![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Kiss.
"Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable," you say, and Steve frowns at you, not getting it. "Yeah, they do--" he tries to say, but there's no time to explain, you're gonna be made any moment, so you grab his head and pull it down to yours for a kiss. He's surprised, sure, but he doesn't pull away, just putting a hand on your hip and kissing you back. It's not half bad, either. Then again, once a course of action has been determined, he's always been good with the follow-through. Commits one hundred percent. For a brief moment there, you think maybe you should have flirted a little harder with him before everything went to hell.
Then again, no time like the present, is there? "Still uncomfortable?" you ask, as you turn and continue down the escalator like nothing ever happened. "Not exactly the word I would use," he says, and you smile where he can't see you. Always good to know you've still got it.
Audition.
The smell of sawdust and sweat, the feeling of wood and leather under your feet. The sound of Tchaikovsky and the muffled thumps of a dozen pairs of toe shoes hitting the floor. You've got a fractured toe on your left foot, but you aren't going to let that stop you. These are auditions for Odette, and while you aren't the prima you are always the best. Always. You have to be. So you dance through the pain, use it to make you better, and with every arabesque and plie you show it. Your heart, your soul. You are the best in this company, in this world, and they would be fools not to recognize that.
You can feel the director's eyes on you, and while you don't smile with your mouth, you smile with your eyes and your step, and you know that they do. The role is yours, and these other girls don't even know it yet. Good. The price for failure isn't one you're willing to pay.
Turning point.There is an arrow pointed at your head. It would seem archaic, almost laughable, were it not for the fact that it's your death staring you in the face. That doesn't bother you nearly as much as you thought it might. Maybe it's because you've been dancing with death your entire life. Dance after dance. It doesn't make sense to end it here, but then death never makes sense. You live, you do something, you die.
But he doesn't shoot. He just waits, eyes cool and assessing. You've got a gun pointed at him, but he doesn't flinch. He just looks you right in the eyes. "Doesn't have to be like this," he says, and you laugh. A sharp sound, a weapon just as much as the ones in your hands. He doesn't flinch. "I don't mean this," he says, slanting his eyes towards the weapon in his hands. "I mean this. All of this." "I'm not a hero," you say, as much derision as you can muster in your voice. Derision, disdain, disgust. "No, you're not," he agrees, still cool. Still calm. Still not killing you. "But that's good. Heroes hesitate. Heroes get people killed. We need more monsters. People who can make the call without crying about it."
There's something in his words that pierces you like an arrow. You're a monster. You know that. You are exactly what they made you to be. You've never regretted that. This is what you are. Death and destruction, an invisible hand that wipes away a life. Only the way he says it--"So which are you?" A challenge. He doesn't back down. You get the feeling that he never backs down. "I'm Clint," he says, like it's an answer you should understand. Somehow, you don't think you ever will.
Training. CW: broken bones, indoctrination
The echo of gunshots is still ringing in your ears as you lower both weapons, setting them on the table in front of you and turning for judgement. Good shots. Kill shots, all of them, you know. You know because they have to be. The targets are pulled from their stand with a rip of tape, and they are presented in front of you by your examiner. "Do you see the difference?" You study the silhouettes, no expression on your face, but you see it immediately. The right-hand target is off. Just a little, not enough to mean the difference between life and death for your target.
That doesn't matter. It's off enough. Anything less than perfection is unacceptable. You know what comes next. The examiner nods, and the man to your left steps forward, taking your left arm in his hands and slamming it against the edge of the table. You feel bones break and your breath stops, but you don't scream. You can't scream. A scream is weakness and you are a survivor. Lacy black shapes blur the edge of your vision, but you are still standing. You will always be standing. The examiner nods her approval. "Infirmary. We begin again with the right hand tomorrow."
You will be better next time. You have to be.
First. CW: murder
The first time is so easy you think at first it's just another rehearsal. You've practiced before, after all, on dummies and on other subjects, and this is just like that. Your target has been drinking steadily all night. All it took to get him away from the crowd was you making eye contact and slowly walking away. Before you know it, you're alone with him in the dark, outside the theatre, and leading him away from the service entrance and back into the shadows. He's behind you in seconds, rough, clumsy hands fumbling with your skirt as his mouth finds the skin of your neck. You don't protest, don't make a sound, only turn in his arms, sliding a stiletto blade from your glove as you reach up. His eyes are closed as he leans in towards you, and the blade slips into him like butter. He never opens his eyes. The bleeding is minimal, like you've been taught to do, and your dress is black to hide what spatter there is. It's a perfect, clean kill.
