand what was going on in the Red Room, so if you've read those you'll see some elements in here.

The Red Room Academy, Moscow, 1988

"This should be enough," the blonde woman hummed approvingly, standing between thick wood pillars at the base of a grand staircase. Constricted by her form fitting deep green blazer, her arms folded over her long skirt in a perfect V formation, "you ladies did well, collecting all these girls," she said, addressing her comrades present in the room.

"Thank you, Madame B," the women bowed their heads in unison.

Two months ago, the Russian military commander had been granted a high honour by the top tier of Department X: to create a new branch of their esteemed female training program that aimed to strengthen the intelligence force of the Soviet Union. After their loss in the Second World War, their intelligence agencies ceased to rest, working relentlessly to plant sleeper agents in every major capital city of the world over the last 40 years. Now it was time to pervade opponents with an advanced breed of spy.

Once she had been given her task she sent her team throughout the Soviet Union and China, raiding orphanages and taking those who showed promise. The product of those journeys was a set of 28 little girls formed in rows before them, awkwardly shuffling their tiny feet along the scarlet carpet that lined the monumental foyer of the Red Room Academy. Warmly illuminated by the incandescent lights, the girls appeared bathed and groomed, all donning identical navy pinafore dresses overtop light collared shirts, black shoes and braided ponytails.

"Girls," she began, as her comrades began speaking along with her in various languages, translating her greeting, "welcome to the Academy. You are all very lucky that we have chosen you to be a part of our family," she smiled tenderly.

Her hips swayed confidently as she stepped closer to them–a motion that, unbeknownst to them, would be adopted by all who survived to the end of their time there. Eyes scanning each row, she studied the faces of every one of her new recruits, their features etched with fear and uncertainty. They all shared an air of resignation; none of them had anyone who would be searching for them, and they knew it. There was so much potential–it pleased her to no end.

"Do they have names?" she turned to one of her comrades.

"Some of them do, Madame B."

"We'll start with her," she demanded, gesturing towards a cherubic redhead with a delicately pointed chin and luminous green eyes.

"Natalia Alianova Romanova. She was delivered to us by a soldier who claims he found her in Volgograd. Her origins are...very unclear. "

"Perfect."

They moved swiftly down the rows, with Madame B's comrades stating names and origins as much as their tome of stolen paperwork could provide. The more information missing, the more the commander's excitement sizzled. Blank slates meant they could create the ideal shapeshifter, agile apex predators with knowledge of the world's diplomatic structures that they would eventually burn to the ground.

When they arrived at the end of the line, the matriarch's bubble burst and she bristled briefly at the battered state of the final child.

"Her name is Li San Sing."

The tiny figure pointed her round face up at the adults examining her, hands fidgeting behind her back. Upon closer inspection, bruises could be seen under her left eye and littered down her arms. Madame B gently stroked the girl's plump cheek with the backs of her fingers, "morning star. Beautiful name."

"She was given an English name," her comrade commented, flipping through the paperwork, "Stella. The orphanage hoped she would be adopted by an American family."

"She doesn't fit the parameters I gave you–she's puny."

"Yes, but she is a defiant child. All the others ran off hiding as we stormed the facility, but she stayed in her place."

"Defiant, maybe," the commander replied skeptically, "or she is acclimatized to being afraid. Did the other orphans do this to you?" She turned over the girl's arms to inspect the bruises.

"She says yes."

Madame B pondered for a moment before looking back down at the child.

"Once we're finished with you, no one will do this to you ever again."

1996

"Again, Natasha. One and–"

"Wait, Master Sterelny," Natasha huffed over the orchestral music, hands raised towards the bun her hair, "I need to readjust my pin."

"Hurry up, then. Now, one and two and..."

Piqué, arabesque, piqué, arabesque, piqué. The redhead glided across the rehearsal studio, her black wrap skirt fluttering in her self-made breeze. Around the room she went, occasionally glancing at herself in the mirrors and flashing a satisfied grin.

"Again. Two more minutes."

"Sterenly," Madame B's stern voice filled the room through the ajar door, "is the serum still taking effect?" she asked.

He grunted an affirmative, "45 minutes strong, but I expect it to begin wearing off soon."

Pushing the door open, the matriarch entered the small doctor's surgery, the walls an off white hue with a few standard medical tools hung along the walls. Sitting in the corner was her colleague, holding a stopwatch and observing the chair adjacent to him where a 12-year old Natasha sat, eyes open, ensnared in a waking dream.

