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wheelsup-sevenup · 2 years

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relentless, you survive

chapter 1

a natasha romanoff character study (+ an endgame fix-it, because i can do everything but write in a linear fashion apparently).

title taken from the league of legends song but really this excellent nat edit by simplymaterial on youtube

on AO3

And so, she falls.

Natasha kicks off the sheer cliff face, propelling herself backwards just enough to tear her hand out of Clint’s grasp one final time. His desperate shout reaches her ears, but by the time she can think to shout back she’s too far down. How far down, she doesn’t know, because she keeps her eyes fixed on him.

This isn’t the first time she’s been sure she was going to die. Those instances stretch all the way back to her early childhood, highlighted in her memory with pain tearing its way through her body and a panic so deep it makes her nauseous. This time, it’s different, because there’s no way out of this one. A soul for a soul for a soul for a soul.

Where else am I going to get a view like this?

She watches Clint all the way down.

Thump.

Her shoulders hit the ground shortly before her head does, sending sharp bolts of pain through her upper body. That’s definitely done some damage, she thinks, before flattening her palms on the tiled floors to push herself back up.

Her opponent is still standing, made a little slower by the numerous hits Natasha’s landed on her before she managed to sweep her legs.

“Careless, Natalia,” Madame B chides. Natasha spares a glance at her teacher before turning back to Yekaterina. She is ten to Natasha’s six, taller and more muscular while still remaining lithe and nimble. She’s the best fighter of the eight-to-ten-year-olds, maybe a few years above that as well.

Natasha lunges again angrily, but Yekaterina catches her wrist and forces it downward. A strangled gasp escapes her lips as she flips again. The older girl is faster this time, bringing a knee down into her ribs, effectively forcing the air out of her lungs.

Madame B sighs as Yekaterina stands back up and Natasha presses her cheek to the cool floor, trying desperately to get her breath back. “Stop flopping around on the floor like a fish and stand up, Natalia.”

She does, holding back a wince, and her teacher reaches down to cup her chin. Natasha maintains eye contact, ignoring the burning in her lungs and Madame B’s many ice-cold diamond rings digging into her skin.

“I expected better of you,” the woman says. “I thought you were ready to practice with the older girls.”

“I am, Madame.”

“Don’t contradict me.” The diamonds bite a little deeper into her skin. “Go back to your bed and stay there until morning.”

Quickly, Natasha nods and exits the training room, surprised to find the hallway beyond it dark, lit by only a few lamps here and there. They’ve trained right through dinner. No wonder her stomach is growling.

By now, most everyone is in bed, and Natasha finds her way back to her barracks on autopilot, mind occupied by the day’s training. Despite what Madame B had said, the fight hadn’t been all that bad - she’d gotten a couple hits on the older girl and her own injuries were fairly minor.

She pauses a moment to look out one of the grand, arched windows at the staircase, pressing her nose against the icy glass.

Natasha was abandoned. Her mother left her in an alley to die, and she would have frozen to death if not for one of the Red Room officials, who found her and took her in. That’s the truth, it’s been told to her for years.

And yet, this simple motion always makes her feel safe, somehow. If she tries really hard, she can remember imagine a past where she had a mama and a papa who loved her, and peppered her rosy cheeks with kisses as she danced clumsily on the rug in front of the fire.

A piercing scream echoes down the long hallway, reminding her to keep moving. Sometimes she thinks this place was designed so that all the sounds would echo, so that on the rare occasions the halls were quiet, the slightest sounds could become haunting whispers.

She makes her way up the staircase to her bed, stepping cautiously over the places where the hardwood floors squeak and groan. Her muscles ache and there’s a throbbing in her shoulders that still hasn’t stopped.

“How bad was it?” Inessa whispers as Natasha slips the metal handcuff onto her wrist and lies down in bed.

“Not bad,” Natasha whispers back, truthfully.

“Did—” Inessa stops as the floor creaks outside the door, and they wait until the guard passes. “Did you win?”

“No. But I didn’t expect to.”

Inessa has been her friend for what feels like forever, but in reality has only been a couple of months. It started when Natasha had moved up to the older girls’ class, friendless and terrified but still stoic as ever. She’d been trying to do her hair one morning - in her old class the teachers did it for them, and it hurt, but the braids stayed in place all day long - when Inessa sat down next to her and offered to help.

“You have such pretty hair,” Inessa had told her as she weaved two French braids into her vivid curls. Natasha had smiled for the first time in days.

Somehow, when Inessa is the one complimenting her, the comments make her feel good. Not sick, like when Dreykov runs his fingers through her hair as they’re preparing for the morning’s ballet and makes her actively repress a shudder. She’s not entirely sure why she despises Dreykov so much, only that she does.

“So guess who I saw today?” Natasha can feel Inessa’s grin through the layer of darkness separating them.

“Who?”

“The Iron Maiden,” Inessa whispers excitedly. Melina Vostokova has long been their personal hero. She’s not as popular among the other girls, who choose to admire Widows with a higher kill count or complicated fighting styles. Not someone who was pushed through the Red Room four times in fifteen years.

But Natasha admires Melina not just because of her record or her hand-to-hand skills (which, admittedly, are impressive). In her science class, they study toxins powerful enough to bring an army to its knees - toxins that Melina developed.

But more than that, she’s a survivor. Four cycles through the Red Room and she’s still here. It’s almost unheard of.

