MCU (c) Marvel

Sparkling angel I believed you were my savior in my time of need. Blinded by faith, I couldn't hear all the whispers, the warnings to clear. I see the angels, I'll lead them to your door. There's no escape now, no mercy no more. No remorse cause, I still remember the smile when you tore me apart. You took my heart, deceived me right from the start. You showed me dreams, I wish they would turn into real. You broke the promise and made me realize it was all just a lie. — Within Temptation

Human suffering never phased her; she grew up with it all around her and the inhumanity of the human creature was something she had come to expect from everyone she had ever come across. It made her numb to a lot of the terrible things she had to do as a spy for the Red Room, as a Shield agent, even as an Avenger. People said she was heartless, an ice queen, apathetic. Truth was all those monikers were lies. She did care, it did hurt her and haunt her nightmares. Unlike most people though, she didn't let it affect her outward appearance. An apologetic smile here, a solemn nod there, just enough to convince whomever was speaking to her that she too, had a heart and cared about the suffering of innocents (which she did). But she was also pragmatic and understood that no matter how hard you tried, you can't save everyone, can't stop everyone from suffering.

Yet, as she sat there bound to that horrid stainless-steel table, listening to Ivan goad her into spilling her past; her world narrowed to the man in the other cell. The tarnished silver star, the grimy uniform, the disheveled blond hair and scruff on his cheeks. Those depthless blue eyes of his, now clouded with pain and fear — not for himself, no, Steve never worried about himself — for her. She heard his ragged breathing. "Where's… where's Natasha?" Steve's suffering was a cold cruel knife in her heart, twisting bit by bit until she bled out. She hung her head, choking back a cry.

"Tell him Natalia," Ivan said, his voice soft as down. "Tell him about the woman he's going to marry."

"Natasha? Natasha? Are you there, Natasha?" Steve's voice rasped through the silence of her cell. Her hatred for Ivan was hot and fresh as spilt blood. She trembled, staring at her knees. "Natasha?"

"Please, Ivan," she whispered. Reduced to begging, are we? O, how you have fallen Black Widow, O, how you've fallen. The tears stung her eyes, she bit her lip and struggled to reclaim the calm void of emotionlessness within her. Her training ground into her to never have attachments, connections too other people; someone could manipulate your attachments, a weak link within the armour. And Ivan was a sadistic bastard that took sick delight in torture and wiggling the knife ever deeper beneath that weak link until his victim broke. "Please." She looked up at her former handler. "Let me speak to him." She licked her lips, tasting the salt from her tears, cracked delicate skin. "Then I'll talk."

The sound of Steve's breathing, her own heartbeat in her ears, the ticking of the clock behind her; those sounds felt like an itch she couldn't scratch, and it drove her mad. The silence aggravating. The waiting made her skin crawl. "You may speak to him, for five minutes."

Her heart sank. Ivan came over and unlocked her manacles and grabbed her by the bicep, dragging her to her feet and into the other room. She allowed him to manhandle her, tossing her into Steve's cell. Scrambling, she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding back her sob as he nuzzled the pale expanse of her throat, his dry lips kissing her skin; she ran her fingers through his hair. "Nat… Nat…" he murmured, breath hot and dry against her skin.

"Shh, don't speak Steve, listen. Listen to me."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Natasha—"

"No, don't—" she mewed softly as he sucked on her throat.

"I wanna touch ya, feel ya… Nat. Oh, God Nat." He nuzzled her neck. It broke her heart, seeing him like this, battered and broken. She had no idea how long she'd been out, if they kept her drugged and sedated after her shut down word wore off. How long they tortured Steve. His brow was damp with sweat, pupils dilated, and skin clammy. There was a mechanical hiss and Steve jerked, a hoarse cry escaping his throat and he strained against his manacles. He coughed, wet and hoarse. "Nat, don't feel too good."

It was then she noticed that the cuts and bruises on his face weren't healing as they should. She touched one and he flinched. "Steve," she whispered. Whatever those manacles injected into him was dampening the effects of his serum, allowing whatever drug they been giving him to take effect. "Don't worry, everything will be okay."

