Road to War Part III: I Would For You

Step Over All That Used to Be

He's remembered waking up at the bottom of the gorge. He's remembered being dragged, looking at the bloody stump in place of his arm. He's remembered the sound of the bone saw they used to cut away the flesh before attaching his arm. He doesn't remember that part, for which he is thankful, but he does remember waking up with it the first time. It was heavier, felt awkward. But it worked well enough when he tried to choke the nearest man. He hadn't been successful, of course, because he wasn't as fast back then. Now, he'd at least kill everyone in the room before they could bring him down. Which may or may not be a good thing.

The decades are a blur. Waking up to kill and going back to sleep. Most of his missions, as far as he can tell, relied more on stealth than destruction. But he was always good at that kind of thing. They hadn't managed to get him under control at the very beginning. Sometimes he refused to go, or didn't return to extraction points. Sometimes he spared the people he was sent to kill, or at least didn't hurt anyone who wasn't on the list. But that hadn't lasted long. They'd strapped him down again and invaded his brain. He doesn't know what they did or how they did it; the only records he's found don't go into much detail. Which might be for the best anyway.

They'd broken him down until he did just as he was told. Except that made it harder for missions to be completed efficiently. So he'd been given some of his autonomy back after he'd proven his loyalty. And life was a monotony of pain and death and bitter, bitter cold. But at least he had some power on missions, some ability to improvise and enjoy his freedom from dark rooms and darker cryo chambers. He'd learned quickly how much leeway he had before they would punish him.

Still, it didn't exactly make life worth living. Not that they allowed him to think of such a thing. They told him often enough of the difference he was making, the hero to the nation they'd turned him into. And he'd endured because he was always a survivor, even if it meant living through an unimaginable hell.

Until Natalia.

He doesn't know why they chose him to train the girls in the Black Widow program. Surely someone else could have taught them hand-to-hand combat and how to act American, someone besides a weaponized ghost. But he'd been chosen, and he applied himself to the task with the same dedication he always exhibited. And they were pleased.

The girls were afraid of him; he could see it in their eyes the first time they were brought into the padded room where they would train. At that point, the remaining girls were in their late teens or early twenties. As near as he could tell; they weren't encouraged to keep track of such things. He'd assessed them all carefully and identified their weaknesses quickly. They had previous combat training, but these were the best of them. Perhaps he was the only person the Red Room had at their disposal who was better. He'd had decades to train, after all, as well as some natural aptitude. Or maybe it was an unnatural aptitude.

There were ten girls then. He doesn't remember them very well, at least not in terms of appearance or personality. He does remember their weaknesses and strengths regarding combat readiness. Natalia was the only one of them about whom he had noticed more than was absolutely necessary. And it wasn't because of his programming or an attempt to break out of it. It was because she wasn't like the others.

After the first time they'd sparred, she'd stayed behind to ask him for pointers. The others had fled, some tearfully, as soon as they had lost. But not her. She'd pulled herself to her feet and walked over to him, almost managing to hide the soreness in her muscles. In all the decades since he'd fallen from that damn train, no one had talked to him like she had. It wasn't that she was warm or affectionate, not that first time. She just asked him a question like he was a person, someone allowed to have opinions and ideas and who could help her get better. Somehow, he hid his surprise at how such a small gesture made him feel (or, more accurately, that it made him feel). He'd told her what she wanted to know. And, when they fought again the next day, she'd clearly taken his advice to heart.