I'm pretty sure the soldier noticed the rolled up magazine I'd stuffed in my jacket. It had become even more obvious as I'd lagged behind, my limber fingers distracted by fastidiously tearing out the headline and date, and if he wasn't clued in by that, the walloping splash as I discarded the refuse pack of paper was enough. But he said nothing.
The whole car journey he made no indication he'd seen it. When we reached base again and we had to debrief before Karpov, he never mentioned it. I smuggled the contraband into the camp with a witness holding his peace. That's when my misguided trust for him was born. That night, I folded the scrap of scraggy paper into a tight triangle, with compressed edges and squirreled it away into my pillowcase - the one they never changed. I treasured it. It was a souvenir of my day of freedom, a token to remind me that everything wasn't as it seemed. It kept that streak of doubt for authority alive in me; feeding the flames.
That's when my training notched up and gruelling became inhumane. I had my usual hours, monotonously planting my fist into a cushioned bag, hauling myself up on a bar to toughen my brick-solid arm muscles and contorted myself on an aerobics mat to learn agility and nimbleness. I was delivered to extra training as the troupe retired to the quarters; because falling behind was not an option. Getting cut was not an option. But of all the handlers to help me harness my hardly honed skills, I was given the winter soldier.
I was directed to the gymnasium and I nudged my way through the flaking black glossed metal doors and they clapped shut behind me. The soldier was already there, but in alternative gear to that I usually saw him in. Usually he was done up to the nines in creaking black leather and stomped with a jingle: his chunky terrain-enduring boots like a bass drum and the grenades and clips of ammunition like a cymbal. He was drowned in a baggy black shirt and matching trousers. Barefoot he stood on a training mat binding his hands in straps.
I meekly hung back by the door, head bowed respectfully.
"Natalia?" His voice was welcoming and reverberated around the cavernous space.
"Yes, sir..." Permitted by his voice to look up, I met eyes with him.
"Please, come on over," he requested in English, beckoning me over with an inviting smile.
"Yes, sir..." I mimicked his language and toddled over foolishly, arms crossed over my chest.
"No need t' look so miserable... I'm not that awful, am I?" He pulled a disheartened frown and heart-wrenching puppy dog eyes.
And for the first time, he managed to coax a grin out of me. And a flush of laughter. It was a modest giggle and a shy flash of teeth. But I was intoxicated by the residual afterglow; the strangest warmth settled in the pit of my stomach and a foreign sensation tingled in my cheeks where I'd smiled. It had been so long, I'm surprised I hadn't forgotten how to.
I edged onto the combat mat to meet with him. He really was a powerhouse of a man; a fortified tower, bulked out like brick with rippling muscles, with the curious bionic enhancement of his metal limb. His shadow drowned me like the Atlantic Ocean and I craned my neck to be respectfully attentive.
"Why don't you get your hands strapped up and I'll see what you know?" He suggested, giving me the once over and giving me an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder.
I started blankly back at him, feet planted to the ground. He was met by bewildered silence. I picked at my chipped nails, bitten down into jagged lines with raging red raw skin bordering them.
"For... For fighting?" He divulged, seeing if he could paint some form of expression onto my dull hanging face. "You do know how to wrap your hands?"
"I've never..." I shrugged and my face heated like a furnace, the tips of my ears tinged rose with embarrassment.
There was a flicker of concern across his pessimistic face. "That's just fine." He rectified that expression of care the moment it flared, renouncing that nurturing emotion netted around his heart.
He took a gander towards a black duffle bag splayed open on the floor and plucked two black rolls of fabric from it. "Never seen these before?" He cocked his head like an inquisitive hound.
Lips sealed together like two halves of an envelope, I shook my head.
"Not an issue. Let me show you." He extended his hand to me, and with hesitance and reluctance I guided my fragile hand into his palm. He couldn't conceal the alarm that masked his face as he took one look at my hand.