"Gotta… gotta…" he shook his head, trying to clear it. "Bird… bird… knows… Jesus…" he squeezed his eyes. "Don't feel too good, Nat."

"I know, Steve, I know. Now, listen, listen to me Steve," she said, taking his head in her hands and forcing him to look at her. It took him a moment or two to focus on her, eyes lazing about until they settled on her face. "I love you. Whatever they are doing to you, whatever you hear me say, remember: I love you."

"Okay."

"And when we get home, we'll get married. Okay?"

"Okay." His head slumped, chin resting against his chest. "Tell Peggy… Tell Peggy I'm sorry, I missed our dance."

It broke her heart to hear that. Broke her heart to realize he was so out of it, that the drugs Ivan had forced into him system had scrambled his brain enough that he was delirious. She kissed him, long and deep until Ivan hauled her away. "I love you, Steve. Remember that, remember that I love you."

His head lolled as her hands slipped away from him. Groaning, he looked up at her. "Natasha?" A spark of clarity shown in his eyes as he pulled against his bonds. "Natasha!" he shouted. She watched as the manacles gave an electrical whine and the zapping sound of electricity echoed in the room, mingling with Steve's screams. He slumped forward. "Natasha…"

She pulled against Ivan's grip. "Break free and I'll have those manacles zap him until his heart gives out," Ivan whispered. She swallowed, body going limp as her handler dragged her out the door and back into her own cell. He bound her again to the table, went to the mirror and turned the speaker on. "Captain Rogers," he said, sounding pleasant and cordial.

"Y-Yes?" Steve's voice echoed in her cell, it sounded painful and ragged. She closed her eyes, not wanting to do this. But a deal's a deal, you know that. She bit her lip, hoping that Steve will still love her, still want her after she told him her story, laid her past bare for him hear.

"Are you sure he's going to remember it?" she asked. "He's drugged, I'm surprised you've managed that."

"Dr. Erskine's formula is brilliant," Ivan agreed, "but when the Soviets developed their own, they realized they needed to control their soldiers. Unlike Erskine who was looking to make a weak man great, Russia was looking to make strong men greater."

"So they developed a suppressor. I'm surprised it works on Steve," she said. Her handler shrugged.

"It works enough. Designed to suppress a weaker version of the serum he has, he needs hourly injections. The ketamine keeps him compliant though. But no, he'll remember every word you tell him. I'll make sure of that."

I'm sure you will. "I'm ready," she said, closing her eyes and thought back to the beginning of how she became Black Widow. "Steve, I'm going to tell you how I became the woman you know. It's a sad story, a painful story, but it's one you should hear. You already know this, but I'll repeat it anyway. My full name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I was born on a snow day, November 21, 1984 to Alian and his second wife Katerina." She licked her lips, glanced at Ivan and continued. "I was born in Volgograd, and I lived there until I was eight years old…

The cold defined Russia. Her cold, harsh winters that had protected her people from would be conquerors like Hitler and Napoléon. Her cold-hearted leaders that worked her people to the bone. And the people themselves, cold and unwelcoming to strangers they did not know or trust. Russia was cold, her people were cold, bitter and unhappy. Life was hard, and the hardships defined them, they wore their struggles with a sense of pride or a badge of honor. Her father wore their struggles just the same, and she did too. She sat in the shadows of the alleyway, the richer section of Volgograd had nice buildings, clean streets and sleek cars. It felt bright, upbeat, lively. She watched the people go by, wondering about them, looking for the best mark. The bumbling ones were the best, women too. People never paid attention as they walked about, it was something that worked to her advantage.

The bus rumbled passed her alley, the work day had just ended, she could hear the whistles from the factories in the distance. Snow drifted down in lazy zigzags, the slush had soaked through her shoes. She squatted, her back pressed against the wall, as she watched the few pedestrians increase as people hurried home from work. She tugged her scarf from her nose, tucking it around her throat and shifting her hat back to expose some of her red hair. She slipped into the crowd like an assassin's dagger between ribs, unnoticed and painless. She followed the swell of the crowd in the late afternoon's gloomy sunlight. It was January, night was already falling, and the sun had dipped behind the buildings. She reached out with nimble delicate fingers, slipping into pockets, pulling out wallets, slipping watches and bracelets from wrists and melting out of the crowd with practice ease into the neck alley she came across. A smirk crossed her lips, her coat pockets laden with stolen items. She pulled out one of her pilfered watches and glanced at the time, if she hurried she'd get to the pawnshop before it closed. Grinning, she slipped the stolen watch back into her pocket and scampered off down the alley.

