Head Is Not My Home

Ignore the Promises We Made, Forgotten Now, We'll Never Get Our Way

Somehow, things were easier after that. She knew the persona they wanted her to have – the prima ballerina of the Bolshoi – and she could play that part. Weeks went by without anyone thinking she needed a treatment. Her days were just as full as before and it was easy to convince them she had no memory of anything but what they had given her. The life she'd had before, with Ivan in Moscow, seemed to have a fluttery quality now and was hard to pin down. She didn't try. It was enough to know that this wasn't all there was, wasn't all who she was, that they hadn't taken over her completely.

She didn't see the Winter Soldier very often. But sometimes, when she sat in her room at night and couldn't remember the color of her house or Ivan's favorite drink, it felt like a necessity to go to see him. He wasn't always there, of course; they kept him busy. When he was there, they would talk. Or rather, she would talk. She would tell him everything she could think of about her life outside this place and he would listen intently, as though soaking up what she had to say. Very occasionally, he would tell her something he could remember. When he volunteered any information about himself, she would do her best to commit it to memory, so at least someone would know.

About half the time, he wasn't there. On a mission or debriefing or training. Those nights, she would remind herself that her superiors didn't think she even knew where he stayed, or that she knew him at all. So it was still recovering a little freedom to go somewhere of her own volition, even if she didn't get to speak to anyone.

Now that she had a cover, she did not see Ivan. That was a relief. If she did see him, she wasn't sure if she should pretend to know him or not. Perhaps they had included him in her programming of a cover, but perhaps she would give away her need for another treatment if she saw him. There was no way she could hide recognition of the man who was essentially her father. She had a vague hope that, whenever this mission was over, she might be taken to see him again.

Surely the mission would end eventually, right? They were clearly training for something. Any assignments into the field were short and of little consequence, so she figured it was just practice for a larger undertaking. A part of her was nervous at the thought. What if she failed? What if she let everyone down and they sent her and Ivan away? That would be alright but she was well aware that they were far more likely to kill the both of them than let them leave. They knew too much.

Natalia didn't necessarily regret her bargain with them. Ivan was alive. She was working for the best people in the intelligence community. They were training her to be as effective as any spy who had come before her, if not more so. Whatever Ivan was doing would certainly be just as prestigious. They had been outside the established order before, scraping by, but now were successful. Her little rebellions were just a way to deal with their intense methods, not an indication of her wanting to be rid of this place entirely. Right?

"Natalia, come with me," Madame B said to her very seriously one morning. She had been in the middle of sparring with one of the other girls, but stopped immediately to follow her mistress. They walked from the training room into an office down the hall. It wasn't Madame B's office but was empty nonetheless. People did not stick around her if they could help it.

After she initially began pretending to delay treatments, Natalia had been nervous whenever one of her superiors addressed her directly. Would they notice? What tells did she have that she hadn't realized? But, by now, she had successfully fooled everyone for over a month. So she felt reasonably confident that she could maintain her charade, even in front of Madame B.

"I have wonderful news for you, my dear."

"I'm glad to hear it, Madame," she replied flatly. The other girls showed little emotion after being treated and she assumed that must have been true of herself as well.