Black Widow: Simply Red

by TheCometPunch

Summary:

It’s the 1980’s and young Red Room recruit Natasha Romanoff wants nothing more than to prove she’s a capable agent. When the Red Room is hired to track down a post-war asset from a crime boss, Natasha must embark on her first solo mission using all of her skills. As the mission becomes complicated and finding herself caught between the world of contract killing and her civilian disguise, Natasha finds that being an assassin comes easier than being a preteen girl.

Chapter 1: Blue Monday

Chapter One: Blue Monday

 

Killing was an art, and Natalia prided herself on working with a slow hand. But like any good artist, her talents were multifaceted. She found inspiration in a slender blade or a warm gun, found beauty in the simplicity of a piano wire or a well-placed shove, heard music where others heard suffering. Blood was her medium. Violence was a dance. And she watched her newest partner from across the way.

Heavy-limbed and clumsy, despite the late autumn chill, the man sweated beneath a t-shirt and a windbreaker. She could see how shiny his forehead was from her spot on the park bench from across the street. He wouldn’t run. And if he did, he wouldn’t run far. Non-runners made for less interesting targets, but they did allow for more time to plot.

His name was Patrick Fleck, aged thirty-eight, a Wall Street analyst too nosy for his own good. Five times a week, he bought overpriced coffee and sat alone at the same table at the same corner coffee shop in Brooklyn between 14:00 and 15:00. He spent three of those five days alone. On the other two, he had company. Fleck spent Saturdays with a woman ten years his junior who traced lines on his legs and giggled at all his jokes. He brought her gifts. Small things at first: bracelets, earrings, flowers. One time, he gave her a watch. Then came the money. Ill-gained, or else the Red Room wouldn’t have sent Nat to intervene. Natalia could tell when attention was feigned, and this woman’s was no different. If Fleck could tell, he didn’t care. He liked the way she looked at him and often snuck off with her to his parked car and came back disheveled all the same. Sundays he spent with a different woman, more haggard and older than the first. She suffered through Fleck’s stories while juggling two children who looked like him, more exhausted than riveted. Nat didn’t blame her. She liked taking her time, but three weeks of spying on Fleck was making her go crazy, too.

When Natalia was debriefed, she wasn’t surprised that Fleck came across information the KGB deemed sensitive and sold it piecemeal to the highest bidder as soon as he possibly could. The dollar signs blinded him from the fact that Department X was an ally of the KGB. Department X wanted what he knew; any money lost was negligible. So the Red Room sent their Widows to weave their webs while he was busy betraying his nation, spoiling his mistress, drinking his coffee, and taking his sweet time.

Killing was an art, according to Madame B, but watching Fleck was like watching paint dry. Still, part of Natalia envied his dull little routine, infidelity and all. It was more thrilling for him to experience than it was for her to watch. The danger of almost being caught. The taboo of doing something he knew he shouldn’t be. Pretending to be someone he wasn’t. She could let him have his fun with the time he had left. And at least watching him gave her some consistency. Once their dance was over, she’d be assigned somewhere new, with a new identity and a new mission and name. That much she and Fleck had in common. Her scalp itched beneath a blonde wig.

Assignment or not, it was fun to pretend that she was someone else as she wasted the hours away watching Fleck. This time, she was Heather Sinclair, honor student and private school transfer from a small town in Iowa to New York City. She had a mother, a father, and a little brother named Mikey who liked to pull pranks on her for fun. She went horseback riding at her grandparents’ during the summer and went to Florida for the family’s winter vacations. But they couldn’t go this year because of her father’s work and the move. It was so unfair. Heather had friends. Heather had a life. Heather was a completely ordinary girl, not a Red Room agent stalking her next victim.

From her park bench, she could see her dance partner clearly. After weeks of watching him from different rooftops and behind corners, mixed within crowds or–on days when she felt bolder–from inside the coffee shop itself, she could see all the little details she couldn’t see from afar. His mistress wasn’t the only one he’d spoiled through selling Soviet secrets. Fleck’s clothes were new and more expensive than his salary could afford. His thinning hair was a shade darker than its usual dull brown. The week before, he bought a new muscle car that he parked in the alleyway off the main street. Her stomach fluttered. This mission would be her pleasure.

Nat glanced at the park clock. Fifteen minutes until Fleck would head to his car, twenty minutes until they met. Fleck always chatted with the barista then. Or attempted to. He wasn’t skilled in talking, something obvious during debriefing. It was a miracle he hadn’t exposed his little money scheme before the CIA or FBI found out. Natalia wondered what would compel someone to betray their country for something as fleeting as financial gain. But his treason was her benefit. His death would keep the Union that much safer. She could add another name to her ledger and that meant she was one step closer to getting her Widow Gauntlets.

As Fleck fidgeted in his seat, Nat shifted in hers. The time drew close. She could feel the weapons stashed on her person. The flat side of her knife safely holstered in the sheath within her right boot, the loose wire stowed away in the watch tickling her wrist, even the drawstring of her windbreaker. The Red Room made sure that she looked like a Heather, and Heather was a weapon. She looked like any of the other kids visiting the park that afternoon, playing on the metal equipment or running laps on the sidewalks, even if she didn’t feel like it.

Natalia’s fingers dug into the hems of her sleeves. America was so much different than Russia. It wasn’t as cold as it was back home. Patches of snow melted in the grass as the sun hung low and warm. Everyone looked mismatched with some dressed for summer while others dressed for winter. People walked through the park blasting music on boomboxes mounted on their shoulders or rushed off towards home dressed for office work. She saw everything from buzzcuts to mohawks, hair sprayed updos and women with pinks or blues in their hair. Brands she knew she’d be quizzed on when she got back to the Room brandished jackets, bags, and running shoes. And the colors. Some so bright, they hurt her eyes. She’d never seen so many colors paired together before. Three weeks on and despite being dressed the part, she felt out of place in such a noisy and restless city. Natalia was sure Heather would feel the same, if she was real. Just a small-town girl newly transferred to the big city.