The pawnshop was two streets over from the apartment in which she lived with her father and grandmother. It was the poor district, with gangs and criminals, the police didn't come here often. The rule of law was the rule of the mafia. People kept their head down, ignored each other's problems and hoped that this new president fixed things for them. They had little hope. She kept both eyes open, head on a swivel as she skipped and twirled along the icy sidewalk, trying to mimic the moves of the ballerinas she saw once on tv. She reached the pawnshop with its iron barred windows, and pushed the heavy door open, the bell chiming overhead.

It stank of sweat and smoke and vodka. The sultry voice of some singer crooned over the speakers and an old black and white tv fritzed and hissed as it tried to pick up any tv single. The man behind the counter had a cigarette dangling from his puffy lips, beetle black eyes scanning the newspaper in his hand. He was brawn as a bear though with a gut of a hog, his head round with unkempt scruff covering his jowly cheeks, greasy black hair fell into his eyes. He looked up when he heard the bell. He made a pleased sound. "Well, if it's not the spiderling." He leaned over the glass countered to look at her, stubbing out his cigarette. "Whatcha bring ol' Yuri today, little spider?"

"Lotsa stuff, Yuri," she said, emptying her pockets. She put the bracelets and watches on the table, followed by the wallets. "How much does that get me today?"

He hummed, taking the items into his massive paw-like hands. She watched him inspect the bracelets and watches, looked through the wallets (pocketing the cash and credit cards for himself and tossing the IDs found within). "Well, I can give you two hundred for the lot of it."

"Two hundred? That watch alone is probably two hundred," she said, pointing to the platinum watch which she was pretty sure was an American Rolex. "Gotta gimme more than that, Yuri."

"Look, little owl," Yuri said, folding his massive hairy arms on the counter top to leer down at her. "I'd be happy to give ya more, but I hafta turn a profit too." He looked to his left and to his right. "But, if you wanna help me out, I know a few people—"

"I don't work with anyone," she said, hands on her hips, "you know that Yuri. Four hundred or nothin'."

"Damn girl," he growled, standing up straighter, his bulk intimidating but she held her ground. "Why are ya doing this? Shouldn't ya be in school or somethin'?"

"I wanna be a ballerina," she said. He laughed, patting his piggish belly. "Don't laugh!" she huffed, hot tears stinging at her eyes. She blinked, stamping the pain and frustration down. "Four hundred," she said, allowing a smell tremble into her voice, dropping her hands from her hips and pulling them close to her chest instead. Sometimes she got people to give her money if she looked pathetic on the street corner. Other times she'll pretend to bump into people and act the innocent scared child lost in a large city. Her grandmother said she was a good actress, her father often shook his head, telling her she would have every man she'd ever meet wrapped tight around her finger if she kept it up. "I… I n-need th-the money, Yuri," she whimpered. "Babushka… she's… she's ill and Papa—"

Yuri sighed, running his massive hand down his scuzzy face. "Alright, alright, quit it with the teary eyes, kid," he said. "I'll give you three-fifty."

"Three seventy-five and not a ruble more," she said. She grabbed the counter's edge and stood on her tiptoes, tongue poking out of her mouth as she worked to get into en pointe. Yuri shook his head. She knew the stories about his quick tempers and quicker fists, but he had a soft spot for her. He wouldn't be willing to haggle and put up with her acting if he didn't. She grinned at him.

"You're damn lucky I have a soft spot for you," he said, taking the items and putting them in a lockbox. He shuffled off into the back, she heard him rummage around for a moment or two before coming out with her money, shoving it into an envelope. "Here." He grabbed her small hand; his hand was warm and sweaty. "Hate to see a bright kid like ya end up in a bad situation. So, promise me, little spider, take this money and put it to good use. Maybe if ya lucky you'll get into the Vaganova Ballet Academy." He grinned, showing off his crooked yellow teeth. "The crème de la crème of Russian ballet schools. Maybe you'll be just like Natalia Makarova. You two share a name."