Though I'd adjusted to the state of my hands, to a pair of virgin eyes, I could only imagine how my injuries looked. My fingers were crooked, my dry and pulverised skin was scaly like a reptilian beast and the worn knuckles were exposed and fleshy. They'd been savaged by training and the pain that radiated from my tools of trade had become mere background discomfort.
"Do they train all of you like this?" He fondled my injured metacarpus with a haunted crestfallen expression lighting his eyes. His jaw hung slightly agape as he examined the damage.
"They tell us that in the field we won't have gloves so they see no point," I explained. There was a glimmer of devastation and then a flash of empathy. "That we need to get used to the pain."
"And they don't get infected?" He prodded at the exposed knuckles that resembled a cut of meat on the butcher's counter. As I winced, his breath caught and he tenderly stroked my fingers with bereavement.
"I'll be careful," he promised with a wry laugh and a forged smile. He nursed my hand carefully as he wound the binding around my fingers and thumb. He looped it in a way that didn't jostle the exposed bony knuckles and didn't irritate the rough flaky skin. And repeated the gentle gesture with the other.
It was a confusing contradiction that such a sultry and soft soul was housed in such gruff and rough casing. The first time we had crossed paths he had swept me to the floor like a human tsunami, unstoppable and ungentle, but now, he was nursing me with intrepid fingers and a haunted smile.
"They tell me you keep getting beaten," he anecdoted, relinquishing ownership of my hands. "And that Belova faultlessly mauls you like a dog with meat every time you two clash in the ring." The raise of his eyebrow was an interrogation. "What's the issue?" The investigative expression transposed onto his face was akin to that of the wardens when they patrolled the dormitories, hunting for the non-believers of the Russian supremacy.
"She's older," I complained in a defeated voice, hanging my head in shame. "She's bigger than me. And she's been doing this longer." I pounded my fist into my palm and sagged like a deflated balloon as I sighed.
"That's no excuse," he spat indignantly. "Tell me, Natalia, in the field, if you get caught and need to fight your way out: is your foe going to care you're young?" His demeanour crystallised like a diamond; the sympathy in his voice dying. "Are they going to show you mercy for being littler?" His lips curled hatefully and his brow furrowed. "Are they going to care you have less experience?" He challengingly sauntered forwards a few steps.
I daren't roll my eyes, but the temptation was nagging me. "... I don't know." I scratched the back of my neck, trying to duel the tickle of the stay hairs wriggling from my messy bun.
"Yes, you do," he countered, voice baritone, more threatening. He paced, the clap of his pale vascular bare feet on the floor piercing the silent room.
"No?" I crowed with a taut throat, my voice box inhibited with anxiety. My green eyes watchfully tracked his every move, preparing for an ambush.
"No!" He hollered, abruptly concluding his pacing and slamming his fist into his palm. "No they're not! They're gonna tear you to shreds. They're gonna pop a bullet between your eyes, slash you with their knives, singe you with their grenades, cosh you with their blunt instruments." He paced closer and loomed over me like an overhanging cliff-face. "There is no mercy. Your stature and your experience means zilch to them." He provocatively pushed me back by the shoulders, demonstrating how unprepared I was. "It's no excuse."
"What am I supposed to do?" I beseeched, half considering throwing myself at his feet just to produce answers that didn't require translating from riddle to statement.
"Why do you think they gave me you?" He gave a cocky smirk. "I'm their best asset. But you have a brain, Natalia," he whined patronisingly, a teacherly rebuking in his face. "I've seen you use it. I've seen you manage to sneak contraband into the camp-"
I snagged his wrist and tugged in it to silence him. "Shhh! Please, sir!" I whipped my head around, prepared to be carried off to solitary confinement or the punishment room at any second. The acoustics amplified his voice like we were in the Bolshoi. "Please, I beg of you lower your voice!" I sussurated with glassy green eyes. "I can't have them know!" My voice wavered. "They'll take it! I'll be punished! I don't want to be punished!" My eyes had bloomed with a frenzy of panic, mania evident in the way they darted about.