A strange sense of calm washed over her and she swallowed her nerves as her watch changed to 14:50 and stood from the bench. She kept her sights on Fleck and headed towards the park’s entrance gate. Eyes were on her. First, quick glances from some joggers in her way, then another pair from a group of girls huddled by the water fountain. Nat stepped up her pace. Footsteps and chittering followed her. Her muscles tensed as she calculated a plan of attack. A girl no older than herself cut her path off from behind, with a quartet of others behind her. Her crimped blonde hair was held into a side ponytail by rings of colored rubber bands.

"Hey, I like your jacket," she said.

Natalia looked down at the multicolored windbreaker the Room assigned to her. The colors were garish. Yellow and purple and teal in patches. She let Heather slip away for a moment, squinting at the compliment. She opened her mouth to speak, the beginning of a hiss on her tongue. No. English, she reminded herself.

"Thank you," Natalia told them with a smile.

English was an ugly language. Choppy, guttural, it had no flow to it, no consistency, just cobbled together bits from half a hundred other languages. The girls giggled at her answer. She flinched. She was sure her pronunciation was correct. She spent months practicing her American accent with Yelena and Viktoria. Whatever they found funny was lost on her.

Nat shoved her hands in her pockets and let them look her over, ooh-ing at her jacket and aah-ing at her shoes. They seemed harmless. Overly amused, but harmless. The blonde appeared to be the leader of the group, though the brunette who stood behind her chewing on her necklace charm had a few centimeters and at least a year on both of them. A shrewish girl with matted brown hair fell behind the other girls. The last of the group were two girls who shared a likeness, auburn hair brighter and more coppery than Nat’s real hair with freckles splayed across their faces.

"I'm Felicity. This is Karen, Stephanie, and Ashley and Amanda," the blonde girl said, nodding to each girl. She leaned in a little and whispered, "They're twins."

Natalia nodded. She wasn't sure what to do with that information. Felicity gave her an anticipatory half smile, and like her, looked around at the others, praying for a social cue.

"So, what's your name?" she asked.

Oh, right. "Heather. It's Heather."

"Rad."

Felicity's attention went to digging around in a belt bag resting on her hip. Nat stood stone still watching the girl's hands, until she pulled out a pack of gum, passing it to each of her friends before it reached her. I shouldn't, she told herself. But the other girls seemed fine taking a piece. She never got to have candy back in the Red Room. And she had to try to fit in. Natalia unwrapped the piece and shoved it in her mouth.

Felicity blew a bubble and let it pop. "So, are you, like, new around here?"

"Yeah, we've never seen you around," Stephanie mumbled.

All Natalia could taste was something that vaguely resembled fruit and her nerves. She could hear Madame B in her head. Be unassuming, be perceptive, and make them think you’re one of them. Nat conjured a smile through the realization: she was one of them. Same age, similar build, on the nascence of adolescence. And yet…

The words came out like a well-rehearsed script. "Yeah, I just moved here from Iowa."

"Ew, isn't there, like, nothing to do there?" one of the twins asked.

"Pretty much," Natalia shrugged.

The girls whispered amongst themselves before the tall one, Karen, asked, "Wanna hang out with us?"

Natalia gaped. She’d never been asked that before. Think. She glanced over at Fleck. He gave the telltale sign that he was ready to leave, balling up his napkin and stretching. Soon, he'd snap his fingers at the waitress for the check like he always did. She frowned. 

"I'm sorry, I can't," she told them.

Karen narrowed her eyes, almost in offense. "Why not?"

I have someone to kill in five minutes.

"It's my dad. We have to leave soon. Dinner with his boss or something." Nat let out a sigh and rolled her eyes. "Mom wants us home on time to help with dinner."

Nat stepped aside only for Amanda to step in her way.

"What a bummer. We were gonna go to the mall for some shopping," Felicity offered.

Her eyes were prying. Is this some sort of trick? Natalia wondered. What did they really want? She gave them an apologetic shrug and Felicity sighed. "Well, that sucks. If you're ever in the area, we should hang sometime, you know?"

Natalia felt a string of pain wind throughout her chest. She didn’t want to leave. What is this? she wondered. Whatever it was, she didn’t like it. She nodded anyway.

"Totally," Nat told them.

From beyond the girls, Nat spotted an empty table. Her breath hitched. Where did he go? The waitress was well into cleaning his table. The park clock read five until 15:00. Either he was early or she was late. Nat mustered a smile and a wave to keep the panic off her face as the girls asked her again if she was sure she couldn't join them. They rushed her with a chorus of questions, asking for her phone number, where she went to school, when the next time she'd be at the park would be, blocking her way and blocking her view. The barrage of their voices set her already spinning mind on edge as she puzzled out how far Fleck had gone. She caught a glimpse of his tan jacket turning the corner into the alley where his car was parked. She felt her pulse up her neck and took a breath to center herself.

"I think my dad's getting in the car. I really should go," she said, backing away.

"He wouldn’t leave without you," one of the twins laughed. When Nat failed to answer, the girl's smile dropped. "Right?"

She shrugged and started backwards towards the street. "Dads, am I right?”

She called out a goodbye as the girls stuttered out theirs. Natalia didn’t realize she was running until she was past the park gates. Fleck couldn’t have gotten far. She had things planned out so well. She was going to hide in the alley before he finished at the cafe. She’d kill him there and dispose of him with enough time to spare. She had the perfect spot and everything. Natalia gnashed on her gum. Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

She had to focus. An erratic mind meant mistakes on a mission at best, death at worst. But she kept going back to the girls at the park. She liked my jacket. They wanted to spend time with me. She spent so little time in America, the intel would’ve been more useful than the tapes they watched in the Red Room or the books they studied. No, focus. Nat took a deep breath and heard the ting of metal on asphalt. Keys. Fleck stood by his car, fumbled to grab his keyring off the ground, and blurted out a curse. He was completely oblivious to her standing there, watching him. The rawness of their dynamic cleared her head.

