Chapter Text
You’re eight years old. Your mother’s sobs snake through your open bedroom door - Mummy would always leave it cracked for you. Papa though... you can hear his hand strike Mummy’s face even in your upstairs room.
“Please. Eric,” she begs through her sobs.
“Shut the fuck up,” Papa growls. She always makes him so angry…
Her scream feels like glass shattering in your chest. You don’t know why you run from your room, why your small feet pound down the stairs. You do know he’ll be furious with you, somehow that doesn’t matter.
“No Papa!” You scream as loud as your tiny lungs can manage, placing yourself squarely between him and your mother.
His eyes sear into your matching pair. Rage and hatred so hot you think you may combust, a word you’d recently learned - Mummy had been proud when you told her about it. You’re afraid… But you won’t move. Instead, you lift your chin higher, will your back straighter.
“No baby,” Mummy’s trembling hand on your shoulder feels like a burden rather than a comfort. “Go back-”
“Catherine,” Papa lowers his hand, his expression shifting.
“Eric, she’s just-”
“Was I speaking to you?” His tone isn’t red hot any longer, it’s cool as ice. A shiver crawls up your spine.
“No I… I just…”
“Come here, Catherine,” he opens his big palm and smiles at you, that warm Papa smile that makes you think of holidays and tickle fights. You step toward him, your mother’s hand limply slipping from your shoulder. He envelopes your small hand in his own and turns you to face Mummy.
She seems to shrink, hands rising to hide her face. “Don’t.” Papa orders in a smooth tone. Immediately she obeys, eyes glued to the marble floor.
“I want you to look at her Catherine.” You do… but… it’s just Mummy. Hurt and crying and scared, you don’t like it. After a moment you look away.
“No. Look at her.” You know it’s not a suggestion. Slowly you force your eyes back to her cowering form. The moment drags on long enough for you to name all the colors in the bruises in your head.
“What do you see?”
Confused you turn to Papa, “Mummy?”
“That’s who you see. What do you see?” Looking back at her you squint your eyes a little trying to see something else, like those funny books where you see different things when you shift your focus. No matter how hard you try though the image is the same.
“What do we have no use for, Catherine?”
Oh…
“Weakness.” That’s why Papa would never crack your door to let the light in. Why there was no checking for monsters under the bed or being afraid of spiders. Hydra had no use for weakness.
“Exactly. This is weakness. Are you weak, Catherine?” At this your mother’s eyes shoot up, burning hot enough to rival Papa’s earlier look.
“No.” You know the right word even if you don’t know if it’s the truth.
“And what will you do to prove that child?” You look up to your father’s face for understanding.
“I… anything, Papa.” When his eyes meet yours, a smile lifting his lips you feel afraid of him, truly afraid, for the first time in your short life.
“Good,” he nods toward your mother, “hit her.” The words are said as if they’re nothing as if he told you to eat your broccoli or drink your milk…
“Wha-”
“You said anything,” there’s a sinister rumble in his voice. Yeah, you did but… you look to Mummy hoping she’ll help you understand but her eyes are on the floor once more.
“Catherine,” Papa grabs your chin turning your face to him, “someone who cannot uphold their word is worse than weak, they’re a coward. You have a chance to prove yourself here and now. Are you weak? Are you a coward? Or are you worthy of being a daughter of Hydra?”
Your hands curl into small fists, “I am not a coward,” even you knew that was a very bad thing to be.
“Prove it. Show me how we treat weakness.”
Maybe it’s your father’s steady gaze, your mother’s unwillingness to look at you, or perhaps this darkness always lived in your bones, just waiting to come out. Regardless of the root of it, you take a step toward your Mummy, the woman who left your door cracked and cut your crusts off when Papa wasn’t looking, the woman who kissed your scabby knees and dried your tears…
You raise your fists… And you hit her. Over and over again with your ineffective child’s fists, you reinforce bruises from your father.
Your mother… does nothing.
-
You’re eleven and your mother flips the light on in your room, waking you. Groaning you try to hide your face in your pillow.
“Baby,” her soft voice whispers. “Wake up,” she shakes you gently.
“What, Mother?!” You snap. She hadn’t been Mummy since that night…
She’s used to the tone you take with her by now and isn’t the least bit phased. “Something’s come up. We need to go.”
You sit up and glare at her, “Go where?”
“The airstrip.” She’s grabbing your clothes, stuffing them into a bag.
“Why?”
Her eyes settle steadily on you, “Your Papa’s orders. Would you like to call him and ask-”
“No,” you’re immediately up and changing. She should have just led with it being Papa’s orders. Stupid as always.
You make it to the driveway before you pause.
“Where’s Mason?” Your driver was nowhere to be seen. If Papa wasn’t here he always wanted Mason to be escorting you both for protection, he’d been very clear about that.
Mother slams the trunk shut. “He said just us.” She doesn’t look at you. “Get in.”
You do, but doubt rises. She was up to something, you could feel it. As you head in the opposite direction of your usual airstrip your doubt turns to certainty.
Looking at your Mother you note her rapid breathing, her white knuckles, the pulse thrumming in her neck. Fear. Weakness.
“What exactly are we doing, Mother?”
Silence hangs for a few minutes before she speaks. “You deserve better than this Catherine. I should have done this years ago… should-”
“Papa doesn’t know where we’re going does he?” Your fingers fiddle the pager in your pocket. Mother says nothing. “Does he?” Your tone is the same cold one Papa uses when he asks something he knows the answer to. Pride tingles in you just a touch at the realization.
