A/N: Please let me know if you have any thoughts, questions, concerns! I'd love any feedback, know how any readers are vibing so far, what you like and don't like (: Anything to let me know if I'm doing the right thing lmao
⧗ CHAPTER FIFTEEN ⧗
Dmitri had come to accept that therapy did not exist in the official sense in the Red Room. Or the unofficial sense, for that matter. There were no therapists or counselors. Dmitri wasn't sure if there was even a psychiatrist.
The only thing they had by way of coping with their grief of Liza's loss? Hitting each other as hard as they can.
Ksenia had never been particularly merciful before, but Dmitri swore that she'd somehow become even more intense in the following days. And as her favorite punching bag, Dmitri got the worst of it.
He personally didn't find hurting his own sisters to feel particularly cathartic. But Dmitri found the shooting range to be surprisingly helpful — he wasn't sure why. The simple directive of aim and fire, the same target, the same goal each time; he could come by in his free time to improve his aim.
And, with a little practice, Dmitri found that his aim was improving. He couldn't carry the gun the Madame gave him anywhere beyond the range. Where would he keep it? In the dormitory? Where anyone could get it? Dmitri would prefer Ksenia did not have easy access to it.
And the Madame had entrusted the weapon to him. The Tokarev was old enough to still have the soviet star engraved into its grip. Dmitri shouldn't be so willing to pick up the pistol again. Not when every time he looked at that weapon, he was reminded of the last time he saw a star like that.
Red ink on a girl's shoulder. The flash of the muzzle in his face.
But it felt different, the weapon in his hand now. Not pointed at him anymore, but him pointing, aiming, eyeing that target and imagining different faces. Every SHIELD agent who tried to kidnap and hurt him.
Alexander Pierce, who arranged his mother's murder. Who raided their home and watched so calmly as he and his father bled out on the floor.
Mia. Who had shot him first. Who was more than just a girl, more than just a super soldier. Who'd take more than just a bullet to put her down.
He couldn't hold her face on the target — not when he'd seen her tears and knew it wasn't really her behind that gun. But the other her, the brainwashed assassin, the Soldatka. How could Dmitri be sure that she would never come for him again?
His shots always strayed a little off target when he thought of her. Dmitri made a note to think of someone else for class, so his score didn't drop.
Best not to worry about it.
He still wondered why the Madame gave him this. The Tokarev was not functionally any different than the modern weapons that were also available. He didn't need special permission to use any of them, but the attendant returned the same pistol to him without Dmitri asking first. Just known, apparently.
So why, then? He wondered about that other day. What would have happened if he had given the Madame the wrong answer?
Oksana admitted to him, on the third night since Liza's death, that when they lose a sister she repeated their names in her head before she went to sleep. Sabina snuck chocolates from a place she refused to confide, and gave pieces to Rada and Annika. It was the least she could do, she felt.
Dmitri wished he had something to offer. But he wouldn't know where to sneak chocolate. Could only insist they eat during mealtimes, when they appeared to have no appetite. He knew this grief all too well; his mother was still a fresh wound. But sharing that kind of thing seemed inappropriate. A mother was not the same as a sister, one they didn't share.
His final class, in reuniting completely with his grade, was one taught by the Madame. Sociology and Human Behavior, said his syllabus, and when he walked in, that seemed to line up with what he saw.
The classroom was filled with diagrams on the wall, perhaps like a normal classroom focused on health — clinical images of the human body, male and female, naked and generic. Signs of inebriation or drug use; images of the eye, with pin-print to blown out pupils and everything in between. The locations of significant blood vessels and visibility through the skin.
Flower meanings and arrangements. Color symbolism. Hormone cycles. Normal things.
There were only a few desks, arranged facing the front blackboard, which the Madame was writing down a list in chalk. It hadn't occurred to Dmitri that the Madame would still be teaching; figured she'd be too busy running the rest of the Red Room. But perhaps this was her specialty.
Dmitri certainly wasn't going to complain. When she addressed the class, the Madame was all smiles and warmth. It set him at ease.