She pulled her hand free, taking the envelop. "I'll surpass her."

Yuri laughed, slapping the counter. "You got spunk, owl, like that. Get on home, your papa's worried I'm sure."

"Bye Yuri, see ya tomorrow," she said, waving to him as she stuffed the envelop into her inner coat pocket.

"Careful little spider," he said. She flashed him a smile and ran off, taking the alley across the street and the next one, until she made a right and came to the apartment complex. She buzzed herself in and side stepped the suspicious yuck on the floor before climbing up to the third floor. She fished her key from her pocket and let herself in.

It was large as apartments go. Two rooms on either side of the single bathroom, a kitchenette with a stove and oven and sink, a wall closet for storage and the rest was the large open living space. She kicked off her shoes, grimacing at the big toe poking through her sock. Unwinding her scarf from her neck, she pulled off her hat and hung both up, before shucking her coat and pulled out the envelop. "Papa! Papa, I'm home!" she called, walking towards his door. She knocked on his door, he opened it, the phone pressed to his ear.

"Natalia, thank goodness, I'll be out shortly — what? Oh, yes of course sir, my daughter just came… yes, yes—" her father closed the door. She sighed, putting the envelop on the small dinette table.

"Natalia, Natalia, come here, child," her grandmother called. She smiled, skipping into the second room. Pictures hung on the walls, her father and mother in some, her in the more recent ones. Her grandmother in her pilot's uniform from WWII, the 588th together in a group photographs. Shadowboxes with her medals and the Soviet flag. Between the desk and the bed was an old camera reel, the screen on the opposite wall down, no image appeared.

"Watching the newsreels again, Babushka?" she asked, her small fingers rewinding this one. She studied the writing on the empty canister. "The American," she said, tracing the letters. "The American? The one that helped you escaped the Nazis?" she asked. Her grandmother nodded.

"Yes," she said, "the one with the shield. Rewind it, we can catch and I'll tell you about him again."

Natalia grinned, rewinding the newsreel and sticking it back in. She flipped the switch, ducked around it and snuggled against her grandmother's frail body. There was no sound, just moving pictures. Russians trekking through a snow-covered forest with their American allies, hunting for prisoner of war camps, Nazi outposts, and bases belonging to the mysterious and evil group known as Hydra. "It was a cold winter in 1943. Stalin told the Americans that there was Hydra near Russia, so the Americans sent their best weapon," her grandmother said.

"Captain America!" she said in a gleeful whisper, clapping her hands. "The Red Skull feared him!"

"Yes, yes he did. I had done a night raid earlier, I was successful but, on the way back to Russia I was shot down and captured." She gestured to the screen, the base coming into view. The Hydra stormtroopers came out to combat the American and Russian forces. Even though it was black and white, she could see the colors of Captain America's shield, shimmering in the hazy winter sunlight, deflecting the laser blasts that Hydra shot at him. "I was a woman, deemed unsuitable for war and for working on whatever project Hydra was building. He came and saved me and several others from the cages they held us." Her grandmother chuckled. "He tried to protect me, but I saved him when I pulled his gun from his holster and shot a Hydra trooper." Her grandmother got that distant look in her eyes, it happened whenever she talked about Captain America. "He had the most beautiful blue eyes…"

"What was he like?" she asked, watching the newsreel.

"A good man. He got everyone out, made sure the wounded got medical attention, helped those that needed it. He was like from a story, Natalia. The one about the dragon and the poor farmer."

"Oh, that one!" she nodded. "The farmer saves the dragon and the dragon says he'll help him whenever he wants, and the wife keeps making the farmer go back and demand more and more until the farmer decides to stay with the dragon."

"Yes, that's the one." Her grandmother, stroked her hair, watching the newsreel. "I went back with the Russians, he went west, towards Germany and the other remaining Hydra bases" She closed her eyes, hand falling to her chest. "He made all other men seem lesser somehow. He had a good heart, Natalia. A heart too good for the world."