“No. Listen to me, baby,” her eyes flit to you, holding more determination than you’ve ever seen in them. “I know this is hard for you to understand but… your Papa… he’s a bad man.”
Papa wasn’t bad. He was strong and brave and honest. All the things you wouldn’t expect her to understand. The weak always misunderstand strength, that’s what he told you. You don’t argue though. Your index finger presses the buttons. Papa would find you and sort this all out.
“We-Hydra… this isn’t right.” She says nothing else.
A half-hour passes before you pull into an old overgrown airstrip. There’s a small single-engine plane waiting, though there’s no one else in sight. Mother pulls up beside it and kills the engine.
She gets out but you don’t move. When your door opens you don’t even react as her hands grab yours, your eyes glued on the dash.
“Look at me, Kitty.”
“My name is Catherine.” You say through clenched teeth. Who did she think she was, trying to take you from Papa…
“Look at me.” Her tone is steely, it surprises you enough to cause you to jump a bit.
You turn to her. She’s kneeling on the ground by your door, looking up at you. It makes you think of that night Papa made you hit her.
“I’m sorry, Catherine.” Your brows knit in confusion. “I’m sorry I let him make you think that being kind is being weak, that love is weakness. It isn’t.” Her trembling hands cup your small face.
“I love you more than anything in this world, that’s the only way I’ve made it through this. I don’t expect you to understand this now but when you’re away from all this evil you’ll learn. We’re going to be happy, baby. Please, please just come with me.”
Something flutters in your chest. It’s not the disdain you’ve grown used to feeling for her nor is it anger. It’s the feeling you still get sometimes when she makes your favorite dinner or lets you stay up reading or… when he hits her… maybe… she was right.
“Mum…”
A bright smile bursts across her face. “It’s ok to be scared, baby. We can be scared together. We have to go now though.”
You glance at the plane, “Can you fly that?”
You’ve never seen this side to your Mother. “There’s so much you don’t know about me, Kitty,” with a wink she stands and steps aside to let you get out.
No sooner do you than the sound of screeching tires hit your ears. Her eyes meet yours, terror filling them.
“Run!” She grabs your hand and drags you to the plane.
Regret squeezes your heart tight, “I’m sorry, Mummy…”
She offers you a weak smile as she flips switches to start the plane’s engine. “It’s ok. I love you, ok?”
“I… I love you.”
The plane starts to jerk forward. “Get in the back and buckle up, Catherine. Now.” Her eyes are glued forward.
You do as she says, stiffly sitting in a seat, holding your breath, unable to sort through the storm in your mind.
It was true you realize, with unsettling certainty, you loved her. She was your Mum. Always gentle with you even when you weren’t the same back. But Papa… did you love him or fear him? Did you want to run from him? Was she right? Nothing made sense.
“Buckle,” she barks glancing back at you. Automatically your hands move to lock in the seatbelt.
The engines roar to life causing the old plane to shudder. Suddenly it jerks forward and you feel a bit of your fear slip away. If you were moving you could get away, maybe not forever but at least until Papa had time to cool off.
Gunshots ring out and you scream, hating yourself for it.
“Get on the floor, Kitty!” Mum yells back at you.
You fumble with the belt but free yourself after a moment, falling to the floor. More shots ping against the metal but you can still feel the planes forward motion. As long as you could keep- A small explosion at the front of the plane draws out another scream.
Smoke fills the cabin and you cough, feeling the plane stop. You should have known better than to ever hope.
“Mum!” You cry out, smoke stinging your eyes. She says nothing, but you suddenly feel her arms wrap around you. Despite the smoke, you force your eyes open to look at her. Her face is covered in soot, red snakes down the side of her face, and tears carve a path under her eyes - from the smoke or sadness, you can’t know.
“Always remember that I love you. Always remember that you are more than this. Always remember that evil won’t always win.” She pauses, coughing. “Promise me, you won’t ever forget, my girl.”
“Mummy,” you say, your small voice cracking.
“Promise me,” there is power in her words now.
“I promise.”
“You’ll be better than all of them as long as you remember. I swear it.” She wastes no time after that. Her hands, sure and strong pull you toward the door, forcing it open just as you see flames begin to lick into the cabin.
Some part of you knew what would play out as soon as you both made it outside. You knew you must have known. Even so… It all shocks you.
Coughing and gasping for fresh air Mum drops you onto the ground as gently as she can. Hands immediately pull you away from the plane, you know these hands. Papa.
There’s a small grunt from behind you as you know someone else pulls Mum from the plane too. Desperately you try to turn to her, needing to see, but Papa holds you steady, inspecting you.
“Are you hurt?” He asks you. You don’t know if you hear more concern or anger in his tone. You shake your head no, eyes finally opening fully.
His eyes are a dark green storm. There is no love in them, no compassion.
It hits you then that he doesn’t care if you’re hurt because he loves you because you’re his daughter. He cares because you are his. His concern was nothing more than an owner wanting to protect his property. Something in you goes dark at this realization.
He nods, gripping your upper arm so hard you know bruises will be there come morning and drags you across the tarmac. From the corner of your eye, you can see Mason with Mum in a chokehold, bringing her in the same direction.
“Here,” Papa… no, Eric - he was no Father and certainly no Papa - says in an emotionless tone.
Mason throws Mum to the ground in front of him. She falls on all fours into the dirt, coughing and gasping for air. Before you can think of going to her Eric throws you into the dirt beside her. You try to catch yourself, the heels of your palms skidding on the rough earth, stinging with pain. Mum throws herself around you immediately, your back to her chest.