"Now, we all know the general rules of attraction," the Madame began, pacing back and forth in front of the class. "It's as much physical as it is mental. It hinges entirely on communication, and what you are capable of saying without uttering a word. What might those signs be? Oksana?"
Oksana lowered her hand. "Eye contact."
"Well-timed eye contact," The Madame corrected with an approving smile. "A man might prefer a demure little girl, with castdown gaze and shy behavior, but one shared gaze under fluttering lashes can convince him to her room. Or to his. Whichever offers you the best control. What matters most is privacy. Isolation. But that's for another class. Now what body language would allow a demure character to communicate her interest?"
"Mirroring," Ksenia answered. "Copying his body language. And never crossing the arms."
"Yes, wonderful!" The Madame beamed, clapping with her fingers to the base of her palm. "Crossed arms are a challenge, defensive, it blocks you off. As a rule to be avoided, but can be utilized in the right circumstances. Some rules are meant to be broken, after all. Now, time to observe some examples, and write down what you see."
Dmitri found he was enjoying the class so far, not least of which because the Madame was the most engaging teacher so far; enthusiastic and warm, entirely nonjudgmental. Dmitri felt bad he had nothing to contribute, especially in what felt to be an easy class. So he was fully prepared to impress in their next task, pencil at the ready.
There was a dated projector aimed at the wall, and the Madame stepped to the back of the class, flipping the switch and dimming the lights. The film began to play; it was an old film, by the graininess and the fashion of the subjects that appeared on the wall. A man and a woman, the former in a classic three piece suit and a woman in a wide collar dress, gloves, and pillbox hat. Sitting apart from a bar, having a conversation. French, no subtitles, but Dmitri didn't need them at this point.
The interaction was basic enough. The man was interested in a hook-up, the woman a stranger to him. Too shy, and perhaps limited by social custom of the 60's, prevented her from outwardly accepting his advances. But her body language, crossed legs matching his, accepting his drink, offering a smoke…
Easy. Just as Dmitri thought, scribbling down notes.
The scenes continued, different characters, different scenarios. As far as Dmitri could discern, these weren't scenes from any movie; like they were made specifically for an instructional purpose. There were long holds, basic cinematography and the rare close up to observe facial expressions. It was… boring, to say the least.
A secretary engaging the affections of her boss. A chance encounter at a dance club. A waitress in a diner. A cigar girl coaxing a patron at a gentlemen's club. Also dated, Dmitri decided, unsure if any of this was really applicable to modern sensibilities. But he supposed the point of reading body language remained the same, timeless.
It was the tenth round and the tone started to change. The cigar girl wore little more than a bodice and fishnets. The next one, the woman wore nothing at all. The change was startling, but what else is a stripper supposed to be doing?
The transition from ambitious scenes to coitus was almost imperceptible until it was too obvious to deny. Dmitri didn't quite realize it, not until the camera was actively filming the naked couple, falling into bed together, and not ending the scene there…?
Holy shit. His face suddenly went hot. A hormonal thrill that went straight to his groin. Dmitri sat up a little straighter, leaning back in his seat, looking around the room to see if anyone else was freaked out by this. But all the girls sat silently, still, expressionless as they watched what seemed the most clinical, unsexy version of a porno — like they were watching a documentary on elk migration and not two people actively fucking right before their eyes.
The Madame was standing just out of the corner of his eyes, shrouded in shadow. He looked back at her, unsure of what he was looking for, but so tempted to ask something, anything, to provide context for this. He saw the glint of her eyes in the darkness, the tilt of her head, and then a gesture of her hand to pay attention to the film.
Face still flushed, Dmitri averted his gaze back to the front of the room. But he couldn't make himself look directly at the man rocking his hips into the woman's, just stared at the corner of the frame. Maybe if he simply observed from his peripherals, it wouldn't be so weird. On the one hand, it was strangely titillating, so forbidden yet so tempting to watch, activating some weird instinct in his brain and body.
And the other hand, so fucked up. What was he supposed to be writing down here? Making notes on their sexual prowess? On their specific actions?