"No need t'panic my red-headed friend." He framed my face with his human hand, a thumb drawing a circle on my cheek. "Me and you, we're buddies." He squatted down to my height and looked me dead in the eyes. He hushed his tone. "I won't tell 'em. I have no motive to. Between you and me, I own a small collection of contraband myself." He ruffled my hair affectionately. "But that's our secret..." He held a finger to his lips and winked at me. "I vow to teach you to fight, and you're going to teach me Russian. I'm a friend, Natalia. I mean you no harm." He was sincere, and I was lulled into a sense of security. "Yes?"
I nodded and forced the tears to recede into their ducts, looking up and hauling in deep breaths to steady my hysterics.
"Anyway, back to the fighting." His hand withdrew and the second I lost that bridge between us my heart shrivelled in my chest.
"I can't fight. I'm useless. I have nothing!" I confessed, rife with frustration, slamming my pendulums of fists into my side.
"You can't with a mindset like that," he scolded, jabbing at my shoulder. "Stop focusing on what you don't have and name what you do! Use that noggin'a yours." He tapped his temple with his metal index finger, an unimpressed frown shrinking his face.
"I'm tiny! Stick thin! My balance is okay," I retained humility. "I suppose, and my reflexes are fast..." I trifled with vocabulary. "I don't know!"
"Yes, you do! Natalia, you're small!" He cried like he'd reached a religious epiphany. "Sure Yelena can land a sucker-punch that renders you unconscious, but she can't dip and dive like you." There was sheer adulation in his eyes as he looked at me and I felt my cheeks flame. "There's too much of her. And as soon as you see her fist flying for you, evade! You're agile!" He sung like a nightingale. "You can bend like a gymnast, right?"
"I s'pose," I admitted with a causal shrug as my lean companion paced.
"So use that!" He instructed clearly. "Whip her up into a frenzy, deny her every punch and kick. Agitate her. Humiliate her. If there's anything that a perfectionist hates, it's being showed up." And I was in concord with that statement completely. "Could you imagine if she couldn't land a hit in the ring? In front of all of you? She'd lose focus," he preached inspiringly. "She'd focus on her reputation, not the fight. Natalia, that's your way in," he pronounced motivation ally. "That's how you win."
"How? I have no strength!" I protested, flinging my arms in mock punches.
"You don't need much. And I've seen you train, Natalia. By no means are you weak. Just strength of mind. Strength of mind I've seen you use." He smiled compassionately. "Stay low. Sweep her feet out. Nab her ankles. Hell! Kick her knees the wrong way. The lower ground is yours. Below the waist, where no one suspects: you have the upper hand." He taught me, as I heed his words like a reverend with the bible.
He had me demonstrate my abilities for him. I flaunted my blocking stance, showcased my blocking manoeuvres and practiced my evades, all the while he threw sloppy slow punches at me. He had me strengthen my punches, standing behind me, clasping my wrists and forcing me to jab from the shoulder. I showed him the sequences of martial arts I had learned, the Katas that were nothing more than muscle memory: Heians, Tekkis, Bassai and Kanku. He corrected my posture with taps of the hand, kicks of the foot and invigorated me with the threat of a counter attack by reversing the Katas in front of me.
Then he sped it up. And slowly we graduated from routine to freestyle: face to face on the mats.
I rotated into a kick and propelled my foot behind from the hip, aiming for his diaphragm.
With his lightning fast reflexes, he snatched my ankle. I flipped about my foot and hopped in an attempt to wriggle free. He raised my ankle and sent me toppling onto my front. My hands planted on the lumpy mat with a slap and I groaned in defeat.
"You need to be quicker!" He barked, punctuating his point with a clap. "Better," he chanted, circling me like a vulture ready to feast on the carcass of his prey. "No one is going to hesitate!" He reminded me, prowling like a tiger. "You won't have a second to mull over your options. You need to react!"