“Lie,” she whispers so low in your ear that you almost miss it. You nod, wanting her to know you heard, even if you don’t understand.
Any breath she’d managed to catch all gushes from her as the sound of a boot crashing into her ribs sends you both tumbling over. She doesn’t even make a sound of pain you notice.
Guilt floods you. All this time you thought she was weak. No one who was weak could take the beatings she did and continue to rise up, day after day. No one who was weak would have taken this chance or even still had the willpower to do so. Your mother was the strongest person you knew.
Her arms release you, “Get behind me, Kitty.” You do as she says, crawling behind her legs as she rises up.
“Catherine,” Eric barks, “stand up.” Tentatively you glance up at your mother’s defiant form and rise, standing just behind her.
“Come here,” he snarls. Mum grabs your arm as your feet move to obey.
“Do not think of touching her,” Mum’s tone drips with rage.
With a few long strides, Eric closes the space between you. He grips Mum’s chin, forcing her to look up at him.
“And what will you do to stop me?”
You don’t understand the slow smile that crawls across your mother’s face but there’s something sinister in it.
“Did you forget, husband?” She asks, her tone honeyed. In a flash she has him on the ground, a garrote appearing from nowhere, almost managing to slit his throat but he stops the cut with his hands, blood pouring from the wounds.
“You wanted to marry a Spider,” she growls these confusing words.
“Kitty,” you meet your mother’s ferocious gaze, “run.”
You do, without hesitation. Past the burning plane you make for the fence, knowing you can scale it, just wanting to do right by your Mum - even if it was only this once. Just as your small deft fingers grip the wire, rough hands grip you, pulling you down.
With all your might you try and hold on. When you’re forced to release you turn feral, kicking, screaming, biting, clawing, anything you can muster but Mason doesn’t loosen his grip. Bit by bit he drags you back to where Eric and Mum wait.
For an instant you still, seeing Mum crumpled on the ground. She’d had the upper hand how… It didn’t matter, she said run. You begin to fight once more, desperate and wild.
“Catherine,” Eric sighs, almost bored. “Please, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
You’d almost never disobeyed this man. Even at only eleven, you realize it was because you were so scared of him, of what he could do to you. Right now though, you feel possessed. You don’t care.
When he grips your chin to look at him, fingers sticky with his blood, you spit in his face with all the force your mouth can muster. You don’t know why. But it felt so good, powerful.
Any surge of pride you felt flees when the back of his hand cracks across your cheek so hard you see spots. Mason drops you to the ground dazed. He’d never struck you, not like that.
“Do you think that was brave, Catherine?” That cold tone making you shiver as he tilts your face up. You say nothing, just meet his eyes refusing to waver. A moment of rage flares across his features, warping them, he hits you again sending you tumbling to the side.
“No!” Mum croaks from behind.
Eric gently kicks you, rolling you onto your back so you’re staring up at him. If feels like you’re looking at a stranger, a monster that had been hiding in plain sight for so long.
His scuffed wingtip rests lightly on your throat. Pointlessly you grip his shoe, trying to keep him from crushing your windpipe.
“Stop this!” Mum screams. You try to look at her but the pressure increases.
“It wasn’t brave. It was stupid. There’s a fine line between the two.” He stares at you as though you’re a bug and not his daughter. “Your mother thinks she was being brave. This is where dangerous miscalculations such as that land you - beneath the boot of those worthy of bravery.” He hovers for a beat more before lifting his foot.
You roll over on all fours, coughing and gasping to fill your lungs with air.
“Do you understand, Catherine?” You don’t answer, don’t look at him, just try to breathe. He sighs, “You will.”
He grips you by your hair pulling you to your feet. Still, you scrabble against his hold, trying to break free. His free arm wraps around your torso, holding you flush against him. The fingers in your hair holding your head in a tight forward-facing position.
“Look at her, Catherine.” You do. She’s bloody, battered, but in her eyes, there is still defiance.
“It’s gonna be ok, baby,” she says in a hoarse voice.
He releases you and nods to Mason. He steps over handing something you can’t quite see to your would-be father. You stay frozen in place staring at Mum, unsure of what to do.
Grabbing your hand, Eric forces something metal and heavy into it. Even though you know what it is - have been taught how to use one, how to disassemble it, what the parts are called - you don’t want to acknowledge it. Maybe this is a bad dream and you’ll wake up if you just don’t look.
Mum’s lips are moving, if there are words coming you don’t hear them. But you think you know what she’s mouthing, I love you. It’s ok. I love you.
“Please,” the sob burbles from your lips. “Please, no.”
“What do we have no use for, Catherine?”
“Please, pa-papa. Please.” Hard metal presses against the back of your skull. Your heart which had been rabbiting in your chest stills.
Fear flashes across Mum’s features before melting into a warm smile. She nods, mouthing, It’s ok, once more.
“No.”
The hammer behind you clicks back.
“If you do not value your life over that of this scum I have no use for you. Chose Catherine. Weakness, or strength.” You pull the hammer back on the small gun.
Knowing he may kill you if you say the words out loud you move your lips to make two words clear, So sorry.
“I love you, always.”
They’re the last thing you hear before you pull the trigger.
-
You’re 15. The person beneath your fists is starting to resemble a pile of minced lamb rather than the girl she is. Absently, you wonder if your mother had to do this.
Lifting her head in your hands you slam it against the ground until the crunch hits your ears. Standing you step away, turning your back on the lifeless body.
Madam B meets your eyes, giving an approving nod before turning and striding out of the room, effectively dismissing you and the only other girl left.
