Natasha does remember her parents, but it's foggy. The details in her memories are random. Her father's face has faded, but his voice, deep and comforting, remains, singing her to sleep. Her mother's hair used to be as bright as her own, but it grew into a lovely auburn as she got older. Natasha's father used to take her out in the woods beyond the fence, though it was illegal and she couldn't have been more than six. He'd carry her on his shoulders and point out berries and herbs and even let her taste them, if they were any good. He was the one who taught her how to hunt and set snares.
One time, on a sunny, warm day, after a good hunt, they had walked right into a patch of yellow and purple wild flowers. Natasha had squealed in delight and soon she had an armful of them. She skipped along with her father the rest of the way home. She had seen her mother's face light up in the window as she took the two in, strolling through the Meadow. Her mother was delighted, putting the flowers in the vase and moving excitedly around the kitchen, skinning and preparing their bounty with her father.
They had lived on a house just on the edge of the Seam. Natasha still passed it from time to time. They were such a happy little family. Another warm, sunny day, her parents asked a friend, Melinda May, to watch her. Melinda was young then, a few years younger than her own parents. They left her with hugs and kisses and promises to be back soon, but Natasha could feel it in the air, like a storm brewing. Even at only seven, she could sense a change. It was three days before the concerned Melinda May got the news. The Romanoff's escape plan failed, the couple was killed only nine miles past the border.
Natasha remembers it. Not like the other, happy memories. She remembers it vividly. She remembers the optimistic and bright-eyed young adult May used to be, kneeling down to Natasha's height, taking the small girl's shoulders, looking her in the eye and explaining, carefully, why her parents weren't coming home. Then answering the inquisitive young girl's questions. Then hugging her to her chest and whispering soft, comforting things and stroking her hair when it finally clicked and the feeling set in. When Natasha realized that her parents were never coming back.
That feeling was very similar to this one. Except, she's the one who's not coming back.
Natasha can feel the eyes on her, but she doesn't look at Clint, or Grant, or Leo. Especially not sweet little Jemma, or her mask of indifference would crack and she would break down then and there.
"Natasha Romanoff?" Maria Hill says, looking around to find the new tribute.
Bobbi, nice as she is, grabs Natasha's hand and gives it a quick squeeze. It's enough to get Natasha out of her stupor, and it prompts her to start walking. She makes it to the large clearing between the boys' pen and the girls' pen when a sob breaks out amongst the silent, solemn crowd.
"'Tasha! 'Tasha!" Jemma runs over and clings to the older girl's skirt, hindering her pace.
"Jemma, go find mom," she says, gently but forcibly shoving the small, crying girl in Melinda's direction.
"No, don't go! Please, don't go, 'Tasha!" Peace Keepers are walking over now and Natasha's anxiety level rises exponentially. Strong arms lift Jemma away, but it's Grant who has her, whispering calm words in her hair and walking backwards as he pulls his kicking, sobbing sister away. The older girl doesn't miss the look he gives her.
Natasha turns back to the stage, back to the pink smile of Maria Hill, back to the concerned face of the Mayor. Numbness sets in and she walks on autopilot up the stairs attached to the stage, even lets Maria take her hand when Natasha stumbles a bit.
She finds Melinda's face in the crowd near the back of the square. The look of anguish on the usually stoic woman's face and Barney's concerned expression next to her makes the girl rip her gaze away. She can't look at her siblings, or Clint. She finds Bobbi instead, who's look of contained hope only acts to confuse Natasha, instead of break her heart.
Maria give a breathy smile. "Well, then. On to the boys." Her bright pink heals clicked as she walked over to the glass ball. She certainly knows how to create suspense, Natasha thought, eyeing the escort while trying to distract herself from... well, everything else. She draws a name and opens it when she gets in front of the microphone. She clears her throat and -
"Leopold Fitz!"
The world seems to stop spinning. Natasha knows it doesn't, but the feeling in her chest is like the sky falling and crushing her. It's suffocating and she can't seem to get enough air and the silence, the silence -
Even the rowdy bettors in the back, gambling on Natasha and how far she'd make it in the Games a moment before are silent. Because it's a twelve-year-old going into the bloodbath. Because it's the broken, little family full of orphaned kids that's getting broken apart, like their families have already done so much of. The other twelves part, leaving the stunned boy there, mouth hanging open slightly. He pales, closes his mouth, and puts his shoulders back, taking one step, than another. Jemma's cries are louder, like gunshots compared to the eerie silence of the crowd.