"How could you tell?" she asked, hugging her knees, eyes fixed on the glinting shield. She wondered what happened to Captain America. "Do you know what happened to him?"

"No," her grandmother said. "I don't. Nobody does. And I could tell he had a good heart by his eyes. The eyes, Natalia, are the windows into the soul." She cupped her cheek. "Always remember that my angel."

"Yes, Babushka." The newsreel ended, the screen going black and her mind drifting to scenarios about Captain America's fate. Maybe he and the Red Skull had an epic battle where they both perished. Maybe he's living in America right now, an old man with his wife surrounded by grandchildren.

"Why don't you put in the reel featuring Swan Lake," her grandmother said. Her eyes grew wide, the grin spreading across her face as she gave an eager nod and began to dig through the movie reels until she found the one with the ballet's name. She checked it, making sure it was rewound, satisfied that it was, she swapped the two out and turned it on. The screen was black for a moment then the white letters appeared: Leningrad State Choreographic Institute presents Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake.

She wished there was sound, so she could hear the music. It was a testament to the dancers and their skill that she could follow the story without the music. She watched the dancers leap and pirouette. The prima ballerina and the premier danseur noble captured the romance between Odette and Siegfried. Her eyes followed the footwork, watching at the ballerino lifted his ballerina up with ease; her spinning about his head. "You could do that," her grandmother whispered, gesturing with her chin to the graceful ballerinas on the screen. "You could be better than that prima ballerina."

"Do you think so?" she asked, watching the prima ballerina dance. The woman on the screen made it look so easy.

"Yes." Her grandmother patted her hand. "You have the grace and poise of a ballerina, Natalia. I know that one day you'll be the best ballerina in the world."

She smiled, watching the rest of the ballet, it finished, and she packed the reel away and tucked her slumbering grandmother. She and her father ate a quiet dinner of borscht and she cleaned the dishes, bathing afterward and went to the small storage closet that was her bedroom. She tugged the string, turning on the naked lightbulb. Pictures of taped to the walls covered the small space, pictures of famous ballerinas from ballet magazines that her father got for her. Her bed was a mattress with a threadbare sheet and a thick quilt and deflated down pillow. Next to the pillow was her doll, buttons for eyes and yarn for hair and an old bit of dress for her tutu. "You ready for bed, princess?" her father asked, she watched him study the ballerinas taped to her wall.

"One day, Papa," she said, "one day I'll be ballerina. And I'll dance for the best ballet company in all of Russia!"

"Of course, you will, princess," Alian said, ruffling her hair. "But first you need to sleep, and please go to school tomorrow."

"I will," she sighed, flopping onto the mattress. "Did you get the envelop?"

"I did," he said, groaning as he lowered himself down her mattress. "Natalia, I know you want to help, but you need to stop… acquiring money in whatever fashion you do."

"But don't we need it? You always say we need more money, that if we don't pay—" her father stopped her with a shake of his head. "Papa."

"You're too Natalia. Too young to worry about this, let me worry. I'm your father. It's my duty to protect you. I promise. I want you to dream. One day, I promise I'll get you to into a ballet academy."

"And I'll be better than Galína Ulánova," she said. "Just watch, I'll be the greatest ballerina ever!" She grinned as her father laughed.

"Go to sleep, my little ballerina," he said, kissing her forehead. She scrambled beneath the covers and he tucked her in. "Sweet dreams Natalia. Dance in your dreams."

"I always do, Papa." She smiled, tucking her doll close. He nodded, closing the door until only a crack remained. She listened as his footsteps faded away, her eyes drooping close.

She didn't go to school like her father asked, he knew she didn't. She always went to the wealthy district in Volgograd to pick the pockets of the businessmen and the lawyers and the twittering wives. If she got to Yuri's pawnshop, the big man would teach her some arithmetic and letters. If she brought in a good haul, he'll even give her a book. It wasn't much of an education, but she could read and write and do basic math. That was good enough to be a dancer anyway. She could write her name at the least. The weeks dragged on, winter settling in like a brooding hen over eggs. Her father moved her mattress into her grandmother's room and she often snuggled against her grandmother for warmth in their cold apartment during the night. The days she didn't go out to pick pockets, she'd tried to mimic the poses in the magazines her father got her, and listen to his frustrated voice shouting to the men that always called him, demanding he come to the office. He'd leave then, when they started demanding. She'd go down to Yuri's for supper.

