A/N: I'll keep this brief. Next chapter's a/n will be longer.

Enjoy. R&R and thanks!


Chapter 7: First Position

Katja takes her to the theatre and being outside is overwhelming. Fresh, crisp air makes Milas's head dizzy, but it's a discomfort and a high she relishes. Winter's still in swing, and the chill and snowflakes kiss her cheeks. Katja threatened to kill her not even ten minutes before, but Milas is smiling. For a brief while, she is just another little girl in the city catching snowflakes with her tongue.

Katja catches her with her tongue out and shoots her an annoyed look. "Cut that out."

Milas almost argues to let her be and that she hasn't tasted outside for such a length of time in years. She stops herself, thank goodness. Unlike 17, Milas hasn't spent the last four years in a HYDRA facility. No, she's an ingenious orphan from Dresden with a wealthy Russian uncle who is deep in the pockets of high-up politicians.

Their walk is less than an hour, and they come to the steps of the of the Bolshoi Theatre. Milas reckons the structure appears majestic at night with the lights bouncing off the pillars, giving it a royal as well as holy vibe to onlookers and visitors alike.

She is not shown around but taken immediately to a compartment behind the stage and ordered to remove her clothes except for her underwear. Hazy flashbacks of her arrival to the facility hits her, knowing her position could be worse. She won't be completely naked, and there's not a male guard anywhere to be seen. Her coat and sweater fall to the floor, followed by her boots and trousers, telling herself to not appear vulnerable with Katja who looks famished to give a beating.

Without the layers, the backroom is cold, and goosebumps surface on Mila's skin which worsen with Katja begins to run her hands over her body. It's not sexual, Milas decides but explorative nonetheless. The older girl is primitively getting her measurements as well as searching for physical defects. Katja comes to the scars on her hipbone and her forearm and asks what happened.

"I can't remember," she answers honestly.

Her fingers linger on her hip. "Do you know what it means?"

"Yes."

Katja momentarily removes her hands. "Are you a witch, Milas?"

"I have a skill that unnerves people."

"Oh." Blonde eyebrows creep up to Katja's hairline. "What is it? My superiors didn't say."

"I'm sure it was wouldn't," says Milas.

The girl's expression is bemused, returning her hands to Milas's body, but with rougher strokes. "You're posture needs improvement, and I can tell you contract your core when practicing high-kicks. Your legs are strong." Katja clenches Milas's thighs but then touches the small of her back, between her shoulder blades, and then her lower abdomen. "But you need strength here, here, and here. All in all, I think your biggest challenge will be your turnout."

"All right."

"Face away from me. Extend your right leg backwards."

Milas complies, and Katja sighs. "Point your toes and rotate the front of your leg to the side."

That feels extremely uncomfortable, but she does it, and Katja grabs her ankle and lifts.

"Keep your hips square and stop leaning back."

"I'm going to fall over."

"Then stop leaning. Keep your posture straight and direct your thoughts to your core, Milas. Other leg."

Milas finds her left leg is not as flexible as her right, but she channels her focus to her tummy. Katja clicks her tongue. "You're sickle-footing."

"Sorry."

"Fix it."

She rotates her ankle outwards, and her leg is lowered.

"Face me," orders Katja. "Keep your legs together and parallel."

Once Milas is in position, the older girl continues. "Keep your heels touching. Fan out your feet. Turn them out as broadly as you can."

Milas adjusts and then grimaces. Compared to the beautiful, elegant women in her new book, her feet are awful. And she doesn't have to read Katja's mind to know she's thinking the same thing.

"As suspected, your turnout needs work. Every martial art style and the rudimentary gymnastics training you know will not prepare you for class tomorrow. As you establish the technique and develop it, the way you fight, think, react will change. Ballet is going to intensify your skills and prevent damage to your body in the future."

Katja tells her to stay put, and she darts into an adjoining office. When she comes back, she's holding two boxes, one thin and flat, the other thick and rectangular. On top of that, is a folded pair of new pink tights which she unravels first and instructs Milas to put on. Next comes the thin flat box which is the plain black leotard. It stretches too snugly and modestly over her torso and shoulders. Lastly, the pink canvas slippers.

"How do they fit?" asks Katja and then invasively runs her finger from the sewn edge neighboring her crotch to her hip bone. "The leotard. Is it cutting here?"

"Yes."

"Good. It should fit more comfortably when we get you down to training weight. Remove everything, and put them in your suitcase and get your clothes on."

"Training weight?"


There's a tunnel below the stage, and Milas is led down it and into a hallway which smells of perfume and cigarette smoke. Up ahead, there are open doors, astoundingly beautiful young women casually leaning against the frames, cigarettes either wedged between fingers or lips. Milas side glances into one of the rooms, a moan catching her attention, and sees two girls on the top bunk of a bunkbed doing…oh.

Milas whips her eyes forward, a warm blush heating her cheeks.

