I'm Here | ✓

36 - Guilt

This woman has authority over me. I don't speak. I watch, same as her, although I'm not certain what I'm looking for, until there's a mistake. A misstep, a gasp, a twisted ankle, a fall.

The girls freeze, pausing on the tips of their toes, hands curled over their heads. They don't even look at the girl who fell, who's already sobbing and gripping her foot. I can tell it's not just the pain that's making her cry. Her frantic eyes flick between me and the teacher, approaching her swiftly.

The teacher grabs her by the hair and hauls her to her feet. The girl screams and claws at her teacher's arm, but it's no use. The woman drags the flailing girl over to me, and wordlessly gives me my assignment.

She lets go, and the girl stumbles forward, not falling, but barely standing. I watch as her eyes finally meet mine, and she knows. She's seen it before.

It's a heartbeat, a flash, and then my hands are around her neck, twisting skin, jerking flesh in a way it wasn't supposed to go, and she falls lifelessly to the floor. I fit a hand under her leotard and lug her tiny limp form out of the room. I'm not making a show of it, but the other girls get the message.

There's another image. I want it to end. I want it to stop.

I watch carefully. I watch every flicker of the fingers, every dart of the eyes, every rise of the chest. The girl raises her gun and shoots with practiced precision. She's good. She's accurate. Each of her ten rounds hits its mark dead on. She'd be a ruthless killer, but I see it.

I tilt my head and whisper to the woman next to me. My voice is rusty with disuse, but she understands. "Точный, но не способный. Она нервничает. Затем."

<Accurate, but incapable. She's nervous. Next.>

The woman gives a curt nod and motions the girl out of the way. The next one takes her spot and someone in the shadows gives her a fresh target. I watch the new girl. Her eyes are locked on the target, her breathing steady. She, too, hits every shot perfectly. I take a moment before critiquing this one. Finally, I settle on my review. "Она плохо впитывает выстрелы. Она опасна для нас. Затем."

<She absorbs shots poorly. She is a danger to us. Next.>

Each will be discarded. Eliminated. The next Widow needs to be flawless.

I want to scream, but only a strangled sound comes out. My eyes roll back in my head, but it doesn't stop the memories.

I tisk as I survey the room. "Что здесь случилось."

<What happened here.> It's a question, but I don't phrase it as such. Of course, they wouldn't know. It's only my job to kill whoever did, not to get answers.

16 teen girls lying in pools of their own blood across the room. Survivors of a necessary game that would put Hydra on the map, their very life spilling out into the cracks between the tiles. What a shame. Whoever succeeded in this feat would've made a great Widow, if they hadn't defected.