Nat ran her armory through her mind and found that the first and most useful of her weapons were tears. She tried not to give much thought to whatever well it was deep inside her that she drew from when she needed to cry. It was filled with old wounds. Physical wounds or she feared she wouldn’t be able to stop crying, and she couldn’t afford that on a mission. Eyes bleary, she took the opening step towards Fleck. He raised his head. Natalia wiped the tears away with the heel of her hand and sniffed for extra effect. When faced with a crying child, most people gave them pity or presented a desire to help. From Fleck, she got confusion and disgust. She fought to roll her eyes at his relentless selfishness. But his confusion, she could work with and knew she had to lead.

Nat closed the gap. An arm hooked around Fleck’s neck, a foot on his thigh, a launch and a swivel, and she had his throat locked in the crook of her elbow. She wrapped her legs around his chest, hanging on like a rucksack, and leaned back with all her strength. Fleck clawed at her arm and found nothing but slick nylon, choking out curses and trying to shake her off. For a beat, he stilled and leaned against his car to catch his breath.

“What…the hell,” he wheezed.

Natalia tightened her grip and kept her voice low. “I am a Black Widow agent, and I have been sent to kill you for your financial crimes against Department X,” she told him.

She always told them why she was killing them. It wasn’t standard protocol but a courtesy. It gave them enough time to pray to whatever god they believed in, make peace with their demise, come up with an appeal for their life. But the revelation always quieted them long enough for her to do what she needed to do. Natalia heard footsteps coming from the main street and moved their tangle out of sight. By the time Fleck’s panic set in, she had him pinned to the ground with her hands wrapped around his pale throat. This wasn’t how she wanted things to go. She meant to stab him somewhere vital and drag him off to hide. By the time he was found, she’d be long gone. Asphyxiation was more intimate than she preferred. Every good dance required improvisation, but here he was, gasping and sputtering in her face as he choked.

Thin red fingers burned bright on his skin where she left her mark. Evidence. Natalia cursed herself for the misstep and ran through her armory again. A knife would be too bloody. A wire, too obvious. He was taller than her, bigger than her; she had no time to dispose of him. She needed it to look natural and believable. Nat kept a hand on his throat and kneed him when he got too noisy or too fidgety. With her free hand, she grabbed needle and vial from her chest pocket, pushed the gum to the back of her mouth, put the needle between her teeth, and punctured the seal. She took her hands off Fleck’s throat long enough to assemble the adrenaline shot before taking the syringe in both hands and coming down hard on the upper left side of his chest. Time stalled when she pressed down on the plunger, and the acceptance that their dance was in its final steps washed over her with each dripping microgram shooting into Fleck’s heart. Natalia breathed in the quiet and stared down at him.

“What was that?” Fleck asked. She stowed the syringe in her jacket pocket and stepped back to watch. She blew a bubble and let it pop. “What the hell was that? What did you do?”

“My job,” she said.

Fleck was too confused for words as he scrambled to his feet, and by the time he found them, it was too late. He staggered backwards, fingers digging at his chest. He morphed into a fish-like thing, mouth gaping at the air, skin dewy with sweat, limbs loose. His legs gave out and returned to his back and flailed. His skin went from red to white to blue, a chalky blue, from his lips to his fingertips. When he finally stilled after minutes of watching, Natalia knew their dance was over. Now came the long walk back to her handler, and she was already late.

Natalia scanned the main street then made her exit. Fleck was behind his car just enough that a passerby would find him sooner or later. When she looked at her watch, she saw she was fifteen minutes behind, and the train station wasn’t close. She could already hear Yuri’s complaining. You’re late, Romanova. I would have finished the job sooner. If I wanted to babysit, I would have stayed in the Room, Romanova.

It was easy to disappear in New York City. No one paid attention to an unattended child weaving through the crowds. She was far from the only one and far from the only person in a rush. She unmade the syringe and tossed the pieces along the way. The rest of the adrenaline she poured into a storm drain. The vial went into a dumpster near a dry cleaner. And after getting to the station and buying her train ticket, she tossed the needle between the slats of a sewer grate.

She spotted Yuri leaning against the train terminal wall, dragging on a cigarette with their luggage by his feet. Yuri looked like the kind of man parents warned their kids about with his dark hair and drawn face. Unkempt and unshaved, he looked three days past needing a shower and two days removed from a good night's sleep. He scanned the crowd, but she knew he saw her the minute she stepped through the turnstile. Natalia took a place next to him on the wall, along with other passengers waiting for the next train. He took a long pull from his cigarette. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he tossed the butt to the floor, snuffed it out with his foot, and kicked it into the tracks. Smoke shot from his nostrils and between his lips, like the steam coming up from the manholes across from them. Yuri saw everything and yet no life lay behind his gaze. He glanced at her before looking for the train again.

"You're late."

Yuri's English was clunky and heavy tongued. There was no hiding his roots. No matter how much he practiced, he'd always sound Russian. She supposed that was why Madame B sent him on missions that didn't require much talking. He spoke better with his fists or a gun anyway. The clock against the wall read twenty minutes past when she planned to arrive, but their train wouldn't depart for another ten.

She sighed. "Did you want the job done quickly or did you want it done well?"

"I want a job to be done on time."

"'Killing is an art'," she whispered in Russian, once she assured no one paid them any mind. Tensions between America and the Soviet Union were already bad enough. The last thing she needed to be was the Red Scare that disrupted someone's afternoon commute home or alerted the authorities.

Natalia watched as he reached a hand into the inner lining of his jacket and tensed. When he took out a napkin and handed it to her, she relaxed. The gum. It'd lost its flavor during the execution but that didn't matter. Snacking was prohibited on missions. Natalia spat it out and stashed the balled-up paper in her pocket.

"’Killing is an art,’” he mocked. “Don't give me that."

"Would you rush a musician just to hear their music?" she countered.

"It doesn’t matter how good the music is if the musician is late.”

Natalia couldn’t look at him when he was right. When she got the courage to, his eyes cut through her. She reddened.

"I was stopped by some local girls. They asked if I wanted to go to the mall with them," she told him. "They were…persistent."