The first time she did that, he tried to get her to hand over a trinket of value, but his wife threw a fit, and ever since she was welcomed for supper at Yuri's. She was heading home, a cold February night, the snowflakes fat and falling in lazy spirals. The wind could and biting. The lights did little to dispel the wintery shadows, their orange-yellow glows beacons of sanctuary. She hummed a song to herself, trying to dance to the tune as she headed home. "Whoa!" she flailed, slipping on a patch of ice. A strong hand caught her.

"Careful little one," the man said. His black hair slicked back, grey eyes cold but not unkind, a cigarette dangled from his lips, the end an orangey red. "Don't want to slip."

She could tell by how he spoke, the quality of his clothes and the tobacco he smoked that he was rich. His cheeks full and skin a youthful quality to them. She shifted her hand. "Thank you, sir," she said, "I'm going to be a ballerina one day, so I'm always practicing my forms. I'd be unhappy if I broke my ankle." She undid the clasp on his expensive watch. "So, thank you again, catching me."

He gave a hearty laugh, letting her go, his watch slipping into her palm as she did so. She pocketed the watch. "I hope to see you one day on stage, little ballerina." He patted her head and walked towards the darkness. She watched for a few moments, then headed towards home, grinning to herself at the heavy weight of the man's watch in her pocket. She reached the next street lamp, spinning around the pole. "Little girl," the man said, his voice stopping her cold. "I do believe you have something of mine." She could feel him behind her. A shadow that would devour her if she turned around. She should have resisted the urge to take his watch, she should have stayed home and went to bed hungry that night. The hairs on her nape stood up as the man took a step closer and another one appeared at the far end of the street.

She swallowed, turning around to look at the man. He held his cigarette between his middle and index fingers in his outstretched palm. "My watch, Natalia."

Her eyes widen. "H-How do you know my name?" she asked, looking around at the alleyways, looking for the glint of knives in the darkness. Was the man apart of the local mafia? She didn't think so. He was too wealthy to be a member of the local mafia. Not even Yuri had such nice clothes.

The man smiled, reminding her of the devil's grin. "My watch." She dug into her pocket and handed over her watch. "Thank you, now roll up your sleeve" — he tapped her left arm — "this one." She complied, glancing about trying to figure out a way to escape. "Why do you keep looking around?"

"You're going to hurt me, right? You're angry." She gulped several times, refusing to cry in front of this man. This man scared her. "I'm sorry I stole your watch."

"I know you are," he said, "though you didn't answer my question. Why do you keep glancing around?"

"T-Trying to look for an escape," she admitted, watching him puff on his cigarette. Snowflakes landed on her bare skin, causing her skin to pimple.

"Tell me, Natalia," the man said, "what do you see?"

"Why do you want to know? Aren't you going to hand me over to the police?" she didn't understand what was going on. He didn't seem angry that she stole his watch, his questions were strange, and she just wanted to go home. She glanced around again. "Well?"

"If I pull my wrist hard enough, I'll be free, cause you aren't holding me that tightly. There's a man behind me by the next lamp post and I think there is one in the alleyway next to us, in the thicker shadows. Nobody to my right though, which suggests that if you did want me to escape you're trying to funnel me into a trap or you'll really let me go."

He blew smoke in her face. She coughed, waving her hand back and forth to clear the silvery coils. "I need to know how to escape after I get my score, to know if there are any police around or people with sharp eyes."

"Do you have sharp eyes?" He tapped the ash off his cigarette.

"Not sharp enough," she said. "But they'll get sharper." The answer satisfied him. He pressed the hot cherry of his cigarette to the skin of her inner arm, just above the crook of her elbow. She sucked in a breath, biting her tongue to prevent the scream. Blinking her eyes, she held her breath until he pulled the cigarette away from her arm, once he did so, she let out a shaky breath, staring at the angry blistering red circle on her arm. She wanted to cry but refused even though the tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

"Brave," he said as he scooped up some clean snow and pressed it against the burn. "And strong. This will remind you to make sure your eyes get sharper." He put her right hand over the snow. "Run along home Natalia, and I hope you'll become a ballerina one day." He slipped into the shadows of the alley before she fine her voice. She ran home.