She shifted her attention to the single ballerina piqué-ing across the television stationed in front of the girl. "Excellent. When it is done leave her here until evening meal. Meet me for a debrief in my office in two hours."

She returned to the hallway and exited through a pair of double doors into a small courtyard lined with grey stone columns and perfectly planted trees. Awaiting her were 14 girls from the cohort standing in a circle wearing identical white uniforms. As part of their training, once a day half the Widows were selected to engage in hand-to-hand combat, monitored by the matriarch. After years of combat exercises today's group proved particularly strong, with the smallest girl, Stella, surprisingly displaying a mixture of aggression, agility and forethought into her moves.

After deeming the first round a success, Madame B decided that she would begin the next level of training today.

"Ok, we will go again. Stella and Tatyana, take your positions."

Stella glanced across the circle at her contemporary, the lanky strawberry blonde who she saw everyday in the dining hall and during classes. She and Tatyana used to tolerate one another, but their relationship soured when the two were often pitted against together during these training sessions. With Tatyana being the tallest of the cohort and Stella the shortest, their constant pairing was much to Stella's chagrin; perhaps it was the insecurity about her petite stature that led to Tatyana winning every time.

The fight began as usual, with Stella wrestling with the blonde, Tatyana's long outstretched arms forcing the crown of her head down, obstructing her ability to see and causing her to struggle to make her next move. Feet planted to the ground, she tried using her body to push back to no avail, then resorted to trying to pry the fingers off her head.

"I win again," Tatyana sneered, eliciting a few giggles from the circle before they were shushed.

Stella growled in frustration. As she jostled her head left and right, her memory reminded her of the aftermath of the last time she found herself in the same predicament.

Wind spun around Stella's tiny figure like a tornado as she sat in the middle of the courtyard with her head between her propped knees. The air was frigid but she didn't care – her mind was occupied by another loss. Minutes had passed since Tatyana bested her again and the girls were dismissed. She knew she didn't stand a chance of winning, but it didn't help that the rest of them acted superior to her when she failed. Most of the Widows had gone back inside for lunch, save for one person, whose presence she felt alongside her on the concrete.

"Are you crying?" Natasha was right next to her ear.

"No," she said through gritted teeth.

"Come on, everyone has left," the redhead pried her arm from around her leg but she snatched it back.

"Stop trying to help me."

"I'll always help you," Natasha replied, resting her head on the brunette's shoulder, "we're sisters."

Stella poked her head up just high enough to peer over, "we're not really sisters, though."

Natasha stood up and sighed, "please let me help you? I'm sure you're embarrassed everytime you lose, otherwise you wouldn't be here crying. Let me at least show you what I think you should do next time the giant grabs your head."

Using both hands, Stella gripped Tatyana's wrists, swinging on her taut arms like a set of monkey bars, and slid along the concrete, knocking the girl's legs out from under her. Somersaulting backwards, Stella pushed her back down on the ground and straddled her upper body, knees atop her arms, and delivered punch after punch until Tatyana found the strength to kick herself up, knocking Stella over. Quick to recover, she grabbed the back of Tatyana's shirt with her bloodied hand, pulling them back down together and wrapping both arms around the blonde's head with as much pressure as she could muster.

This moment had to be it, the impasse where the match would be put to a halt before survival instincts kicked in. Stella locked eyes with Madame B, waiting for the ceasefire signal.

Instead, the matriarch moved her arms in a cradling motion.

Mimicking the action, Stella twisted her body with a heave of her shoulders, feeling the crunch of bone shifting in the crook of her elbow. The combined sensations knocked the air from her lungs, eliciting a wheeze as she fell backwards onto the ground, her soft stomach the final resting place of her fellow Widow. Sonic tones blasted through her ears from an adrenaline rush that seemed eager to stay coursing through her veins. She sensed the presence of two adults approaching them, hunching over Tatyana before carrying her away. Eyes rolling around the courtyard, she saw the remaining girls still sitting around the ring, but their bodies recoiled from her, horror splashed over their faces.

"Tatyana is the first one to go," Madame B finally piped up, "and I'm sorry to say this girls, but there will be more of you. It may be by chance, a wrong move, or your opponent may be superior to you in strength and wit," the energy in the courtyard stirred as the girls looked to one another, unsettled, "but this is what we're preparing you for. You are all dismissed. Wash up for supper."