“I think you fractured that one,” Natalia gestures to your left hand. “You’re not going to be able to get that tight enough on your own.”
Ignoring her you try to get the wrap to stay in just the right spot but your left fingers aren’t quite following your commands.
“Cat, just give it to me,” Natalia rips the bandages from your shaking hand.
As she winds the stretchy fabric around your hand she glances up at your cheek, keen green eyes studying you. Feeling exposed you turn away.
“Didn’t see Irina get you in the face. Been too long for it to be from the last time-”
“Let it go, Nat,” you push past her as soon as she’s done, pulling your ballet flats from your locker. Your two-month stints here were something of a refuge, you didn’t want to be reminded of your life was outside of this.
“Stubborn ass,” she grumbles in Russian.
“You’re one to talk,” you toss back.
The two months pass too quickly, as they always do. You count down the days until you can return. The Red Room was better than the hell of home - of him. There you were strong, you were feared, you were formidable. Under your father’s roof, you were nothing.
Two more months and you return. Per the schedule, you report directly to ballet.
When the fourth girl crumples around hour five, Natalia looks to you, a smug expression on her face. Neither of you ever faltered. Since the age of 11, the two of you had always been the last ones standing, the victors, the marble ones.
Not today though.
Her smug expression shifts to concern when she sees the grimace on your features. Each movement causes your body to scream, each breath a struggle. You know you’re going to drop sooner rather than later.
Sure enough, within the hour you hit the floor.
“Get up,” Madame B barks. “Up!” The cane stings across your spine. You try but your legs falter.
“I-I can’t.” Another lash.
“Then you crawl out of here, and I do not see you stand for the rest of the day.” Two more lashes. “Go!”
You’re too tired to feel shame as you crawl on hands and knees from the room and down the hall to the lockers. Nor is Madam B’s order to not stand a hard one to follow, even as you shed your clothes and make your way to the showers.
The water is so hot it almost stings but you relish the way it feels on your body, forcing warmth into the places that thrum with pain. You sit with the water at your back, your head to your knees until you hear someone else enter.
It doesn’t really matter who it is, you intend to sit here until they make you leave but you look up anyway, shocked at who you see.
“Natalia, what the hell?!” There was no way she broke, no reason for her to be here.
“What?” She shrugs, wiping a bit of blood from the corner of her mouth. “It was boring without you.”
For some reason, this makes emotion bubble up in you. Immediately you press your face into your knees again to keep from crying. Such childish nonsense.
Natalia lays her hand on your wet hair. Slowly you swallow the lump in your throat and look up into her face. Sometimes, it was hard to study her - it would be easy to take the two of you for sisters, though you wondered if it was looks or demeanor that cast that illusion - right now was such a time because her face showed concern you couldn’t bother to feel for yourself. It was as though a different you, from another life, was looking at this version with pitty. You hated it.
“Get off me,” you push her back and uncurl your body to scoot into the cold tile wall. Natalia just sits on the wet tile in her ballet gear, eyes glued to your torso, a slow rage building in her. When she speaks, her green eyes are almost black.
“Who did this?” She doesn’t bother to hide her accent, the English words coming with a distinctly Russian lilt.
Protectively you cover yourself as best you can, hiding the dark purple bruises blossoming across your right ribcage that had made it so hard to breathe earlier and angling your legs to shield the fingerprint bruises peppering your thighs. You feel so small.
“Catherine…” You ignore her, willing her to go away. The Red Room was the place you didn’t have to think about him.
“It was him, wasn’t it? Your father?” Natalia’s voice is a low rumble.
“Eric,” you correct her. You still called him Papa to his face - the one time you didn’t you hadn’t been able to move for a couple of days after - but you couldn’t bear to allow her to think of him as your father.
She turns her head and spits before asking, “Why do you let him do this to you?” You turn a wicked glare on her but she doesn’t flinch. “I’ve seen you kill a grown man with your bare hands, Cat. You’re like me! You’re marble. If a man is foolish enough to strike us he should come away bloody.”
“The Devil doesn’t bleed,” you say your tone flat.
“The Devil is just a man,” she says, sliding down the wall beside you, “and all men bleed.”
You let her wrap an arm around your shoulders and pull you in. Slowly you sink down until your head rests in her lap. She runs her fingers through your hair, a soothing gesture, a gentle gesture. It’s too much. Silently you begin to cry.
A few more girls come and go. None say anything and none linger. You two were not the first to breakdown in the showers and you wouldn’t be the last. When the last of them are gone Natalia speaks again.
“I’ll graduate soon.” You knew this, though the thought fills you with dread. Would you still come even after Nat and the others graduated? Would you graduate the same? You doubted it.
She takes a deep breath before continuing, “When I do, I’ll come for you.”
“And do what?” You scoff.
“We’ll figure it out. He can’t-”
“He can,” you cut her off. “He can do anything he damn well pleases.”
“He’s not god, Cat. Your fa- Eric isn’t-”
“You’re right,” you sit up and look at her. “He isn’t god. He’s the Devil, and you have no idea just how much power he-”
“You could tell me.” She’d asked before, years ago, but you told her you never wanted to talk about your life outside this place. Most of the time she honored that request.
“He’s got enough pull that he can treat the Red Room like a boarding school, that should tell you enough.”
She looks away, shaking her head, a scowl etched on her face.
The door slams open. You both exchange a look, knowing it shouldn’t be another trainee.
“Get up!” A rough Russian voice barks. Both of you move instantly to obey, the movement sends pain shooting through your bruised ribs and you double over. Natalia turns to you.