It wasn't filmed like porn. Not… not that Dmitri would know. He's never watched porn. At least, he didn't think so. Not before this. Not even health class was like this, he's pretty sure. Maybe he'd seen shots. Gifs, clips online, maybe the incidental scene on TV. But it was nothing like this.
There was no music, minimal sound effects, and flat dialogue. None of the stupid half-assed storyline like a hunky plumber and a lonely housewife or whatever. This was just a one night stand, an affair.
And porn actors were supposed to be hot, right? The man in the film was not particularly attractive; middle aged, paunchy, male-pattern baldness. Nor, in fact, seemed particularly proficient in lovemaking. Just grunted and thrusted like a base creature. But the way the (much younger, prettier) woman reacted beneath him, he could've been a sex god. She was the only one putting on a show.
Hm. Maybe that was the point.
Unable to decide if he was turned on or not, Dmitri tried to focus on writing notes. To say something intelligent, something he could reference — and try not to think about this film again. Disturbing as it was.
It still seemed wrong to be showing this in a class. But then again, the Red Room wasn't a normal school, Dmitri rationalized. Though the film itself was awkward and uncomfortable to watch, Dmitri could convince himself of the relevance. Body language didn't stop when the shot faded to black.
He was relieved when the film finally ended and the room brightened once more. Dmitri could finally feel the tension leave his body. He tried to find the bright side to all of this; Dmitri was pretty sure he understood the point of watching sex — and thankful it hadn't aroused him. Not noticeably, at least. It was a bad time to be a hormonal teenager.
Once more the Madame asked what they observed and once more a series of hands went up and down. Dmitri kept his down, doubting himself if only because of self-consciousness. And shock at watching a bad sex scene.
He just wanted class to finish, so he could find the nearest bottle of bleach and give his brain a good rinsing.
"This has always been taught in the Red Room, correct?" Ksenia asked, and for a moment Dmitri was hopeful. Maybe he wasn't the only one who found the whole thing disconcerting.
But Dmitri would only be dismayed when the Madame confirmed, and Ksenia continued, "Even to the last Wolf Spiders? How did that work for them?"
The chill that fell across the room was palpable. It hadn't been a chatty room, but the silence that filled after Ksenia's question had Dmitri's throat going dry. Other Wolf Spiders? Had there been boys here before?
Everyone looked to the Madame for an answer — Dmitri had to pull his gaze from Ksenia, who smirked at him out of the corner of her eye. The Madame was quiet for a second, contemplating; her eyes flicked to Dmitri for only a second, one held moment, before she returned to Ksenia. "It was no different for our past recruits, regardless of gender. We play a multitude of fields, wear the mask that fits the role, whatever it may be."
"Then why aren't there more?" Ksenia asked. And there was something verboten in the way she questioned the Madame; no one questioned her, not like that. The sheer audacity had Dmitri on edge, never mind the actual topic at hand.
The Madame, true to her nature, was not one to simply accept it. "What's brought this on, Ksenia?"
"I'm just curious, that's all," Ksenia shrugged all-too-innocently. "Why do women succeed here where men do not?"
"Ah," The Madame said, and apparently Ksenia phrased her excuse for insolence just right because she wasn't shut down right away. The Madame leaned against the desk, smiling slightly. "In my personal experience, I've found that women are more easily underestimated, and more willing to do what's necessary. Our past Wolf Spiders were… volatile. Their minds did not adapt well to the training and, in the end, they could not endure under pressure." She paused, blinked, then added with a smile, "We have since avoided making a routine of it. But every once and while, we find a worthwhile candidate."
Dmitri knew she was talking about him. Not speaking of Dmitri directly, of course, but he wasn't stupid. The Madame thought he had potential.
And he was utterly embarrassed, keeping his eyes on his desk whenever the other girls looked at him. The other Wolf Spiders had failed. All of them, whoever they were.
There was still time for him to fail, too. To disappoint the Madame.
And god, wouldn't Ksenia just love being proven right?