The floor rumbled from the footsteps exiting the courtyard, the tremors of which rattled Stella's bones. She was unaware of how much time had lapsed while she lay there on the cement, but it couldn't have been long because the matriarch hadn't gone back inside, instead gingerly walking over to the girl and crouching over, curiously gazing down like she was observing a rat in a lab experiment.

"The more you do it, the more it will feel like a game," the woman's voice was severely muffled by the ringing in Stella's ears, "this is how we win, Stella," her hand faintly touched the girl's face, "вставать." Get up.

/

The evening meal bell rang shrilly, breaking Stella from her waking nightmare as she lay in bed, alone in the shared sleeping quarters. She lethargically rolled over, her legs like rocks falling onto the wood floor, the rest of her body following. Knowing she would be punished for wearing a blood-speckled shirt to dinner, she sluggishly changed into an identical white shirt in the bathroom before trudging out into the hallway.

Entering the dining room, she took a tray and joined the queue. She detected the presence of the other Widows around her, but was distracted by the sensation of the metal prodding the crooks of her elbow and how it reminded her of the whole bone and flesh that was clamped there not an hour ago. She felt the usual weight of a bowl of clear broth and a chunk of bread being placed on her tray and she turned her attention to finding a place to sit. Staring blankly around the room, her brain barely registered the other girls' faces, but she felt a twist of agitation whenever anyone from this afternoon's session eyed her from afar. Scanning the room further, her gaze rested on one of the tables that hadn't filled up yet, occupied by a single redhead. That's when she decided she didn't want to sit with anyone from today's match, and made a b-line for the table, not caring to regard the grunts and glares she received when she bumped shoulders with anyone along the way. She sat down directly in front of Natasha, and much to her displeasure, a few other Widows joined them, preoccupied by their meals.

The dining room was meant to be silent; the girls knew to stay quiet and eat, but they would all test the waters, whispering to one another when a chair was dragged across the wooden floor or a tray clanged against a table.

Natasha looked up from her bowl as Stella sat and her face lit up at the sight of the brunette. "I had a private lesson at the Bolshoi," she whispered, her lips barely moving, "the instructor, Master Sterenly said I have a bright future."

Stella stared across the table blankly, a barely-there sensation tingling in her chest. She wondered what Natasha had done to be rewarded a ballet class, while she was forced to do what she she simply born bad? Maybe it was meant to be; the burn of anger that permanently resided in her heart must have been visible to Madame B all this time.

Instead of returning Natasha's glittering eyes with a response, she picked up her bowl and sipped on the broth, the cold liquid bringing no relief as it squeezed around the imaginary rock that had grown in her stomach. She placed the bowl back on the tray before pushing the entire thing away.

Natasha looked down at the untouched bread and half sipped broth, "you should eat that."

"I'm not hungry."

Green eyes darting around, the redhead caught the expressions of the five other girls at the table–a mix of skittishness and judgement directed at the brunette.

"What hap—"

She was cut off by the chiming of the bell that ended dinner. In unison, all the girls stood from their chairs and lined themselves up to be escorted from the dining hall to the showers. Stella could feel Natasha's eyes boring into the back of her head and the occasional graze of her wrist, but she didn't dare look back.

Sleep eluded Stella that evening, her memories of that afternoon taking place of what little dreams she had already. She whimpered and turned incessantly, jangling the handcuffs that held her in place against the metal bed frame. Tatyana's pale face was invisible to her that afternoon before she snapped her neck, but in the dream she could see the kill head on. The blonde's eyes were wide and her mouth was gaping. Tears were spilling down her cheeks, yes, Stella could feel the wetness on her forearm, the droplets cascading off her skin by the force of Tatyana's breath. Then she felt water on her face. Was it raining and she hadn't noticed?

She jolted awake. Blinking her eyes, hot droplets dripped down her face and neck. She whimpered in an uncontrollable act of self pity.

"Are you crying?" a tiny voice whispered from her left. Natasha was always a light sleeper.

"No," she responded weakly, free arm wiping her face with the sleeve of her white nightgown.

Natasha rolled over, handcuffs slipping down, allowing her to lay at the very edge of the bed, "next time, you go to the Bolshoi. Whatever you had to do today – I'll do it in your place, ok? Stella?"

Met with silence, she extended her left leg as far as she could, her foot rubbing against her sister's calf, where it would remain until morning.