She hears another moan come from two other rooms, but as she journeys further down the hall, she believes the girls get younger and younger and less…noisy. She shifts her mind into a more focused area, wondering which girl will try to kill her first. Earlier on the train, she remembered 54 and what she did. Milas knows she needs to be on the defense always.

The room she's taken to, like the others, the door is open. Unlike the others, no one is smoking. There are three girls in the room, and Milas swallows the anxiety toiling in her stomach. Instantly, the memory of 54's hands wrapped around her neck summersaults forward, and she can't help but think whoever tries to kill her will likely be one of the three girls.

There are two bunkbeds in the room, and the first girl Milas sees is on top of one, a gigantic tome in her lap. She looks about nine or ten. The second one is on the floor, wrapping one of her calves. The other calve is wrapped with an ice bag harnessed to it, and she definitely looks no younger than thirteen. The third girl is at the one and single desk with a 700 series HP. She looks a solid ten years old.

Unlike the older girls, none of her roommates are particularly pretty. Yet. The one the floor isn't bad looking, but she's got braces, too, and a strong case of t-zone inflammation.

"Girls," begins Katja, "say hello to Milas."

Only the one on the floor looks up but to glare at Katja and tell her to fuck off in Finnish. From Katja's expression, she has no idea what the girl said but does knows it's likely rude.

"Milas," Katja says, her tone flat, "Taru, Damdinsuryn, and Natalia. The dresser is over there where you can put your things. This is where I leave you."

Questions wish to fling themselves from her tongue, but Milas watches helplessly as Katja stalks down the hallway, her posture flawed from tension thick in her shoulder region.

Milas looks back into the room. None of the girls are staring at her or acknowledging her in anyway. She steps a foot over the threshold and then another. She circles Taru and goes to the dresser. There is four and each drawer is occupied is full.

"Don't touch our things," snaps Taru in Russian.

"I need to—"

"Don't. Touch. Our things."

Milas looks at the bottom drawer, open and full, and then back at Taru. The girl's taller than Milas and likely outweighs by at least ten pounds, but she's not scary. Milas came from scary. She knows hell is coming for her in this KGB program, but she refuses to let something as pathetic as her attitude to become a part of it.

Not saying a word, she dips her chin and sets her suitcase beside the dresser.

"Which bed is mine?" she asks.

Natalia, with one hand hitting the keyboard, points her other to the bottom bunk that Damdinsuryn isn't sitting on. Milas takes a moment to consider the girl, her hair fiery red. She's not pretty…yet. As she assessed before, none of them are. Natalia looks like she hasn't grown into her nose or ears yet, and her green eyes look too small for her face given her pale lashes.

Damdinsuryn is pale for a Mongolian—Milas guesses that's her nativity and wonders how long she's been cooped up inside. Baby fat clings to Damdinsuryn, especially in the cheeks, and Katja had gone on and on about the importance of training weight back in the changing room. Aside from Milas, the girl must be the newest one here regardless of sunlight exposure or lack thereof.

Then there's Taru. Skin so pale, she looks like runs eighty degrees cooler than normal and could freeze a person solid by merely blowing on them. Her eyes are dark blue, and her hair is the color of rose gold. Out of all them, she has the potential to be the loveliest, but the way her mouth sets in a wrinkled pinch and the unfortunate case of acne she's sporting, stops her short.

All four of them are physically different, but they all do have one thing in common.

Milas sits down on the bunk and rides up the hem of her sleeve. She's pale, too. Likely none of them have been outside too much at all, and from what The Baron said, that won't change.

"Do we ever get to go outside?" she chances.

Taru snorts, shaking her head. "I got here two years ago, and I haven't since."

"There are windows in one of the studios," Natalia reveals. "Each group practices there twice a week."

"What's it like out there today?" asks Damdinsuryn, her voice at least two octaves higher than Milas' and Taru's, and four octaves higher than Natalia's. She sounds like a toddler.

She wants to say amazing, but she doesn't want to be cruel even though The Baron's voice inside her head is telling her to be. He's ordering her to brag or point out how pathetic their sun-starved faces look. To show dominance and power. It's a pointless request. How would it better her position but make her hated by these three girls? She should be getting close to them. Gaining their trust and respect. HYDRA is her home, but these girls will be her comrades in the KGB.

"It was," she starts with a smile, "very nice. Cold, but I didn't mind. I haven't got to go outside a whole lot myself, you know."

"Was the sun out?" asks Damdinsuryn. Her book is discarded now, and she's peering down over the railing of her bunk.

"A little bit. It was snowing."

Natalia chuckles, rolling her eyes. "Sounds about right."

"There were…so many smells I had forgotten what a city can smell like in the cold. It's loud, too. Car horns honking. People shouting and laughing." Milas quiets for a moment, a frayed thread shaking loose again in her brain.

"What kinds of smells?" Taru scoots closer.

"Katja and I passed a bakery and cafe. There were people inside eating cake."

Damdinsuryn falls dramatically to her side, the back of her hand on her forehead. She lets out a groan. "I haven't had cake since I don't know when."