It's what comes after that's messy. The rush of adrenaline, euphoria, nausea. It's different when it's for real. It's different when you hear that last choked gasp of air, when you feel the heart under your hand stop beating. Ending a life is supposed to make you feel powerful, isn't it? Or should you be ashamed, wracked with guilt for committing murder? It should make you feel something, either way. Invulnerable. Horrified. Instead, you feel fragile. Breakable. It was so easy. So easy. You stare down at your hands, rock-steady as they have to be, seeing through the satin to the bone and sinew beneath. People are so fragile, flesh and blood and bone. You have to be stronger.
Odessa. CW: violence, gunshot wounds
You can smell burning rubber and heated metal, sage and dry grass as you haul yourself from the driver's seat, gun in hand. Whoever shot out your tires and sent your humvee rolling off the cliff is still out there, gunning for your ward. The engineer is barely conscious behind you where you've dragged him from the wreckage, but he's in no shape to run. SHIELD already knows you've been compromised, the SOS would've gone out the second the vehicle was totaled, and all you can do now is get the hell away and find some cover, maybe take out the assailant before he gets you.
There's a figure coming your way, seemingly unconcerned, and you recognize the way he moves. Probably thinks you're both unconscious still. He doesn't remember who he's up against. That gives you the advantage. You don't hesitate as you raise your gun, firing several shots directly towards his center mass, but his reflexes are phenomenal and the haze from the fire throws your aim just enough. He's barely scratched, if that, but you have nowhere else to go, and your engineer can't run. You step in front of him, guarding him, taking aim again, and that's when the Soldier lifts his rifle and shoots you. Not you, the engineer, you realize, as you grunt and fall with the blow, seeing the engineer's sightless eyes and the hole in his head as you hit the ground, hand clutching your abdomen. He shot the engineer through you. Vulnerable, you wait for the next bullet to find your head. It doesn't come. There are no footsteps. You open your eyes. He's gone. Along with the pain of the bullet wound in your side comes another kind of ache, one you can't ignore as easily. You lived because you weren't the target. That's all. That's the only reason.
Interrogation. (As seen here.)
The men in front of you are smirking. The younger lackeys both flanking the decorated officer in the middle, them young and powerful in their ignorance, him fat from the lives he's taken from others. They think they have the upper hand, that because you are young and beautiful you can't also be dangerous. You were counting on that. They're giving you everything you need, and the beauty of it is they're doing it all of their own free will.
But then the phone rings, and it's Coulson's voice on the other end as they shove it between your ear and your shoulder. "You have to come in." Irritation, verging on anger wells up. He knows better than to interrupt you when you're working. You've been building the connections for this one for months. You've gotten some info, but you'll still have to start the legwork nearly from scratch. He knows that, too. The next words out of his mouth change everything, though:
"Barton's been compromised."
The bottom drops out of your stomach and you shove the sight of a young girl's face immediately to the side, taking yourself to a cold, still place inside reserved for those moments when you can't trust emotion to not compromise what needs to be done. "Let me put you on hold." The violence that follows doesn't bring you any sort of pleasure or satisfaction. It's done because it needs to be, because you have other priorities now. Smuggling will have to wait. You have a debt that needs repaying. When it's all over, thirty seconds later, all three men unconscious or wishing they were, you pick up your heels and head for the door. They don't know where Clint is, or if he's alive. They think so. You have to hope. "We need you to talk to the big guy," Coulson says, and at first you think he means Stark, all the deadpan jokes Coulson had made about him when you were working that job. But then he reiterates. "I've got Stark. You get the big guy." You realize who he's talking about, finally, and the bottom drops out of your stomach again as you remember that one terrifying afternoon, the one that sent you straight for Fury with a not-so-subtle 'what the fuck are we even doing here.' Banner. Christ.
"Bozhe moi."