“Eyes front!” Another voice commands. “Move out.” Natalia begins to move but you can’t manage it, still trying to force your lungs to work. The man tilts your chin up with the butt of his rifle.
“Is the little princess deaf?” His hand cracks across your cheek. He doesn’t hit near as hard as Eric, you remain standing. “I said move.” Not wanting to risk a strike with that rifle you comply and head out of the locker room naked as a newborn.
Madame B waits for you both in the training room, two sets of gear on the ground before her. She eyes you with clear disdain as she gestures to the gear.
“You have ten minutes,” she turns on her heel and floats from the room.
Quickly you get into the heavy winter tactical suits. Neither of you speaks as you take stock of the simple provisions and weapons in the duffel. Each of you grabs a knife and a flashlight. She takes what looks like a poncho in a little plastic pouch and you take a space blanket. There is little food but you split it evenly between you, filling your pants pockets, unsure if they’ll be taking the bag from you. By the time you’re done you hear the foots steps of Madame B’s return.
“They’re waiting out front. Go.” You grab the duffel, expecting her to stop you. When she doesn’t you both march out in silence.
The helicopter ride is frigid, short, and utterly silent. When you finally land it’s on the vast frozen tundra, twilight making everything seem alien.
“Get out. Whoever makes it back moves on.” That’s all you’re told before the copter lifts up and away, leaving you and Natalia standing in a wasteland.
The area around you for miles is flat, frozen, nothing. Far, far, in the distance, you think you spot a copse of trees. Clearly, that will be your best bet for now, not that it mattered much - it was clear that this wasn’t something you were both meant to walk away from.
“I wondered why they never made us fight. I just thought they saw no point. But this... this is worse.” You look over your shoulder, her bangs whip in the wind as she stares into nothing.
“Come on,” you say shouldering the bag. “We can make it to those trees before it gets too dark.”
The trees you saw are sad scraggly things that provide little to no shelter from the howling winds. Still, you both manage to fashion a bit of a break from bits you find on the ground and hacking at low branches. Huddling close behind your sorry shelter you assess your supplies - which included a map, marking your location.
To make it back to the Red Room on foot would take at least a week and a half if not two weeks. Even if you closely rationed your supplies you’d run out in half that time - there was enough for one of you.
“When dawn comes, you go,” you tell her after you realize. “Take it all and you should make it ok.”
“What?!” Natalia stares at you in horror. “No! There’s some way, we’ll figure it-”
“Nat,” you sigh, “there isn’t another way. Clearly only one of us is supposed to make it back and I’m already struggling. You have a chance to-”
“I’m not doing it.” The fierce determination in her gaze reminded you of a night years before and another impossible choice. Quickly you slam the door on the memory.
“You have to. I can’t live with myself if you don’t make-”
“So I’m supposed to live with it?!”
You can’t help but smile, “I won’t die out here, Natalia.”
“I’m pretty sure if I leave you in the goddamn tundra with no food or supplies you’ll-”
“He won’t let me die.” You sigh, “It would be a wasted investment.” You weren’t sure how keen you’d be on living when he found out you’d lost, let her live, and had to be rescued but you didn’t care. Natalia was your friend, the only real friend you’d ever had, and you would not let her die.
“There’s likely a tracker on these clothes somewhere. Once I don’t move for long enough someone will come for me.” She studies you quietly. “You’ll make it back, graduate, and be fine.”
“No,” she says matter of factly, settling back down beside you.
“Excuse me?”
“Net. Ora. Non. Nein. Méiyǒu-”
“I get it,” you cut her off before the dead languages start coming up. “I assume you have an alternative plan?”
“Of course I do,” she smirks. That was Natalia, clever as a fox.
“If they will come for you there’s no need for me to waste my precious energy and trek all the way back. I wait and they take me too. Easy.”
“Except, they may not be taking me back to the Red Room, if my father-”
“And if he shows up I can prove to you that even the Devil bleeds. I see no losing here.”
She was wrong about that but it wasn’t the worst idea. You weigh the possibilities in your mind.
Eric was not going to bother to come to this desolate local to pick you up, even in the helicopter. Likely he’d send someone for you, two to four people at most, one likely a medic. You also can’t imagine they’d be too heavily armed since they were assuming they’d be retrieving a half-dead girl. This could work.
“We may have to put up a bit of a fight,” you tell her.
Her smile broadens, “I hope so.”
It takes them three days.
To say you were both comfortable in that time wouldn’t be accurate but it honestly could have been worse. Other than the harsh elements it was almost like a holiday or like the sleepovers you’d seen girls have in movies. You ate, talked, shared a bit - though you never told her about your mother or Hydra or anything that may get her killed. When you heard the grumble of quads you were a shade disappointed.
Instead of meeting the crew head on you wait where you’ve been camping. Forcing them to come to you. The team speaks loudly, unconcerned about who may be listening. Looking at Natalia you hold up four fingers. She nods in agreement.
“Catherine?” A woman calls into the trees. “Are you able to hear me?”
“Over here,” you say, rising from your crouch. The woman studies you, clearly surprised to see you in such good nick.
“We’ve been sent to collect you.”
“Excellent,” you say in an unbothered tone. “We’ve been waiting for someone to come.” Natalia rises up beside you. The woman glances back to the two men with her - the fourth must be with the quads. They freeze as Natalia and you move forward.
“Is there some kind of problem?” You ask as the two men fan out.
“Not for long,” she says cooly.