They liked my jacket. The 16:50 train whistled and drowned out whatever Yuri was getting ready to say. As their platform cleared, the two of them were left with a teenager bobbing his head to the music playing on his Walkman and a nurse who looked asleep on her feet. Yuri measured them with a look before taking a step closer.

"Did they suspect anything?" he asked in their mother tongue.

“No.”

“Were you followed?”

"No."

She watched the schedule board for the next trains change over and felt Yuri's sight on her. Far from being their first mission together, she knew he hated chaperoning the Widows. If he had it his way, he would've shot Fleck himself or lured him to a bar and staged a knife fight that would end in an "accident," maybe made a house call. For her, killing was an art. For Yuri, it was sport. He blocked her view.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

She squinted at him. "Yes, I’m certain."

He sniffed and took his place back against the wall. "Good. We can’t afford mistakes."

I know that. Yuri picked a fresh cigarette from a half empty pack. Huddling around his lighter, the end flickered to life and he took a puff. She hated those things. The way they smelled, the smoke wafting in her face, the way whenever he was her handler, she had to make sure the butts couldn't be tracked. She especially hated the easy look he got on his face when he lit one, or maybe it was just him who annoyed her. Natalia dug her nails into the nylon of her jacket. This mission should’ve been child's play compared to others she'd been assigned. Late or not, she got the job done, and here he was thinking she'd make an easy mistake.

"I don't tend to make those," she mumbled.

He scoffed. "You've grown bold since your last recital. Arrogant. I'd be careful about that."

Heat crawled up her neck. They waited in silence until the 16:55 train pulled up to the platform beyond theirs. A voice called out over the intercom, and despite the hissing of the train exhaust and rumble of commuters, Natalia could hear the tinny, whiny giggle of girls. She rose to the balls of her feet to get a better look. All neon color block and hairspray, Felicity and her friends boarded the train. She flinched at their rising tones and playful hits. Karen shoved Felicity up the train's steps. The twins whispered in each other's ears as Stephanie begged them to clue her in on their secret. Natalia furrowed her brow. Weren’t friends supposed to share? She wasn’t sure; she had so few of them.

She watched the girls board with their shopping bags and purses and settle into the car on the end. As the conductor prepared for departure, each girl showed off her purchases. One pulled free a stack of cassettes while another dug through colorful tissue paper and pulled out a skirt. Natalia could read their lips through the glass and read their emotions clear on their faces as they squealed with laughter or gasped in mock fascination at the next trinket on display. It was pantomime. It had to be. That's what Madame B would tell her. And yet she felt something nagging and hollow in the pit of her stomach.

"What are you looking at?" Yuri asked.

"Those girls were making too much noise, drawing attention to themselves," she made herself say.

Yuri peeled himself from the wall. He placed a hand on her shoulder, balancing his cigarette between his fingers. She could feel its heat through her layers. "Are they a threat?"

His voice was detached and icy. Is this a test? she wondered. Everything so often was. She could hear the whine of the tracks as the girls' train departed. As the clock flickered over to 17:00, the creaking of metal approached them, blocking her last glimpse of the girls before their train disappeared into the tunnel.

"No. Just a distraction," Natalia said. She slung her arms through the only luggage she brought, just enough to provide for her for the plane trip back to East Berlin and the subsequent train ride that would take them back to the Soviet Union and the Red Room. "It never hurts to be well prepared for any and every threat."

She could hear Madame B's voice echoing in her head again. Yuri gave her a nod and a pat on the shoulder. He packed light too, carrying a bundle bag that was as old and worn as the leather jacket he was wearing. When he tossed it over a shoulder, she feared the strap would break.

"Come along. We have a long trip home. Nikolaeva will want you well rested by the time we get back, so I'll take first and last watch."

Natalia nodded as she boarded first. She stowed her bag overhead and felt her knife within her boot. Yuri begrudgingly complied as the train attendant reminded him that they were seated in a "No Smoking" car. He flicked the cigarette onto the tracks, and she hid a smile to herself. Under any other circumstance, he'd curse the man and keep smoking. But not on a mission. On a mission, Yuri had to be as quiet, compliant, and unsuspecting as her, and so unlike himself.

"Sleep. I'll wake you when we arrive at the airport. I'll sleep on the plane. With your smaller build, you're more useful in close quarters anyway. The last stretch home is mine."

She didn't know if she should've thanked him for the backhanded compliment and curled up on the seat instead. 

She closed her eyes, but her mind reeled. Home. That word didn't feel right. Natalia tried to picture a normal home. Someplace warm, somewhere Heather Sinclair might live. In her head, the home was dripping with color. A beige and white house with a green lawn and a garden to grow flowers and fruits and vegetables. Yellow curtains in the halls, big, open windows, and soft blue on the walls. Blue like Fleck’s fingers; it was a pretty shade. Her bed– a real one– was blue too, and she had posters and art on the wall of things. Anything. Musicians maybe, or actors. She could have friends over, too, and do whatever it was girls her age did when they hung out. It was a space of her own with as many colors as she wanted, exactly how she wanted.

The colors faded to grey as thoughts of the Red Room spilled in. She saw the Studio and its chrome bars, the black guns they trained with and the grey knives they wielded. Every room felt cold and every visitor faceless. There was her monochrome wardrobe and the white, windowless halls. She saw her grey quarters and grey bed with its white sheets and the grey link on the bedpost she put around her wrist that kept her safe at night. The only bursts of color that breached her world were the meals they ate and the blood they spilled.

When Natalia opened her eyes, the cabin was dark as they passed through a tunnel. Yuri was looking out the window and down the row of seats, his foot bobbing wildly as he chewed on the end of his thumb. Agitation flashed across his face when he saw her looking at him.

"You need to sleep."

She shook her head. "I can't. Not here. I’m not used to this."

Her arm drifted up towards the roof of the car, fingers reaching into the air. She felt untethered and free, open and unsafe. Yuri huffed. Running a hand down his face, he shook his head at her before reaching into his bag. He looked up and down the rows to assure they were alone. Their train car was forgivingly empty, aside from the two of them and the nurse from the platform. Out of his bag, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs and a key. Natalia offered her free arm, the one closest to the window, and watched as he locked one end to a metal bar beneath her seat and readied the other around her wrist.