Taru lets out an incredulous laugh. "You haven't had cake in forever? You've been here a month."

Milas is in the same boat with Damdinsuryn. There were no desserts at the facility. The sweet things she and other others got to eat was fruit, and that's it. She honestly can't remember the last time she had candy or dessert. At this point, either one would likely make her sick.

"Did you see boys?" Taru's tone goes a little high on that.

Milas stifles a laugh and recalls seeing boys around their age selling newspaper at several street corners. She nods and then something strikes her. Her gaze sweeps over the girls. In how many ways are they closed off from the outside world.

"You've heard the Soviet's fallen, right?" She looks to Damdinsuryn first who lets out an eep-ing sound and catapults off the bed and rushes to close the door.

"Clearly," starts Damdinsuryn, her back pressed against the door, "Katja forgot to tell you to keep your mouth shut about that."

Both Natalia and Taru get to their feet, eyes darting from Damdinsuryn to Milas. "What…what does this mean?" asks Taru.

"They haven't told us anything," says Natalia, and Milas sees the cogs working inside her head. She then sighs, heading back to the chair. "Because nothing has really changed for us."

A solemn expression paints Taru's expression, and she sits down on the bottom bunk of Damdinsuryn's. "Right," she says. She falls back on the mattress, hands tucked behind her head. "You know the first thing I'm going to do when I get out of here?"

"It changes every time you ask," replies Natalia.

"I'm going to France. I'll got to the beach and get sunburnt and eat pastries until I puke." Her mouth quirks. "I might go to a nude beach. I want to see a penis."

"Gross!" Damdinsuryn sticks out her tongue and shudders, and Natalia nods in agreement.

"They're kind of weird looking," Milas pitches.

That gets their attention. Taru shoots her an envious, wide grin. "You've seen one?"

Loads, she about says but thinks better of it. Why, when, where would have Milas seen a boy's doodad? She never had to shower in lavatory with them? Milas comes from money and a respected family with traditional values. There's no reason in the world for her to see any naked body besides her own.

"My cousin," she lies. "Family vacation. Dared him to skinny dip in the pool. Idiot wouldn't back down. Really thought he'd go for truth, you know?"

"Oh! Let's play truth or dare!" squeals Taru, and Natalia suddenly looks exhausted.

"It's almost lunch." Natalia swivels her gaze to Milas. "For some of us."


There is a kitchen and dining area not too far down the hallway. When Milas enters, she's stumped. It's an actual kitchen-not a cafeteria-with an attached dining area. There's a sink, refrigerator, stove, oven, microwave, cupboards, etc. Natalia dives down to one of the lower cupboards and extracts a teakettle and huge pot.

"I'll boil the water for the tea and rice," she says.

"Each group takes turns cooking," explains Taru. "Our group…oh, here are the others."

Four more girls show up. Two of them have icepacks strapped to their legs like Taru. The four girls look between eleven and fourteen.

"This is Milas," introduces Taru. "She has to get down to training weight, so she doesn't have to cook."

The oldest of the four girls doesn't even look at her but looks at Damdinsuryn. "Maybe you should get back on that, Damdi. You're looking puffy."

"It's just the way my body looks," Damdinsuryn retorts. "And don't call me that."

"It's not my fault your fat parents or whoever decided to barf the alphabet when naming you."

"Let's stop this now," says Natalia. "We don't want Madam B's whip again, do we?"

That shuts up the girl, but she does roll her eyes and pad over to the cupboard. "I'll you make the fish, Beatrix. Just let me get the spices. New girl," she says, turning to throwing two tea packets at Milas. "Steep these two together and drink for each meal for three days. Lemon water with a pinch of cayenne in between."

"Katja said no solids for just the first two days. Then I can—"

"It'll drop your weight faster. It'll cut you down to seven days instead of ten. Believe me. That fucking leotard will be causing all kinds of friction havoc on your pelvis. The sooner you lose the weight, the happier you'll be. Same goes for you, Damdi."

Damdinsuryn scowls into the cookbook she's reading but doesn't rise to bait. "I think everyone would like a lemon poppy seed sauce with the fish and rice. Hannah, when you're getting the stuff out of the fridge for the salad, grab the lemons."

Milas wandered over to a table, watching the girls work together like a finely tuned machine. Not…all of them are nice to each other. They bicker and toss insults, but there seems to be an underlying sense of a bond based on a deep understanding of one another. When the older girls show up to eat, she wonders if the atmosphere will change, but it doesn't. There's still the bickering and snide comments, but there's no real hostility. There is gratitude from them to the younger bunch who prepared the meal.

A theory comes to mind. She theorizes it's not the girls she has to worry about like she initially thought. She won't say for certain, but she's seventy-five percent sure none of them will try to kill her anytime soon. And if it's not them that's going to make the next seven years hell, then it's going to have be the instructors.

But, really? How much worse can they be than the ones at the facility?

To be Continued...