Natalia takes the man to the left. He’s surprised by her speed and in moments blood gouts from his neck. The woman raises her gun only to find your own knife planted in her temple before you rush the second man.
He fires off a shot at Natalia, she dodges as you sweep his legs from under him. With his focus now on you shes able to come at him from behind. He rights himself, pivoting to attack her but you land a hard blow to his chest - clearly, they will not risk causing you harm. As he gasps she’s on him, her thighs locked around his neck and within seconds a blade protrudes from his eye.
She jumps from him before he collapses and plucks the weapons from his body like a strange little carrion bird. You do the same to the woman before you both move to the first man.
Peeking from the copse you see the fourth person, a medic as you expected, prepping a few things in a small trailer behind one of the quads, ears covered by large muffs. When he sees the two of you walk out, a little bloody and armed he staggers back before pulling a gun.
“Don’t,” you say on a sigh. “Unless you’d like to join the others back there.”
“You should be-”
“Half-dead,” you cut him off, “I know. Can we skip to where you were supposed to transport me?” He looks between you both and drops his weapon.
“Back to the Red Room.” Your eyes narrow as you take aim. His hands shoot up, “I swear it! It was the closest place we could triage you before transporting you home. We thought you’d be severely injured.” You lower your weapon and the man relaxes.
You nod, “Toss your gun.” He does so, Natalia grabs it, tucking it into her waistband. “You wait two hours before you head back and-”
“Knock me unconscious at least…” He looks mildly ashamed. “If they know I let you go…” Well, he wasn’t wrong. You nod to Natalia and she heads toward him as you keep him in your sights.
“One wrong move-”
“No tricks. I at least have a chance of staying alive this way.”
He goes down fast. Maybe someone would come for him and the others, or maybe they’d leave them to rot and he could make his way wherever. Either way, you had little hope for the man.
Neither of you under the illusion that you could run, you leave him the medical quad and double up on the other. Whatever waited for you at the Red Room you’d handle.
It takes several hours to get back. Seeing the terrain you shuddered to think of Natalia making the journey alone.
Madam B stood in front of the manor house, arms crossed. When you and Natalia dismount she takes you in. You almost think you see her upper lip twitch, in a smile or disgust you couldn’t know. After exchanging a look you both follow her inside.
She leads you to the sparring room, a place where you’d taken more than a handful of lives over the last few years. This didn’t bode well. Two left and only one should have returned. There was no way they’d expect you two to fight to the death now…
You’re distracted, trying to work out the logistics, you don’t clock the shadows moving. Natalia does. Pushing you to the ground she takes a hard blow to her abdomen. She staggers and you hop up grabbing and pivoting her away.
The assailant’s next blow grazes your shoulder. As they bring their arm back you grab it, yanking them off balance. Natalia, recovered, clocks them hard in the jaw, sending them back. You advance with a punishing kick to the solar plexus and they stay down.
There’s no time to think. Five other figures emerge from the shadows.
All you can think about is keeping her alive. It makes every movement, every choice, easy. Whatever it took.
Natalia and you had been training together since you were 11, you knew the other’s flow as well as your own, could read her body language like a well-worn book. Yes, you were outnumbered but it didn’t matter. Like marble dancers, you perform a brutal ballet until you’re the last two standing.
In the back corner, Madame B watched, her stern expression lit by the single bulb that hovered in the space. The lights flare up. Back to back, you both blink rapidly trying to adjust.
“That was lovely,” Madam B says, her face a mask of contempt. She pulls a gun from her waistband, “But only one can-”
Earlier, guns would have been too risky, you could have shot Natalia. Now though, you had a clear sight. In a flash, you pull out the pistol you’d taken from the woman earlier, and shoot the gun from Madam B’s grasp.
“Enough,” you growl.
“You insolent little-”
“Enough!” You can feel Natalia tense behind you. “The game is over. We both returned. It’s done.”
“So the little princess thinks she can give orders now?” She spits. “You’ll never be a Widow.”
You hadn’t been watching her hands. Bad mistake. A knife materializes from nowhere and buries itself in your thigh. The instant your aim falters she comes for you.
Her strikes are quick and calculated, focusing on where she must have seen your bruises the other day sending waves of fresh pain through you. In nothing more than a few beats you’re sure you feel a rib snap. You cry out, the sensation of the bone under your skin awful.
Natalia won’t be able to fight back against Madam B, you knew that. It was part of the conditioning the girls underwent, it was how they were kept in line. There was just you and this woman who, you suspected, didn’t give a damn if you died.
The hatred that pours from her feels as though it’s been brewing for some time. Absently, as she pummels your body, breaking it methodically, masterfully even, you wonder what you’d done to make her feel this intensely. You’d been a good student, obedient, vicious, strong…
Suddenly she’s pulled back. You don’t even look just take the reprieve to try and breathe through the pain, your rib throbbing with each shallow breath you manage. Finally, you pull your focus to the scuffle happening a few feet away from you.
Natalia…
You stare at her as she headbutts Madam B, sending blood gushing down the woman’s usually pristine features. Despite the successful blow, Natalia looks like she’s going to vomit, her expression pained.
Looking to the left you see the gun you’d dropped.
Willing your shaky hands to still, forcing a breath, you aim and fire.
The stillness that follows is terrifying. You don’t dare look at Natalia, too scared the bullet hit her and not Madam B. Then you see the red bloom on the woman’s right hip. A painful breath escapes you in relief.
Standing on legs you force to be steady you stalk toward them, pushing Natalia behind you. Madam B falters, then falls, gripping her wound. Her cold eyes land on Natalia.