"It will have to be your left this time. Keep it low. Can you sleep on it like that?" he asked, his voice just above a whisper. She lay down on her left-hand side, using her hair to cushion her face between her skin and the metal of the handcuff. She nodded. "Good. We don't need others seeing it. I'll keep the key. Now, sleep."

Natalia nestled into the corner, the rhythmic clink of the handcuff against the seat bar acting as a metronome for her thoughts. She was going home, to whatever version of home that meant. Madame B, Nikolaeva, and her fellow Widows waited, the closest thing she had to a mother, an aunt, and sisters. That had to be better than friends. She’d have to take what she could get, she supposed. The train chugged through another tunnel. The cabin darkened, lulling Natalia off to the depths of sleep as they set off towards home.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2: Toy Soldiers

Summary:

Natasha's insecurities start getting to her. While she wants answers, she's occupied by a supply run with Yelena.

Chapter Two: Toy Soldiers

Natalia felt like a figurine spinning in a music box, like a children’s wind-up doll twirling endlessly on a field of white vinyl. She wished it was children watching her, more innocent, friendly eyes. Instead, she caught her “sisters” stealing looks at her in the mirror that spanned half of the far wall of The Studio. Spiders had multiple sets of eyes, Black Widows included. Whether they were eyes for combat or espionage or violence, dozens of them looked back at her with scrutiny and hadn’t stopped since her return from New York City. Natalia used herself as a spot in the mirror to keep from getting dizzy and spied two more pairs of eyes watching from the viewing window.

As the girls practiced their footwork, placing a foot here, swiveling a foot there, Natalia wondered if the others heard about her mission. Improvising was as close as she could get to failure without having let Fleck get away. Yuri wasn’t one to gossip, and aside from him, only Madame B and Irina knew the details of her mission. To most of the outside world, the Red Room was a rumor, a secret whispered on the black market or between oligarchs and elites. But within its walls, word spread surprisingly fast considering the higher-ups discouraged them from fraternizing. Information was swapped in whispers at bedtime or in the media room when they weren’t watched as closely, but lately, she seemed to be excluded.

Nikolaeva watched the girls from against her usual spot on the far wall. She lacked the mask other Widows wore, that blank-faced expression they maintained on missions and protected them from emotional prying. As the girls’ combat training choreographer and Madame B’s second-in-command, Irina flinched at mistakes, winced at missteps, nodded approval when warranted. They never had to guess whether they were performing well. Any emotion she felt showed on her clearly readable face. Today, Nikolaeva’s high bun and pursed lips were particularly tight and joyless.

Natalia was mid-pirouette when Nikolaeva clapped her hands, queuing the girls to stop en pointe. She lowered a shaky foot, praying the others wouldn’t notice. Beyond the viewing window, two men flanked Madame B. Natalia wished she could read one of the man’s lips as he whispered something to their headmistress. Nikolaeva congratulated the girls for a lesson well done when the man and his shadow receded down the hall.

It was the men’s third visit that week. To the world, they were officially The Red Room Academy, a private school for the Soviet Union’s best and brightest girls. The front of the facility they called home looked like any esteemed girls’ academy with its marble floors and grand staircases that framed the foyer. But those unfortunate or privileged enough to need their services knew their real nature. Past the front rooms, the facade faded. There lay the true face of the Red Room. There were sterile quarters for handlers and staff, more militaristic than scholarly, and the dormitories where Natalia and her sisters slept, a huge room with rows of metal cots dressed in white linen. They held lessons in everything from foreign languages to chemistry in The Center, combat practice in The Studio, and strategized missions in The Stage. There was a mess hall and media rooms, storage closets and staging rooms, the archives, a firing range, and an infirmary. And The Barre, which they avoided discussing. When they had visitors come into their den of death, that meant they had a client.

The men kept disappearing before Nat could get a good look at them. She saw them leaving Madame B’s office the day she returned from her mission. At lights out the night before, when the girls tethered themselves to their bedposts and tucked in for sleep, one of the men said his goodbyes to the staff. The other followed behind, silent and masked. He never spoke.

During finger turns practice, Irina’s blue eyes were as sharp as the blade Natalia balanced from hand to hand. She wished she’d been paired with Oksana. She was the largest and strongest of the girls but clumsy when it came to anything other than hand-to-hand combat. Her slow movements would’ve given Nat enough time to catch a good look at their potential patrons returning to watch them practice through the glass. Instead, she was paired with Helina, a wiry girl younger than her who seemed part knife herself. She could hardly see them between dodging Helina’s slashes. By the time Nikolaeva called the session, the men were gone again.

She wondered if the others could hear her trying to hide her breathlessness. The Studio emptied as everyone headed to other lessons or missions, leaving Natalia on the floor unlacing her shoes, feeling sore and small. She was scheduled for half an hour of free time before media lessons. It was 1970’s American sitcoms and French television this week, and she’d rather do anything else. She couldn’t sit there alone in The Studio with Nikolaeva lingering near the door, so she went to the only place she knew she’d have some semblance of solitude.

She, like her sisters, spent little time in the dorms unless it was time to sleep, and there was little else to do anyway. Loitering was discouraged, and their conversations had to be in whispers and coded tongues so the higher-ups wouldn’t ask questions. They had no true belongings to use as conversation pieces or baubles to share, only steamer trunks kept at the end of their assigned beds that held clothing, toiletries, and equipment. But the dormitory was the only place she could be alone to think.

Natalia lay on her bed and craned her neck upward to look at the handcuffs dangling on her bedpost. Long ago, she learned the true meaning of the Widows’ nightly ritual. For as long as she could remember, those in charge told them that the handcuffs were to protect themselves from each other and to prevent escape. But after all this time, none of them dared to hurt each other– at least not openly– and none of them wanted to run. The true meaning of their nightly ritual came to her one night, as gentle and routine as someone tucking her into bed. It was about control in all things, even sleep.