That night she closed the door to her grandmother's room for the night. Snuggled up against the old woman she looked at the burn. She had washed it but a bit of soothing lotion on it. The strange encounter with the man kept rattling around in her head: why was she looking around, how did he know her name, why did he burn her arm? "Weird," she muttered and went to sleep.

The next day her father went to the office but never came home. "Alian! Alian, where are you? Alian!" her grandmother called. Natalia sighed, going to get whatever her grandmother wanted. She ate leftovers for dinner. The next morning her father didn't come home. Worry itched at the back of her mind, like a mouse chewing through a book.

"He'll be home," she told her grandmother that afternoon. "I'm going to go get some food." She stood up and went into her father's office, finding where he kept the money she earned from pickpocketing and took a few rubles. She went to the corner store and got some canned food and went home. By the fifth day, she was too scared to leave the apartment. Her father had yet to show and her grandmother began to cough wetly. She took comfort in watching the newsreels of the war.

Once more, Captain America's shield glinted across the screen in her grandmother's room, defeated the Hydra troopers. "Captain America," she whispered, her voice mingling with her grandmother's snores. "If you're really real… can you come and take me to America? I think my papa's gone." She hugged her knees, watching as the legendary super soldier with a golden heart fight his way through his enemies to the base where he'd rescue her grandmother and hundreds of others. "You can be a ballerina in America, right?"

Her grandmother coughed in her sleep, the sound rough and wet. Booming knocks on the door echoed throughout the small apartment. "Mikhail? Mikhail?" her grandmother called, reaching a gnarled withered hand towards the door. She looked over at the door, fear coiling in her gut. She got up. "Mikhail!"

"Shush, Babushka," she hissed, tugging the blankets up around her grandmother's chin. "Grandpapa is gone. It's probably Sergei, Papa's friend from work."

Her grandmother moaned, delirious with her fever. "Mikhail, where's our son?" she asked, the knocks grew louder.

"Open up! Olga Romanova, open up!" a man shouted, his voice deep and commanding. "I will kick this door down. Olga Romanova!" he pounded on the door. The knocking stopped. Frowning, she inched closer to the door, unsure what was going on. There was a crash, the splintering of wood, she screamed yanking the door close. "The girl's here, get the girl, Comrade Petrovich said she is to be unharmed."

"And the old woman?" another voice asked. She didn't hear the answer. She shook as she pressed herself against the door. Her mind was racing, wondering who these men were.

No, they are KGB, but… Papa said the new government got rid of the KGB… right? She screamed when the door shuddered, her small weight useless in holding back the man. Still she tried, pressing with all her might against the door. The man, stronger, won out and she half scrambled half thrown herself towards her grandmother, covering the old woman with her small body.

"C'mere girl," the man said, grabbing her by the shoulder. She screamed, hitting his hand. "Heh, feisty one. Comrade Petrovich will have fun breaking you."

"Let me go!" she shouted. "Let me go!" the man hauled her out of the room. "Let me go!" she cried again, and he covered her mouth with his hand. She bit his hand. He yelped, dropping her and she bolted towards her grandmother's room.

"No you don't," he growled, snagging her by the wrist. "I don't want Comrade Petrovich angry with me, so make this easy on yourself girl, and come with me."

"No, let me go! Let me go!" she screamed, pulling against his iron grip. She reached for the door. "Babushka!" she shouted as the man pulled her closer to him and wrapped his other arm around her chest. She bucked and arched her back, screaming and shouting. "Babushka! Babushka!" Though she knew the neighbours could hear her shrieks and cries, they knew better than to get involved when the KGB came knocking. "Babushka!"

"Quiet girl" the KGB agent hissed into her ear. "Comrade Petrovich told me not to hurt you, but I will to keep you quiet."