"Public displays of affection make people uncomfortable," you say, and Steve frowns at you, not getting it. "Yeah, they do--" he tries to say, but there's no time to explain, you're gonna be made any moment, so you grab his head and pull it down to yours for a kiss. He's surprised, sure, but he doesn't pull away, just putting a hand on your hip and kissing you back. It's not half bad, either. Then again, once a course of action has been determined, he's always been good with the follow-through. Commits one hundred percent. For a brief moment there, you think maybe you should have flirted a little harder with him before everything went to hell.
Then again, no time like the present, is there? "Still uncomfortable?" you ask, as you turn and continue down the escalator like nothing ever happened. "Not exactly the word I would use," he says, and you smile where he can't see you. Always good to know you've still got it.
Audition.
The smell of sawdust and sweat, the feeling of wood and leather under your feet. The sound of Tchaikovsky and the muffled thumps of a dozen pairs of toe shoes hitting the floor. You've got a fractured toe on your left foot, but you aren't going to let that stop you. These are auditions for Odette, and while you aren't the prima you are always the best. Always. You have to be. So you dance through the pain, use it to make you better, and with every arabesque and plie you show it. Your heart, your soul. You are the best in this company, in this world, and they would be fools not to recognize that.
You can feel the director's eyes on you, and while you don't smile with your mouth, you smile with your eyes and your step, and you know that they do. The role is yours, and these other girls don't even know it yet. Good. The price for failure isn't one you're willing to pay.
Turning point.There is an arrow pointed at your head. It would seem archaic, almost laughable, were it not for the fact that it's your death staring you in the face. That doesn't bother you nearly as much as you thought it might. Maybe it's because you've been dancing with death your entire life. Dance after dance. It doesn't make sense to end it here, but then death never makes sense. You live, you do something, you die.
But he doesn't shoot. He just waits, eyes cool and assessing. You've got a gun pointed at him, but he doesn't flinch. He just looks you right in the eyes. "Doesn't have to be like this," he says, and you laugh. A sharp sound, a weapon just as much as the ones in your hands. He doesn't flinch. "I don't mean this," he says, slanting his eyes towards the weapon in his hands. "I mean this. All of this." "I'm not a hero," you say, as much derision as you can muster in your voice. Derision, disdain, disgust. "No, you're not," he agrees, still cool. Still calm. Still not killing you. "But that's good. Heroes hesitate. Heroes get people killed. We need more monsters. People who can make the call without crying about it."
There's something in his words that pierces you like an arrow. You're a monster. You know that. You are exactly what they made you to be. You've never regretted that. This is what you are. Death and destruction, an invisible hand that wipes away a life. Only the way he says it--"So which are you?" A challenge. He doesn't back down. You get the feeling that he never backs down. "I'm Clint," he says, like it's an answer you should understand. Somehow, you don't think you ever will.
Training. CW: broken bones, indoctrination
The echo of gunshots is still ringing in your ears as you lower both weapons, setting them on the table in front of you and turning for judgement. Good shots. Kill shots, all of them, you know. You know because they have to be. The targets are pulled from their stand with a rip of tape, and they are presented in front of you by your examiner. "Do you see the difference?" You study the silhouettes, no expression on your face, but you see it immediately. The right-hand target is off. Just a little, not enough to mean the difference between life and death for your target.
That doesn't matter. It's off enough. Anything less than perfection is unacceptable. You know what comes next. The examiner nods, and the man to your left steps forward, taking your left arm in his hands and slamming it against the edge of the table. You feel bones break and your breath stops, but you don't scream. You can't scream. A scream is weakness and you are a survivor. Lacy black shapes blur the edge of your vision, but you are still standing. You will always be standing. The examiner nods her approval. "Infirmary. We begin again with the right hand tomorrow."
You will be better next time. You have to be.
First. CW: murder
The first time is so easy you think at first it's just another rehearsal. You've practiced before, after all, on dummies and on other subjects, and this is just like that. Your target has been drinking steadily all night. All it took to get him away from the crowd was you making eye contact and slowly walking away. Before you know it, you're alone with him in the dark, outside the theatre, and leading him away from the service entrance and back into the shadows. He's behind you in seconds, rough, clumsy hands fumbling with your skirt as his mouth finds the skin of your neck. You don't protest, don't make a sound, only turn in his arms, sliding a stiletto blade from your glove as you reach up. His eyes are closed as he leans in towards you, and the blade slips into him like butter. He never opens his eyes. The bleeding is minimal, like you've been taught to do, and your dress is black to hide what spatter there is. It's a perfect, clean kill.