Natalia could feel her control slipping. Part of her wanted to scream. Part of her wanted to thrash on top of her cot. She wanted to kick over her steamer trunk and throw its contents around the room. But if she did, between the outburst and her mission not going as planned, she’d be sent to The Barre. Natalia dug her fingers into her palms. She hadn’t been there in so long. She couldn’t go back.

“Comrade Romanova?”

There was a light knock on the door. Natalia sat up, straightened her clothes, and as an extra measure, readjusted her ponytail. She found her eyes watery and rubbed them dry.

“Enter.”

It was a handler. Aside from Yuri, they were interchangeable at first glance. She tried to remember them by their most prominent features. Brunet, crooked nose, scar on his cheek. Pavel, she remembered, Zoya’s handler. Natalia stood at attention and pinned her hands to her side.

“I’ve been sent to escort you to Madame B. She wishes to speak with you,” Pavel told her. He motioned for her to follow behind him and spoke over his shoulder as they walked through the halls. “I heard about your mission in The Big Apple. Big city, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

He sighed. “I remember my first time going to America. I had to have been eighteen, maybe nineteen,” he mused.

She remembered him better now; Pavel never stopped talking. He regaled her with a story of a past mission in America, how much he enjoyed the food and lights of the city, how the assignment went off without a hitch, and how noisy it was. She tried to be friendly, nodding as his story dragged on, but her mind drifted. As they made the slow trek through the cement halls of the Red Room, past the dorms, media rooms, and parade of other steel-barred doors, she wondered why they sent him and not Yuri. There had to be some message beneath Pavel’s prattle. She had to decipher what he knew and how much, but by the time she did– and found nothing– they came to a white door with gilded trim.

Pavel let her in, and she felt a force pull her up from the crown of her head, like an invisible string pull her taut. Something about Madame B’s office always made her want to stand taller, walk more confidently, seem more presentable. They had The Studio to show their skills, but Madame B’s office was the only true stage in the Red Room.

It was the only room in the Red Room that felt lived in, the only one that had flaws. Bookcases lined the walls, packed from top to bottom with Russian literature, thick unmarked binders, and scientific journals. There were papers scattered across the desk, faded stains on the carpet, little scratches on the furniture. It always smelled like black tea without a kettle or teacup in sight. Madame B’s office was one of the few rooms in the facility that had a window to the outside, hers overlooking the central courtyard where the girls spent their outdoor time. The open airiness of the room made Natalia uncomfortable. She couldn’t imagine being so exposed, and yet Madame B was unfazed. Madame B dismissed Pavel with a wave of her hand and sat at her desk with her back to an overcast sky.

Natalia didn’t move, wondering if she was interrupting something. Stacks of dossiers lined Madame B’s desk. As she stood by the door, Madame B held a file in her hand and casually flipped through its pages. Each page had a photograph paperclipped to the corner. Natalia’s mind wandered, and she wondered what Madame B was reading. What if they were expecting new agents or training up some of the younger ones from the nursery? Sometimes at night, Natalia thought she heard babies crying but never saw any. Wherever they were, they’d eventually be old enough to join their ranks. They had to go somewhere, and it had been a long time since they’d gotten a new sister. What if they were meant to replace her? Is that why she was called to the headmistress’ office?

It was rumored that Madame B was a Black Widow agent a lifetime ago. She could believe it. Natalia straightened again when she saw Madame B watching her over a file. No one knew much about the matriarch of the Red Room, and she’d been part of Natalia’s life for as long as she could remember. Maybe decades ago, Madame B was like one of those crying babies Nat heard at night. Or maybe she’d been recruited. No one knew. 

No one knew what the B stood for either. Petya once joked to Yelena that the “B” stood for “Belova,” the same as Yelena’s surname, and she cried for almost two days. It wasn’t until the afternoon of the second day, after Madame B pulled Yelena into her office, that she finally stopped. Once they found out it wasn’t true, the joke stopped being funny. And Madame B’s sharp glares were a good deterrent.

“You’ll be going on a grocery run, Comrade Romanova,” Madame B said abruptly.

Natalia didn’t realize her eyes and mind had wandered, and her attention snapped back to the woman sitting behind the desk. Madame B was distinguished and austere, her hair always pinned up perfectly behind her head. While the rest of them wore black, white, or grey while in the Room, Madame B wore muted shades of blue that made her look more pallid and her lipstick an even bloodier red. Nat focused on her lips, waiting for more, and found Madame B’s gaze prying.

“A grocery run,” Natalia repeated. It came off as more of a question than Nat intended. She expected something more or worse. “What items do I need to bring back and how much?”

Madame B hummed. “The kitchen staff has run low on ingredients to bake bread. They don’t need much, only enough to get by until the next supply shipment.” She passed a typed list along the desktop. “Flour, yeast, salt.”

Natalia looked over the paper. It was only a few items but more than she could carry. She’d have to make two trips.

“Comrade Smirnova will be accompanying you,” Madame B told her. Smirnova? She’d get better conversation out of a rotting turnip than that girl. Madame B regarded her, scanning her face. Perhaps she detected a fault or a flinch and raised a brow. “Do you have a preference for a different shopping partner, Romanova?”

This is a test. Much of everything is. Natalia straightened up, head level, eyes straight. Drain your face of any tell, of any emotion.

“Belova.” Madame B pursed her lips and waited. Nat cleared her throat. “She’s efficient at finding supplies quickly. Her appearance garners sympathy from adults. And she’s stronger than she appears.”

The lie wasn’t in what was spoken but rather in the intent; Yelena’s company was the only company she truly valued.

“How prudent of you, Comrade Romanova. Though she is quite young,” Madame B mused. Natalia paused, waiting to see if the words were from curiosity or doubt. “Very well. Comrade Belova will accompany you. She could use the experience. As could you.”

It was far from her first supply run. Before she could find out what she meant, Madame B’s attention was on a new file.

“Gather your things and be ready to depart in twenty minutes. I’ll have Belova meet you in the main foyer.” Natalia nodded and turned to leave. “And Comrade Romanova.”

