"𝑊𝐸𝐿𝐶𝑂𝑀𝐸 𝑇𝑂 𝑆𝐻𝐼𝐸𝐿𝐷, 𝐴𝐺𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝑅𝑂𝑀𝐴𝑁𝑂𝐹𝐹."
In which Natasha Romanoff is actually The-Girl-Who-Lived, and has been talking to a voice in her head since she was a child.
(GOF - TBD)
I do not own Marvel, Nor Harry Potter. Howev...
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NATASHA KNEW THAT SHE WAS DREAMING, BUT FOUND HERSELF NOT BEING ABLE TO WAKE UP. While she could avoid them mostly during the day, they always found themselves making themselves known during her dreams, and... they didn't disappoint. Once a reality for her, she found it wrong to call this a dream or a nightmare.
The dream always started the same; the same chilling music playing in the background, a dull expression on the maestro's face. She knew the dance sequence by heart, her body moving along with the music without her consent. It was cold, goosebumps forming on her skin.
It didn't change, the decorated halls of the Red Room, that is. Art was on every wall, with some form of tragedy or violence in each painting. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see a pool of blood being cleaned up by one of the guards, a few of the girls watching with blank expressions. She found herself stationed at the top of the staircase, her hands gripping the elegant staircase.
Lifting up her hands, she slowly made her way down the stairs, her steps silent and deadly. When she was younger, she tried to control her movements – to not move her body, but she stopped after a while. The Maestro played Debussy, something that many people claimed to gain comfort from, however... all Natasha felt when she heard it was horror and dread.
Eventually, she stopped before the Madame – not a single piece of hair out of place, her lipstick perfect and her clothes ironed to perfection. This was one of the days she remembered perfectly, a never-ending nightmare for her. "You'll break them..." She remembered saying to the woman, her words barely audible.
The woman smiled, a sadistic smile on her makeup-clad face. "Only the breakable ones," The woman had replied, her head tilting up slightly as she watched the girls dance. After reliving this scene many times, she eventually realized that Yelena was also in the room as well, her wild blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. "You're made of marble."
Her right eyebrow raised, her face full of curiosity as she asked, "And how is that?"
Of course, she knew. Even if Madame Red said they were made of marble, that was a lie. The same way how Madame Red's voice was masquerading as Wisdom, how selfishness was posing as education, and how the red room was posing as this wonderful place. But all of that was a lie.
The Red Room broke you down, made you question your worth as a human being, and recreated you in its image; a weapon with no face. A weapon that wouldn't question anything, a weapon with brutal efficiency. Something they could throw away because, in the end, there was always more.
Natasha knew, that no matter how much she tried to deny it, she would always be one thing: a weapon.
The Madame smiled, looking down at the red-headed girl, who met the woman's gaze with a neutral look. One of the perks of being the favorite, Natasha was allowed to be seen, just not heard. "Oh, dear Natalia... Only the worthy ones become made of marble..." She could hear the wheels of the gurney being wheeled down the hall, pleas, and screams echoing down the hall as they fought for the last piece of freedom they had; the one thing the red room didn't have control over.