Leo is about halfway to the stage. No one's moved. Natasha hasn't even breathed, and she exhales slowly, trying to keep calm despite the panick swelling in her chest, the voice in her head screaming, No, no, no, this can't happen, Leo couldn't have been called, his name's only in there once and he'll be killed, the other tributes only have to have a knife, only have to be bigger than him and he'll die in the Arena. Her head spins and she feels faint, but a quick glance at the monitors throughout the square shows her face only expresses mild concern.
The curly-haired boy passes the front of the pens, where the eighteens are gathered. Leo falters in his step, looking toward the older boys, and as Natasha follows his gaze she can see a slight disturbance in the crowd. Clint only has to shove the first few boys out of his way, and the other part and create a straight path for him to Leo. Natasha reflects briefly on the possibility of them recognizing that Clint, and his brother, are part of the family whose odds are not in their favor today, and then she wonder what Clint is doing. Saying goodbye? Not with that walk, that determination, that look in his eye as he reaches Leo that says that he's accepted an early death -
"I volunteer!" Clint announces broadly, stepping a bit in front of Leo, a hand on the younger boy's shoulder.
"Oh, I think we have a volunteer," Maria says with a somewhat shocked smile. Natasha's gaze is glued on the boys now, and she can't look away, though it doesn't matter as much because he's not even looking at her. He's looking at Leo, giving him a reassuring smile - and was that a wink? - as though he's protecting him from nothing more dangerous than a shot, as though he isn't saving the other boy's life, let alone sentencing himself to his own death.
"That's just lovely," Maria continues, because her world isn't shattering around her. "But I believe that we're supposed to introduce the reaping winner, and then -"
"What does it matter?" Natasha hears the mayor say from behind her. His voice sound regretful and a bit pained. She wonder's if he recognizes her and Clint, those kids who deliver the fresh strawberries his wife loves? Or if he recognizes Grant, his son's best friend? Or maybe he recognizes Leo and Jemma as the little kids they used to be, almost a decade ago, when the mine accident killed their parents and left them with Melinda. Either way, he recognizes some aspect of the family, and knows enough about the others to know that this will be one of the worst reapings in District 12, since the year the twins went. "What does it possibly matter? Let him come forward."
Clint shoots Leo another smile over his shoulder as he walks forward. He tries to mimics the confidence of the Careers as they proudly volunteer, though he's the only volunteer that most of the crowd can remember. He steps up and even gives Maria a grin.
"Well, bravo! That is the spirit of the Games!" Maria gushes. She's probably only pleased to finally have a district with some excitement going on, Natasha thinks bitterly, and her dislike for Maria Hill strengthens into what might very well be hate. "What's your name?"
"Clint Barton," he says, looking at the crowd, his resolve only wavering when he meets Barney's eyes. To his credit, Clint doesn't look away, just gives him a nod.
"Well, well, well. Come on everybody, let's give a cheer for our newest tribute!" Not one soul applauds. District 12 is shrouded in silence. Natasha muses that she could drop one of her hair pins right now, and she could hear it bounce on the stage. Maria Hill looks at the people staring at the stage, a bit disappointed and with a look of disbelief - How could the entire audience be so rude? - and takes a breath to begin speaking. But she stops short when the crowds begins.
Natasha can't tell what sets it off. A lot of those people she recognizes from trading in the Hob, or from school, or vaguely as they give their condolences to her, or to Grant, to Jemma or Leo all those times when hope was lost. A lot of those people know Clint, with his charm, wit, and simply good nature, who often helps the merchants move crates or spares what little money he has for himself on the poor young kids who can't yet get work.
If the silence is an act of defiance towards the Capitol, then the entire crowd, first one, then another, pressing their three middle fingers to their lips and holding it out to the two tributes is a declaration of love. And the gesture does, in fact, mean that. It means goodbye, Natasha thinks, to someone dear to you. But Natasha isn't dear, and neither is Clint. But maybe, him volunteering for her brother made him dear? She's already going to lose her life, she shouldn't have to lose family as well. But Clint is family. And now he's something precious, maybe, to the district.
Maria clears her throat. "All right, then." She continues on with something about the Treaty of Treason. Natasha keeps sneaking glances at Clint, but with the way he times his glances at her, he's not trying to be sneaky.
Maria Hill makes them shakes hands as Hydra anthem plays, and with her heart in her throat, Natasha takes his hand in her smaller and paler hand firmly, looking into his blue eyes. And wondering. So, who's going to kill you?
A/N: Okay. I would just like to say thank you to those who have read, favorite, and followed. A special thanks to the guest, nightmoon1024, and thewatchtower300341 for reviewing. I will be posting within two week, or in less time than that. If I haven't, then I've been eaten by a shark, or taken hostage by a foreign government, or hit on the head by a falling coconut and can no longer remember who I once was. Thanks again for taking the time to read this. Goodnight.