Her voice cut through the quiet like a knife and Natalia felt its stab. “When you return, I’d like to have a word. We have further things to discuss,” Madame B told her.

All she could say was, “Yes, ma’am.”

Natalia felt a wave of peace wash over her. As she returned to the dorms and prepared to leave, the thought of spending time with Yelena was the only thing that settled her nerves. Yelena was the closest thing Natalia had to a real sister. The others were her sisters, yes, Lyudmila and Viktoria and the others, but sisters in blood, sisters in battle, in trauma. To not trust them on the field was to dance with death. And yet, there was always a bit of distrust there. The hands that so often wielded guns and knives could easily be turned on her. But Yelena. She loved Yelena as if they shared blood.

She found what she needed already set out on her cot. A wool coat, a coin purse filled with rubles and tickets, and a burlap bag to carry everything in. And after she dressed and arrived at the foyer, she found Yelena waiting for her. She looked like a porcelain doll in her oversized coat, a pale cherub swaddled in wool. She regarded her blankly, and Natalia molded her face into a passive mask, but beneath it all, she knew Yelena was just as excited to see her as she was.

Yelena’s handler, Pyotr, went over the instructions with her and with Natalia one more time before ushering them out the door. They walked side by side toward the market, the cold air nipping at their faces. Yelena’s cheeks were bright red by the time they reached the corner. Away from the eyes of the Red Room, they joined hands.

“Are we alone now?” Yelena asked.

Natalia checked the obvious spots: up at the rooftops and down alleyways. After checking their blind spots, a couple of blocks away, she nodded.

“I think so,” Natalia sighed. She leaned in close anyway. “They wanted me to go with Anastasia at first.”

“She’s the worst on supply runs,” Yelena said, rankling her nose. “She never speaks and always walks ahead. But I don’t know why they asked me to come along instead…”

“I requested you,” Natalia announced with a smile.

Yelena punched her lightly on the arm. “You should have told me first. The same with your mission. You should have told me what happened as soon as you got back. I had to hear it from Petya, and you know how she rambles.”

“I asked for you at the last minute, and I couldn’t tell you anything back at the Room,” Natalia said, rubbing her arm. “Things…didn’t go as planned.”

Yelena brushed her off. “You still got to add to your ledger. It’s not like the assignment got away, right?”

She furrowed her brow. “How did you know I was sent on a kill mission?”

“In the archive room. I had to read something for an upcoming mission. Sometimes, the books fall open, sometimes mission reports, and well…” she shrugged.

Natalia flicked the tip of her nose with a mittened finger. “Do not get careless, little sister. I don’t want you getting in trouble for my sake.”

When they arrived at the market, the line was mercifully short. The bread lines were tedious but orderly. They said it kept prices down. Natalia didn’t know if that was true. She was an assassin, not an economist. They were never quite sure what it was that Madame B wrote on the tickets every time, but the attendants never seemed to bat an eye at the large amount of supplies two girls would walk home with. Natalia handed a yellow ticket to the attendant. He paled before exchanging it with a goods ticket and moved them along to the next line.

“What happened, really? Tell me!”

They were supposed to not draw attention, but Yelena’s high voice was drawing eyes above the din of the market.

She shushed her. “Keep your voice down.”

She covered her mouth, stifling a smile. A few steps forward and she was pulling on Natalia’s sleeve again.

“Tell me. Tell me, please, Natasha,” she said, her voice threatening to break above a whisper.

Natasha. How could she keep her mission a secret when only Yelena called her that? She shielded her mouth and leaned in close.

“I had to strangle him.”

Yelena crinkled her nose again. “Strangle? Ew, those take too long.”

“I know. It made me late meeting up with Yuri.”

“How late?”

Natasha nodded her head back and forth. “Late enough to annoy him.”

“Everything annoys Yuri.” Yelena fidgeted as they stood in line. She’d have to work on that, but even Natasha admitted that she’d rather do anything aside from waiting in line to shop. Yelena spoke up. “Pyotr doesn’t mind when I take extra time on missions.”

“Really? What does he do while you’re away?”

“Sometimes drink, sometimes visit hotels or ‘visit friends.’ I don’t care, as long as he’s nearby.”

That seemed on par for Pyotr. Missions were secondary to his own pleasure, and from what Yelena had told her, he had a loose tongue while in his cups. The handlers had three faces: those they showed to their trainees, those they showed on missions, and their true selves. Natasha frowned.

“You don’t think Yuri would say something to Madame B or Irina, do you?” she asked.

Yelena thought for a moment, her little face staring off into the middle distance. After some time, she finally said, “I don’t know.”

When they got to the second counter, they exchanged their goods tickets for the supplies. She gave the salt to Yelena, took the heavier flour and yeast herself, and got in another line to pay.

“I like Yuri. Even if he does smell like cigarettes all the time,” Yelena shrugged. She liked most people. That worried her. She rocked back and forth on her feet as they waited. “When we went on that mission to Boston, while you were out, Yuri bought me a hamburger meal. It came with a toy, too, but I had to leave it behind. I was so full after that I slept all the way back home.”

Natasha raised a brow. “You’ve never told me that.”

Natasha softened when she stared at her in apology. It was like all of her training melted away when she was with her sister. She wondered if other families were the same, by blood or not.

“Even if you were a little late,” Yelena continued, “you’re not gonna get in trouble. Unless it drew attention. Have you heard anything?”

“No, but you know how long it takes getting international news here.”

Some missions, she felt perfectly invisible, just as all good Widows should be. On others, she feared she’d been followed, so sloppy she’d lead the Americans to the Red Room and the life she had there would fall apart. What would they even do with her if the Red Room was seized? She felt the words coming before she could stop them.

“I’m usually so sure after missions, little mistakes or not. But lately…” Natasha clenched her jaw and shook her head. “It wouldn’t be so bad if the others didn’t keep staring at me so much lately.”

“Staring at you?”

“Nikolaeva and some of the other girls. During dinner and before lights out, during media time. Or like today. In the Studio, I caught them looking at me in the mirror. Madame B said she needs to speak with me once we get back.”