She shook; the man's breath stank of vodka and garlic. She peeked over his shoulder, hoping to see that red-white-and-blue shield but she didn't and the realization hurt too much for her to struggle further. Captain America was dead (or not real). He didn't come and save her like he did her grandmother all those years ago. She didn't know why the KGB had come to her home, they probably took her father away too. Maybe they discovered her mother had defected when she was a baby. Whatever the reason, the KGB wanted to take her away, and the KGB always got what they wanted. "Babushka…"

"You aren't gonna scream, are you? You're gonna come quietly?" he asked. She nodded. "Good." He looked up as his partner came out of her grandmother's room. "Well?"

"She sleeps," he said. Natalia gave a strangle cry, tears trickling down her cheeks. The man that held her put her down and took her hand.

"Come girl," he said. She gave a mute nod, wiping her tears. He paused long enough for let her put her coat and boots on. He led her down to the entrance and stopped at the door. Nobody was around, everyone safe behind their doors, refusing to see or hear what was going on. The man pulled out a black hood and shoved her head into it. "Don't take it off." He growled, and she gave a mute nod. "Good." He scooped her up and took her away from the only home she ever knew.

When the hood came off she was in a plush room. Bookcases lined the wall, reaching from floor to ceiling. A large mahogany desk sat in the center, beige carpet beneath her feet. The man who's watch she tried to steal sat behind the desk and at his side stood a thin woman with ice cold eyes, her silvery brown hair pulled back in a tight bun that sat atop her head. Her pale skin stretched tight across her face, crows' feet at the corner of her eyes. "Is this the girl?" she asked.

Natalia swallowed.

"Yes," the man said. "Introduce yourself, child." She licked her lips. "I'll go first. I'm Ivan Petrovich and this is Madame B."

"Hello."

"Name girl," Madame B said, narrowing her eyes.

She glanced around, noting that the room had no windows and one door guarded by two KGB agents. "Natalia Alianovna Romanova."

"Take your coat off, Natalia and your shoes," Madame B said. She did. "Stand up." She did that too, holding her arms loose at her sides. The woman came over to her, inspecting her mouth and teeth, her eyes and legs. She pulled back the waistband of her pants and peeked down there. She grunted, let go and checked her ears and hair. She poked and prodded, lifting up her foot and then the other. "She'll do."

"Of course, she will. She may actually make it. This one has a fire, B. I can tell." Ivan said, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Tell me Natalia." He leaned forward. "Do you want to be a ballerina?"

"Yes," she said. "What is this place?" she yelped when Madame B smacked her across her face.

"Do not speak unless spoken to," she snapped.

"B," Ivan chided. Natalia rubbed her cheek, not liking the indulgent smile Ivan gave her. "I'll answer." He took another drag on his cigarette. "This, Natalia, is my ballet academy. I call it the Red Room. It is the finest ballet academy in the world."

"A ballet academy needs guards?" she asked, this time she ducked Madame B's strike. She felt pleased when Ivan gave an amused chuckle. He pushed back his chair as he stood and came over to her.

"I told you she has fire, B." He took a drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out. "My ballet academy does," he said, coming over to her and kneeling in front of her. "Because at my ballet academy, my girls are trained by the best with methods that… the other schools would frown upon. But don't worry Natalia. Soon you'll be dancing on the world stage. What's your favorite ballet?"

She hesitated, realizing that this seemed too good to be true. Still, her father told her never to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Swan Lake," she said, "I want to dance Odette's part."

"And you will!" Ivan put his hands on her biceps and gave he a little a shake, a fatherly smile on his face. "You will, and you'll dance so many other parts. Tell me Natalia, do you want to be apart my academy?"

She bit her lip, thinking it over. She didn't have anywhere else to go, her father was gone and her grandmother dead. No Captain America was going to save her if this was a trap. If this was a trap, Ivan had laid it well. She had no choice but to accept, for she had a feeling he'd be unhappy if she said no. "Yes," she said, her voice soft. "I accept your offer."

"Then welcome, Natalia. Welcome to the Red Room."

I uh… don't really have anything to say here. The next chapter will continue with Natasha's retelling of her Red Room days. I will warn you that what I have planned for the next chapter will be… dark. So if you have a weak constitution, leave. I may actually bump the rating up on AO3 because of what I have planned.

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