It's what comes after that's messy. The rush of adrenaline, euphoria, nausea. It's different when it's for real. It's different when you hear that last choked gasp of air, when you feel the heart under your hand stop beating. Ending a life is supposed to make you feel powerful, isn't it? Or should you be ashamed, wracked with guilt for committing murder? It should make you feel something, either way. Invulnerable. Horrified. Instead, you feel fragile. Breakable. It was so easy. So easy. You stare down at your hands, rock-steady as they have to be, seeing through the satin to the bone and sinew beneath. People are so fragile, flesh and blood and bone. You have to be stronger.
Odessa. CW: violence, gunshot wounds
You can smell burning rubber and heated metal, sage and dry grass as you haul yourself from the driver's seat, gun in hand. Whoever shot out your tires and sent your humvee rolling off the cliff is still out there, gunning for your ward. The engineer is barely conscious behind you where you've dragged him from the wreckage, but he's in no shape to run. SHIELD already knows you've been compromised, the SOS would've gone out the second the vehicle was totaled, and all you can do now is get the hell away and find some cover, maybe take out the assailant before he gets you.
There's a figure coming your way, seemingly unconcerned, and you recognize the way he moves. Probably thinks you're both unconscious still. He doesn't remember who he's up against. That gives you the advantage. You don't hesitate as you raise your gun, firing several shots directly towards his center mass, but his reflexes are phenomenal and the haze from the fire throws your aim just enough. He's barely scratched, if that, but you have nowhere else to go, and your engineer can't run. You step in front of him, guarding him, taking aim again, and that's when the Soldier lifts his rifle and shoots you. Not you, the engineer, you realize, as you grunt and fall with the blow, seeing the engineer's sightless eyes and the hole in his head as you hit the ground, hand clutching your abdomen. He shot the engineer through you. Vulnerable, you wait for the next bullet to find your head. It doesn't come. There are no footsteps. You open your eyes. He's gone. Along with the pain of the bullet wound in your side comes another kind of ache, one you can't ignore as easily. You lived because you weren't the target. That's all. That's the only reason.
Interrogation. (As seen here.)
The men in front of you are smirking. The younger lackeys both flanking the decorated officer in the middle, them young and powerful in their ignorance, him fat from the lives he's taken from others. They think they have the upper hand, that because you are young and beautiful you can't also be dangerous. You were counting on that. They're giving you everything you need, and the beauty of it is they're doing it all of their own free will.
But then the phone rings, and it's Coulson's voice on the other end as they shove it between your ear and your shoulder. "You have to come in." Irritation, verging on anger wells up. He knows better than to interrupt you when you're working. You've been building the connections for this one for months. You've gotten some info, but you'll still have to start the legwork nearly from scratch. He knows that, too. The next words out of his mouth change everything, though:
"Barton's been compromised."
The bottom drops out of your stomach and you shove the sight of a young girl's face immediately to the side, taking yourself to a cold, still place inside reserved for those moments when you can't trust emotion to not compromise what needs to be done. "Let me put you on hold." The violence that follows doesn't bring you any sort of pleasure or satisfaction. It's done because it needs to be, because you have other priorities now. Smuggling will have to wait. You have a debt that needs repaying. When it's all over, thirty seconds later, all three men unconscious or wishing they were, you pick up your heels and head for the door. They don't know where Clint is, or if he's alive. They think so. You have to hope. "We need you to talk to the big guy," Coulson says, and at first you think he means Stark, all the deadpan jokes Coulson had made about him when you were working that job. But then he reiterates. "I've got Stark. You get the big guy." You realize who he's talking about, finally, and the bottom drops out of your stomach again as you remember that one terrifying afternoon, the one that sent you straight for Fury with a not-so-subtle 'what the fuck are we even doing here.' Banner. Christ.
"Bozhe moi."