“You’re going to pay for that you little whelp.” Gripping the barrel of the gun you slam the butt across her face sending her sprawling.
Something dark slithers to the surface. You feel it spread, swelling to fill your chest, slowing your heart rate to a steady thrum, clearing your vision to something clear and terrifying.
Madam B tries to gather hear bearings lifting herself up on one arm. Before she gets far you kick her hard in the ribs, not even feeling the screaming pain in your own now. Your boot rests against her long slender neck, applying just a bit of pressure, gun aimed at her forehead.
“She will pay for nothing. Are we clear?” Your voice is calm, almost bored.
“You do not-”
“I asked you a question. I expect an answer.” Your foot presses harder causing her to cough.
“Natalia will face no repercussions for what has happened here or on your misguided test. She followed my orders,” it was a lie but you knew it would have the proper effect, “so if you’d like to punish someone that would be me. Though,” a bit more pressure, “I don’t think you hold a high enough rank to truly enact any kind of punishment.”
“You little cunt,” she hisses.
“How tasteless Madam, I expected a higher caliber of insult from you.” Just a bit more pressure and she begins to squirm despite the gun leveled at her. “I’ll ask once more, are we clear?”
“Yes!” She rasps, eyes wide.
“Fantastic!” A slow sinister smile crawls over your face as you remove your boot from her throat. She sucks in a breath and moves to sit up, your boot meets her throat once more resting lightly.
“To be clear. If I find out any action has been taken against Natalia, I will come and personally skin you alive until you beg me to end your miserable life.” Her expression was all the answer you needed. You step back and she rises slowly, never taking her eyes off of you.
Slow clapping comes from the doorway. Madam B’s posture straightens despite her injuries. You and Natalia turn to see the source. When you do your blood runs cold.
“Behind me, Nat,” you whisper as Eric comes into view.
“That was a spectacular performance my darling!” His green eyes are crinkled with what seems to be a genuine smile. There’s nothing of the devil inside showing now. In his well-tailored navy suit and cream shoes, he looks like any well-heeled London businessman.
Pride rolls off of him in waves and you curse the little flutter your stomach gives. You hate the part of you that still, despite everything, wants to please him.
“Don’t you think that was exceptional, B?” He bellows laying his hands on your shoulders.
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, Papa.” He whips a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes a bit of blood from your face. Turning you to face the others he rests an arm across your shoulders holding you close. Your skin crawls.
“I have to admit, B, you haven’t slowed much at all.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clayton.”
“Please, B, Eric is just fine.” You feel rather than see his gaze land on Natalia. Tension floods your body.
“And you,” he walks forward a few steps, bringing you with him. “You were clearly born for this. Just outstanding. I have no doubt you’ll serve Catherine well in the future.” Desperately you beg Natalia to look at you, to understand how sorry you are, you’d never have her serve you never-
“Thank you, sir,” she bows her head slightly. When she meets your eyes there are so many questions you can’t answer.
“Sadly, we have to cut this short. I have an early meeting. Thank you, Natalia, you’ve done so well.”
“Yes,” you hold her gaze, “thank you.”
“Always,” she nods.
Eric turns you both away, leading you out. In spite of yourself, you lean into him for support, the adrenaline fading leaving your body aching.
“Oh, and B,” he turns back. You don’t have to see him to feel the shift, to know the devil was peeking from behind the mask. “If you don’t uphold your agreement with my daughter, you won’t have to bother worrying about her threat. I’ll simply sell you for parts.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before whisking you out of the house and into the waiting chopper. You never see the Red Room again.
-
You’re 17 and the sounds from the party downstairs keep you awake even with the door closed.
Though you weren’t entirely sure what was happening downstairs, the snippets of vile conversation, boisterous male laughter, and the distinct sound of someone in pain made your skin crawl. Even though you’d already scrubbed yourself raw after Eric had left you in your room - telling you he didn’t want to see your face until noon tomorrow - you were tempted to get back in the scalding water. Your burning arms begged you to reconsider, any more scrubbing and you’d likely be a bloody mess, that wouldn’t sit well with, Eric.
It made you miss the Red Room. Nights there were so quiet, you never worried about who may come into your room or hear things you’d rather forget. It was, despite its purpose, relatively peaceful in the late hours. You hadn’t been back there in years and doubted your return would be welcome if Madam B still presided over the place.
Finally, you give up any hope of sleep. Settling your headphones over your ears you busy yourself with reading, drawing, some of your lessons. In fact, you complete most of the week’s assignments by 3 am. Only then do you pull your headphones from your ears, listening for any sign of the party. It seemed dead silent.
Your stomach growls. When Eric had left you, he hadn’t given you time to grab food from the kitchen and none had been sent up. Despite its persistence, you consider ignoring your hunger. But the thought of not eating until the afternoon…
Silent as a shadow you slip from your bedroom door. Every few feet you pause, listening for any sign of activity below. Hearing nothing you head down the back stairs, furthest from Eric’s master rooms, making sure to avoid the two spots that squeak.
The kitchen is ransacked and the smell of liquor and cigars hangs heavy in the air. Wrinkling your nose you open the refrigerator slowly, searching for anything you can bring up with you. Grabbing some roast beef, cheese and gingerly picking up a bag of crisps you turn to head back up. A groan coming from the front stair makes you freeze.
Barely breathing you listen, stealing yourself for Eric to walk in and the hell that would follow. Nothing happens for several moments. Another low groan makes your hair stand on end. This wasn’t Eric.
You don’t know why you set the food down and walk the short distance to the entryway. All you can think is that maybe someone was hurt and maybe you could help.
