BLOODY BALLERINA ▹ barnes-romanoff ✓

fifteen.

And the girl, she means something.

Something... something terrifying.

She can feel it.

But Natasha won't let herself travel down that path again. She doesn't care. It's so easy not to care. It's simple and, honestly, better for Natasha to allow herself to slip back into the unfeeling state the Red Room trained her to constantly be in.

Hill doesn't say anything and neither does Natasha, but her eyes squint a little. She's still not quite certain what to think of the small girl sitting at a table with her hands strapped down against the metal surface.

There's only one way to find out.

Natasha steps for the door and swiftly yanks it open. Her figure suddenly appears in the gray lit interrogation room, pushing her back against the door to close it. The girl's blue eyes immediately jerk in Natasha's direction and they hold each other's gaze for a moment. It's strange. All of the emotions that Natasha has buried down bubble slowly up towards the surface. The feeling starts screaming, yelling, simply begging for attention. One look, one simple look, and it's like suddenly these two people are connected. It's as if they both can see each other underneath the layers they have formed for themselves. They can see through the layers upon layers of hatred, coldness, rage, bitterness, all of it. And Natasha knew it was going to be like this: terrifying.

And just like that, it's gone.

The feeling recedes.

The woman and the girl move on.

Natasha carelessly cocks her head to the side, "Do you speak English?"

The slightly bruised girl merely stares.

Natasha studies her for a long moment before her eyes squint slightly, "You do."

The girl blinks tiredly, but her eyes stay trained on Natasha's lips as if she's following each and every movement that the woman's mouth makes. It's a quick realization for the ex-assassin: the girl is deaf. Natasha gives a curt, smug nod while she slides into the metal chair sitting on one side of the table.

"You have a cannula," she states the obvious as she settles her shoulders back into her seat.

The girl's hands twitch ever so slightly and Natasha's gaze flicks from her oval face to her small pale hands locked to the table. The skin is sporting fresh bruises, likely from the past hour or two, of varying shades of purple and red, some defensive and some not. Her fingernails are deformed and some are even missing, but the wounds were clearly caused at another time. How kind of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to leave those alone, Natasha thinks bitterly. Her eyes flash to the side as anger dances through her mind. Why is she doubting S.H.I.E.L.D. all of the sudden? S.H.I.E.L.D. has been there for her when she's had absolutely nothing else, no parents, no family, no children, no friends. She has no right to doubt them, especially for the sake of some random child killer.

As always, whatever she may be thinking, Natasha keeps her own pretty face blank, "You wanna tell me how you got that?"

The girl's hands instinctively pull up against the restraints as if she wants to fix the cannula's position. When she remembers that she can't, her nose awkwardly twitches and she bites back any emotion stirring within her flat chest. Apparently, her breathing problems are a touchy subject for the girl.

"Hm," Natasha taps her fingernail against the metal surface, speaking in her usual low tone as she conjures up an unkind smile, "Right, how rude of me. We never really got to the introductions before you shot my boss, did we?"