It’s because of her Natasha hasn’t lost hope that she can make it here.

“No way.”

“I think she smiled at me when I made my fifteen-yard shot.”

“She did not,” Natasha dismisses.

“You’re just jealous.”

Natasha huffs. She’s not jealous. She’s a Widow, almost, and she doesn’t need baby things like affection or praise. Love is for children and she is not a child.

“Go to sleep, Nat. See you in the morning.”

She yawns. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

Years later, they call her in the middle of the night.

She wakes and silently dresses in the clothes they’ve provided for her: a soft, long-sleeved sweater and a pair of leggings. They won’t protect her from the chill that still lingers in the Russian summer, but then she’s not going to be in Russia for much longer.

She doesn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone. There’s no one left that would care.

Still, she takes a moment to trace her fingers over the empty bed next to her. She is eight years old now, the same age Inessa was when she—

She turns abruptly to leave the barracks. One way or another, she hopes she never comes back.

Natasha follows the guard down the hallways, out of the familiar part of the Red Room and into the wing that houses the older Widows. This place is silent, occupied only by the faint footsteps of women walking to and from their bunks, faraway gunfire and muffled talking, although the corridors are no less magnificent.

People stare as Natasha walks down the hallways. She keeps her head up, hoping to appear more than a skinny child in unfamiliar clothing. She’s about to meet her hero, after all.

Inessa would be so jealous.

They arrive at an office at the end of a long hallway. The name on the desk says General Dreykov, but the man himself has yet to arrive. The only people here are Madame B and a tiny blonde girl, fast asleep on a chair.

“Natalia, Yelena Belova. Your sister.” Madame B nods to the toddler.

She’s familiar with the mission parameters - long term, two to six years in America. An honor to be chosen. She still doesn’t understand why they need to drag this infant along with them.

Natasha doesn’t say anything, though, just sits and nudges Yelena awake when she hears footsteps down the hall.

Dreykov enters first, arm firmly around the Iron Maiden’s waist. He smiles at her, and she nods back out of reflex. She’s too tired for this - can’t muster up any other emotion than the desire to tear down the entire compound brick by crumbling brick.

“Girls, say hello to your new mother,” Madame B says sharply. Natasha feels the weight of the command fall on her shoulders. Survival instinct takes over and she smiles, just the way she’s been taught in her manipulation classes, and holds out her hand for Melina to shake.

“Hi, mom,” Natasha says in English. The words mean nothing to her. Melina’s hand in hers is unfamiliar, slender and strong and capable of snapping her neck in one fluid motion. She withdraws her palm.

Dreykov laughs. “She’s good, huh? Just like her mom.”

Natasha drops her gaze, skin inexplicably crawling.

“You, don’t let her get soft,” Dreykov adds to Melina. Natasha risks a glance upwards as Melina nods, eyes fixed on Natasha. The girl looks down again.

“Your da’s waiting for you in the car,” the man says. Alexei, Alex, the Red Guardian, Dad. She doesn’t know what to do about him.

Natasha takes Yelena’s chubby hand in hers as the three of them walk across the courtyard, where an older class of Widows is sparring. The girls, all in their early teens, fight with a vicious intensity.

Melina’s strides are purposeful, confident. Natasha tries to copy her, tries to imagine herself as the accomplished assassin in front of her, but can’t. Try as she might, she can’t picture herself as anyone but a scared, broken doll of a girl alone in the confines of this prison.

Their car drives away, leaving the Red Room in the dust behind them.

Natasha almost smiles.

When Natasha wakes up, it’s cold.

She’s confused. She’s supposed to be dead. And it’s not like she believes in heaven or hell, but this is definitely not either of the two.

Her body is stiff, but it doesn’t hurt, which, again, is confusing because there’s no way all of her bones weren’t broken by the thousand-ish meter drop.

She takes a moment for inventory. Nothing appears to be broken or wounded. She’s lying on hard rock with wind whistling through her still-braided hair.

She gets up slowly, marveling at the fact that her body still appears to work.

“Clint?” Her voice comes out a whisper, traveling away with the wind.

“Clint!” She tries louder, but no one answers. She needs to find him, to tell him it didn’t work. She’s still alive.

Someone is crying nearby.

She runs toward the sound, hand on her hip where her gun still miraculously rests. A man is kneeling on the rock, sobs wracking his body.

“Clint?” She murmurs. Her voice is still quiet, so maybe that’s why he doesn’t seem to react as she crouches behind him.

“I’m… I’m so sorry… Nat…” he heaves out between sobs.

“It’s okay, I’m right here.” She tries to put a hand on his shoulder, and flinches as it goes right through him.

“Clint?” Her voice cracks.

“I’m sorry, Nat…” he says again. “I… I’ve gotta go. I’ve got the stone. We’re gonna do this for you, okay?”

He’s got the stone? Then why is she still here?

Dread spikes in her stomach as he stands and walks slowly to the waiting Quinjet.

“Clint,” she says again, although it’s clear to her by now that she can’t hear him.

She tries to put her body in front of him to stop him getting on the Quinjet, and leaving her, but he walks right through her.

“No,” she whispers. “No, don’t leave, don’t leave…”

The engines fire and the Quinjet flies away, leaving her alone on this barren rock.

lol. sorry.

part 2 in the works now!

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