I rolled onto my back, kicked my feet out before me and flew back into my fighting stance. We circled, like two cockerels in an illegal fight, calculating options as the seconds passed.
Breathing excitement back into the monotonous balletic movements, I threw a right hook. He caught my fist and squeezed it tight. His foot hooked around the back of my ankle and brought me crashing down like lumber.
"Don't pour all your focus into one move!" He scolded with a scowl. "Think ahead, like a game of chess. If that first move fails, then what?" He neared down on me, squatting patronisingly at my side. "And what if the next fails? And the next?" He stared at me for an answer. "Are you going to give up, let them beat you?"
That insult was like poison. That personal offence he had caused me frazzled all sense and inhibition.
Still pouting in defeat, rife with rage I jolted my foot out and kicked his knee in the wrong direction. As me tilted towards me with a grunt of surprise, I clashes foreheads like a snarling bull with a red flag dangling before it.
He screwed his eyes shut in ailment, his ears ringing and head spinning.
I launched myself at him like a rabid coyote and his metal talons curled around my throat. He picked himself up from the ground with his arm outstretched, me dangling by the noose of his hand.
As I heaved and gasped, in the heat of my strangled frenzy, I curled up like an intimidated hedgehog and recoiled like a sniper rifle. I slammed my heels into his stomach and felt a flex in his taut muscles as I wounded the air out of him.
And as he was propelled backwards, like a bullet out of a barrel, I was fired the opposite way, falling to the ground awkwardly on my coccyx.
He hunched on all fours and scrambled towards me, lumbering like a beast, carnallite snarling as he lolloped. As he hovered over me, he pounded his metal fist downwards. I twizzled away in a flurry, only seeing the collision out of the corner of my eye. He penetrated the mat and had his fist ensnared in the snapped planks of the floorboards.
My target, hoisted by his own petard, struggled with wild eyes. I saw my chance and rolled onto my upper back and locked my lower limbs around his neck. I linked my ankles, the severe curves locking my legs together and squeezed my thighs around his airways.
With his stubby blunt nails, he scratched at me like a lion, trying to prize himself free of the suffocating trick. I could feel him becoming lax as his uncontrolled sharp gasps became left frequent and set him free with a kick to the nose.
He rolled onto his back in anguish, roaring in agony. His eyes were scrunched closed, but then I saw his beady black pupils settle on me, revenge glowing in his irises.
My bare feet squeaked and snagged on the chipped and poorly slotted floorboards as I attempted to flee the scene of my crimes. But I was hooked by his arm.
I felt the sticky slosh of scarlet splattering onto my garment and soaking through to my skin and he was rasping coarsely in my ear. With a momentous swing, I slammed my elbow into his groin and with an effeminate whine he was floored.
I retreated a few cautionary steps before facing my felled foe.
One hand cupping his bruised balls, the other pinching the bridge of his gushing nose, he glared at me. "Ruthless..." He hissed, serpentinely sashaying to his feet. "Perfect." He smirked.
A/N - So encountered a weird dose of inspiration and motivation for this story. I'm hella excited for this, but I don't know who else is though *laughs anxiously*. I have a chapter by chapter plan now! How exciting is that *sincerely hopes no one notices the author has no life*?! I'm planning to do all of Natasha's backstory first and then Clint: because I hate it when chapter to chapter - or sometimes even within the chapter - you get POV changes! And I want to tell backstories from first person, it's kind of like a personal recount - more emotive and I can imagine them narrating certain excerpt of their life; taking time to address the reader. But it will transmute into first person once they share scenes.
So we've got a lot of stuff still to come before our anti-heroes come face to face in Budapest. James Barnes, Alexi Shotstakov, Aleksandr Lukin. And as for Clint, Barney Barton, Kate Bishop and Junior Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D Phillip Coulson. Love, lies and leads.