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- Posted: Sat, 14 Jul 2012 07:17:10 +0000
It was late. She was late.
The bitter aroma of cleaner hung in the simple room where the spy finally awoke. It took a moment for the scenario to click, but then she remembered the mission. Her heart skipped a beat. Kicking open the door, she began to race down the halls in a panicked sprint, her feet echoing off the tiled floors. Each room she passed emitted a different sound of terror, agony, or a droning siren, however, they weren't her concern. There were more footsteps. Was she being followed? No time. Around corner after corner, she was met with endless corridors- a labyrinth of pulsating red that brought only turmoil. Finally, the double doors she had been searching for came into sight. She held her breath as she burst through, her pointed toe touching the hardwood on the opposite side.
There was then an unpleasant grumble and sneer. In panic, the teen looked up to see a stern glare pointed in her direction. She had seen that look many times before in her life, but it never seemed quite as terrifying then went Madame Syratova executed it. She knew the disapproving gaze wasn't at her grand jete, but at her tardiness. Apologetically, she approached the woman who quickly fixed her posture. Carefully, the red-head unzipped her issued suit releasing the shimmering, white feathers beneath, each emerging from the leather cocoon unscathed and falling into place. Without further hesitation, the band began to play, and with it, she danced.
At first, her movements were robotic, terrified by the judging eyes of the audience, each member apart of her as she was them. However, it soon became easy to perform for them, each grateful move efficient and calculated for a different crowd member. The man in the front row, his long beard and wise eyes, he had begged for his life. The woman to his left, she didn't have time to. She watched with each twist, gesture, and leap as old wounds began to reopen, the smell of carnage seeping towards the stage. The staring eyes and rotting corpses fading to blurs of color and sparkling lights, her body twirling to the symphony's sweet tune. She felt the man above, tugging at her strings, each jerk more violent than the last. Spin after spin, her body completely in sync as the instruments thrashed to their grand crescendo. It was time. With the beating percussion, she began to climb the sequined stairs, illuminated like a path to heaven. At the top, she gave her audience one last glance of humble gratitude and sorrow, then she hurled herself into the fray below.
However, that was not the end, in fact, she was back where it began. The sterile halls, pulsing red, her pounding feet and theirs behind. She felt the strings yank again, but this time she yanked back. Her IV broke, the hazardous liquid draining down her shattered arms, so small but so swollen. Again, she was the rat in the maze, attempting to find those doors again, but instead found only an empty hall to a very dead end. Turning, she faced her pursuers, the scent of iron and carnage bellowing with each step. Looming like shadows, they curled around the corner, vacant reflections behind tinted glasses as they extended their arms to coax her back to them. Without hesitation, she drew her weapon, commanding herself to fire. To her dismay, there were no bullets, nor death calls, for it wouldn't fire. With each failed attempt, the weapon seemed to grow in size as did her approaching foes. Before long, the gun was far too large for her tiny, broken hand to hold. Slipping to the ground, it fell at the man's foot with a soft, plush squeak. As he picked up the tattered teddy, the familiar man, the puppeteer smiled.
“Come now, Natalia,” he said, grasping the small girl in his arms. She sobbed as the red faded and the alarms stopped. Once more she found herself in a simple room that smelt of cleaner and the treatment began again.
A gentle blue light met Natasha's tired eyes as she stared at the flicking clock. It was a familiar scene at least, though the others apparition were too, just not as comfortable. Though she didn't show any signs of panic as she awoke there were indicators of her turmoil, mainly the cold sweat that stuck to her brow. Sitting up, she glanced back at the clock. 1:34 AM. She combed her scarlet locks from her face- at least she had managed to get a bit of sleep. Arising, she stretched momentarily, her eyes scanning the empty room until she moved towards the dresser. She then changed into a fresh set of clothes- a baggy pair of pants and a variant of her drenched tank top she tossed aside. Now clothed, she grasped the dossier upon the table and exited her room to the seemingly endless hallway system of the Helicarrier.
As she emerged, the halls were completely vacant of human activity, but that wasn't to say she was alone. She knew they were watching, but at least they knew to do it behind closed doors. Her bare feet pattered upon the metallic flooring as she made her way down the corridor into the common kitchen area. She entered, assessed the room and noted the kettle was already prepared, a mug set close by. Rolling her eyes, she placed the dossier on the counter and quickly prepared her tea before returning to take a seat- she really wished they'd stop doing that. After a sip, she opened the folder and began scanning the enclosed documents. It would be another four hours before Coulson would approach, but she wanted to be thorough. In fact, that was what they kept her here for. She knew if there was anyone on the planet who could do what she does they would have replaced her by now, or even rid themselves from her years before. But they couldn't, so here she was.
In thirty minutes, she had memorized the building schematics. Another thirty the codes needed, then the appropriate accent followed. She had enough personal information memorized to create a facebook for herself by the time 3:15 rolled around, and at 3:45 her hair and eyes matched the profile picture. When the clock struck five she could tell you her first kiss, or the spelling bee mishap in fourth grade. Then at six..? At six, everything was normal. Sylvia Long had left her suburban home to make the commute to the city. It was her first day of work, and though some might say she was over-zealous, she believe punctuality was key. Smiling, she placed on her favorite CD, the one that had the song her first love and her danced to at Senior prom. Everything was perfect, and she was exactly where she was supposed to be doing precisely what she ought to do. Because that was just rule one of being the Black Widow- spin a web so flawlessly beautiful people forget it's a trap.