At the counter, Natasha dug in the coin purse for the rubles and tried to steady her trembling hand. By the time they left, their bags were full. She stowed the coin purse away for safe keeping, burying the extra money beneath the flour. Any time they had to go shopping, they always came back with extra. This time was no different. She didn’t question it. She was an assassin, not an accountant.

Civilians watched as the two of them prepared for the trip back. Theirs were eyes of curiosity, not judgment. She preferred curious eyes to judging ones, and she knew which waited for her when they got back to the Red Room. Natasha grunted as she hauled the supplies in the burlap bag. She wasn’t as tall as Oksana or Karina. And ten blocks away from home, little Yelena was already huffing and struggling with her portion of the haul. Natasha girded herself against the weight and the cold as they continued their walk back.

“I bet Madame B wants to talk about your mission,” Yelena panted, finally breaking the quiet. Natasha shot her a look. “Sorry.”

“I completed my mission, even if Yuri was annoyed that I was late. I thought that maybe I’d finally graduated past needing a handler,” she admitted. They stopped to take a breath before taking up again. “Eventually, I have to go on missions without someone holding my hand, right?”

When she looked down, she saw her hand in Yelena’s. Yelena pulled away, but Natasha took it up again.

“Yours are different. And I didn’t mean literally.”

Yelena beamed. A bounce returned to her step. “Maybe one day, you’ll lead us on missions instead of a handler, like some of the older girls do!”

That would be a dream. A few blocks from the Room, Natasha sat her bag on the sidewalk and took Yelena’s load from her as well. She switched the supplies around, evening out what she could.  Yelena knew the routine. They had to stop holding hands along the way. They’d mark her as weak if they saw them walking together like that. Natasha returned the bag, and Yelena took a step back, following Natasha like a shadow. Natasha wanted guidance now more than before, someone at her side, but plowed ahead. Her heart beat faster the closer they got home.

The doors opened to them in welcome before they reached the front steps. Nikolaeva and Pyotr were waiting in the foyer, probably in time for Yelena’s solo lessons. She didn’t like Pyotr. She didn’t like his leers or his looks that lingered for too long. Natalia watched her sister’s face vanish, replaced by that of a violent doll.

“Thank you for the excursion, Comrade Romanova,” Belova recited. “It was a valuable learning experience.”

It was all part of the roles they had to play, but it still put a knot in her stomach when her sister gave way to Comrade Belova. She managed a nod before Pyotr gave Yelena’s bag to the nearest worker and he and Nikolaeva guided her past the far doors towards the Studio. Natasha handed over her supplies with no moment to rest.

“Romanova.”

Madame B called to her from the staircase. With a motion of her hand, Natalia followed like a wind-up toy. Passing supplies from one hand to another, going from one room to another, one mission to another, she felt more like a toy soldier than a girl. She straightened her back when she crossed the threshold of Madame B’s office.

“You completed your task,” Madame B said.

There was no deciphering her tone. It was equal parts impressed and unsurprised.

“It was a pleasure doing what I could to support the Red Room,” Natalia told her. Madame B hummed. She needed the silence filled. She cleared her throat. “Others may see it as a small gesture, but being able to feed the others and keep them strong for their missions is a great honor.”

Madame B’s lips twitched into a slight smile.

“I’ve always appreciated your…dedication, Comrade Romanova.”

There was a shift in Madame B’s demeanor. She sank into her office chair, crossed one leg over the other, and reached for a cup of tea. Natalia had never seen Madame B like that. So casual, so…comfortable. If anything, it made Natalia less so. She stood more rigid than before, and Madame B eyed her over the rim of her cup, holding back laughter or a smile.

“You’ve been dancing on a razor’s edge lately,” she said into her teacup. Her voice sounded hollow in the porcelain. After a swallow, she put the cup aside and leaned back in her seat. “If you continue to go about being so high-strung, you’ll suffer for it.”

Against her wishes, her body jolted. No, Natasha thought. Anything but that. She thought about the Barre and its tools, the horror stories and the screams. She begged her body to fall in line, to stop her quivering lip and get rid of the lump in her throat. Madame B watched her carefully, waiting for an answer. When Natasha finally spoke, her voice came out brittle and small.

“Am I being punished?”

“No,” Madame B told her, frowning. She’d cracked her mask; Madame B looked shocked. “No, no, of course not, Natalia. If anything, it is the opposite.”

Still uncertain, she tried to find the lie in Madame B’s words, but it was futile. If she was lying, Madame B had been doing this for far too long while Natalia was only a novice. She had no choice but to take her words at face value. She managed a nod.

Madame B’s face softened. She drew closer, breaching Natalia’s space, and smoothed down her hair. The gesture felt bizarrely warm, almost maternal. A painful thread wound itself through her chest, the same as the kind she felt back in New York. Suddenly, she was back in the park with those girls, feeling strange. Empty. Perhaps Madame B sensed what she felt and took Natalia’s face in her hands.

“You are doing very well,” she told her, drawing her into a hug.

Natalia thought that hollow part of her would be filled if she just held on a little longer, if she waited a little more. But it ached. Worse than before, it ached. Natalia caught herself, a stranger to the vulnerable action, and broke away from Madame B’s embrace. Perhaps it was a sacrifice play, a test that hurt them both, as she looked as hurt as Natalia felt. Madame B watched her leerily before reclaiming her seat. She smoothed down her skirt and propped her chin atop knitted hands. She looked like herself again. Good, Natalia thought. She didn’t need to be treated like a child, she told herself. She needed to be treated like a soldier. Madame B cleared her throat.

“Expect a reward for all your hard work, Comrade Romanova,” she told her. “You’re overdue for it.”

Notes:

Thank you so much for your patience! I am so sorry for not updating sooner. It's been a very busy year and this chapter was honestly kicking my ass. I also kept getting sidelined by other writing projects, so expect another Marvel fic, a Dune one-shot, and an ASOIAF one-shot (hopefully) in the near future. I hope you enjoyed the chapter :D

Notes:

Long time writer, first time poster. If I need to tag anything, please let me know, and enjoy!