Mind Full of Roses // Peter Parker

2: The Last Mission

Madame watches us from the front of the room. Her hawk like eyes mostly flicking to me. She watches me the most, her expectations high from my reputation. She doesn't have favourites, but if she did then I would be her star pupil. Madame hasn't needed to use her sharp cane on me for quite a while now and I try to keep it that way; my shins start to ache from just the thought of it.

My breath labours as I continue to pirouette, my forehead burning from the watchful gaze. The polished floor doesn't provide much grip and many girls have been taken because of its cruelty. Its pristine shine reflects my slightly red face back to me. Green eyes stare back at me, full of determination but with a hint of fatigue. I quickly glance down to check my hair. Even with the sheen of sweat laced across my forehead, not a hair has escaped from the sleek bun.

A loud crack echoes from the front of the room. I quickly correct my posture and place my hands in front of me, standing to attention. Madame glares at us all from in front of a large mirror. A line of red ink peeks out from under the short sleeve of her black leotard. Her tattoo is a different colour from mine. Only superior officers or Widows who have proven themselves worthy get a red tattoo. The rest of us are stuck with black.

Dreykov has been talking to me about changing my black tattoo to a red one. He's been set on the idea that I am to take over the Red Room once he's unable to run it himself. A prideful smile tries to make itself shown but one look at Madame's glare is enough to send it away.

Madame turns her head to look straight at me. "Widow 19472 , you are excused." She says in Russian. Her raspy voice echoes around the large room.

She bangs her cane against the wooden floor against and the other girls start to twirl as though she had flicked a switch in their brain. It takes a small amount of resistance to ignore the voice telling me to join them.

I look at Madame, wondering why I am no longer with her today. She must have sensed my stare because her hawk eyes turn to glare daggers into my forehead.

"Go to Dreykov, you incompetent little дерьмо." She says in annoyance before turning back to the other girls.

I slowly walk out of the room, my legs aching from the strenuous amount of strain they've had placed on them. I walk down a long corridor, not needing to concentrate about the directions as I've taken this course often enough.

I flex my fingers free of a cramp and wave them by my side. Immediately, the familiar prickling sensation envelopes my hand and I smile in relief. Even though they've been with me for four years, I still get nervous when I haven't used my powers for a while.

I soon get to a door with a guard stationed outside it, their face covered by a mask.

"Widow 19472. Roselyn," I identify myself in Russian. "Dreykov called for me."

The guard opened the door in response. A small creak echoes through the wide room that I find myself stepping into.

At the bottom of a pair of shallow stairs, a desk sits facing towards a sheet of glass and. Sat at the desk is a small man with thick framed glasses.

Dreykov look up at the sound of the door closing and waves me towards his desk. Two seats face opposite him but I stay standing in the middle of them, keeping my shoulders back and eyes trained on the wall parallel to them. An imaginary Madame stalks around me, poking and prodding at any part of me that isn't straight. I feel a phantom cane pushing between my shoulder blades and I straighten my shoulders even more