The sight that meets your eyes forces you to cover your mouth in order to keep from gasping in horror.
A man is chained to one of the columns that support the second story landing. The metal links run from the column to a collar around his neck. It’s not long enough for him to lay down so he leans, sitting up, against the plaster - which you note is coated in smears of blood. In fact, the floor is covered with speckles of it and other fluids.
Bile rises in your throat but you force it down.
Bruises are appearing all over his naked form. “Your turning violet, Violet!” The Willy Wonka line echoes in your head. You almost laugh at remembering a children’s movie in a time like this. Were you hysterical?
Once more the man makes a pained noise, body shifting. Something on his left side catches the dim light. When you realize what it is, your jaw drops.
Until this moment you could have convinced yourself that this man had angered Eric in some way, or possibly misstepped - some wayward agent being punished- but now…
You’d only seen him fleetingly when you were 12. His work was mentioned in the history of Hydra Eric had you read. It had seemed impossible that one person could have done so much and you disliked the thought that you’d been fed a children’s tale.
“Papa,” you’d been incredulous, “this isn’t real. This Soldier is impossible. I want the real story.” Eric had smiled at that.
“No? You don’t think he’s real?”
“Of course not!”
“We’ll see.” The next day he’d brought you to work with him.
“I have a surprise for you.” Instead of the button that took you to his penthouse office, he hit another and a panel opened revealing many more sub levels. Selecting one the elevator carried you both down down down.
When the doors opened the harsh fluorescent lights had hurt your eyes for a moment. You weren’t sure you wanted this surprise.
You seemed to walk forever before he finally reached the right door. Much to your chagrin, it just led to another long hallway.
Finally, he beamed down at you, “Ready?”
“Mhm,” you nodded, just wanting to get this over with.
He opens the final door to a large room with a cage on the other side. In it sat a man.
“Soldat!” Eric barked. The man jumped to attention, long hair hanging loose and a silver arm on his left side. Your father may as well have just shown you proof of the boogeyman, you’d have been less shocked.
Now here was that same man, The Fist of Hydra, chained in your foyer. Beaten and broken in a way you understood far too well.
Slowly his eyes slide open, meeting yours. Your heart lodges in your throat.
That day, he’d had a mask and goggles on, you’d never even thought of what he looked like. Perhaps you expected just a blank mask, empty eyes, but no.
Those eyes… They were screaming.
His tongue flits out, licking dry cracked lips, breaking the spell you’d momentarily been under. Getting your breath and heart rate under control you glance in the direction of Eric’s rooms, hoping he was passed out drunk.
You hold up a finger to indicate you’d be right back, hoping he even understood, and silently make your way back to the kitchen. This was stupid. So stupid. What was possessing you to fill a glass with water from the pitcher in the fridge, to grab the roast beef and what was left of the bread? Why were you doing this? Even as you make your way back to him you’re berating yourself.
The Soldier’s eyes track you with unnerving intensity. When you approach his whole body tenses as though he actually feared you. It was almost a comical thought. This man assassinated JFK, why in the hell would he fear you?
Because you’re Hydra, something in the back of your mind whispers.
Kneeling an arms reach away you hold out the water. He eyes it warily. Understanding you take a sip before holding it out once more. Now he grips the glass in his flesh hand, drinking deep. When he finishes you hold your hand out for it. He gives it back.
You push the bread and meat toward him, your stomach growling loudly. His head cocks to the side, listening. You forgot how hungry you were.
He gestures for you to go first, his expression soft. Shrugging you grab a couple of thin slices of meat and a piece of bread, folding it in half you take a massive bite, almost groaning in pleasure at the taste of food. When you swallow he does the same.
Finishing your half sandwich you pick up the glass, indicating you were getting more water. He nods, making another sandwich.
In the kitchen, you not only fill the glass but you grab the chocolate digestives too, they were your favorite. And, for good measure, you fill a second glass with milk. Something in your head still screams danger, but you just don’t give a damn.
When you sit back down, you notice he left you half the meat and bread. You try to get him to take more but he refuses, though he does take the water. This time he drinks slowly as you finish your last two sandwiches.
As you chew your last bite you notice how his eyes keep falling back to the milk. You smile, setting it between you. Gingerly you coax the biscuit package open, praying it’s not too much noise. It’s a success and you pull three biscuits out, holding them out to him. He takes them, though, he doesn’t eat them.
You take your own biscuit and bite in, savoring the taste. Then you dunk it into the milk so it could soften the biscuit just enough. He watches you like he’s studying some strange practice. When you finish your first you gesture for him to do the same by holding up a thumb and covering your heart like you were swooning. You’d swear he almost smiles.
He does exactly as you did, taking a bite then dunking. Your brows raise expectantly, clearly wanting to know his take. Now a small smile does lift his lips as he holds a thumbs up. It takes effort to not giggle, the situation was bonkers on every level, but what in the hell was normal in your life.
The two of you make it through the whole pack. He eyes the now biscuitless milk. Picking it up you offer it to him. He shakes his head. You make an overly exaggerated pouty face and push it in his face. Again he smiles, finally accepting it.
Once it’s done he puts it in your waiting hand. You nod, turning to go to the kitchen once more, doing away with the evidence. A metal hand grips your wrist. Fear jumps in your stomach until you look at his open expression. He swallows hard, brows knit, as though he’s focusing intently on something.
“Thank you,” he croaks in a low whisper. Immediately your heart begins to race. You’d honestly thought he couldn’t speak, there was something worse knowing that he could, knowing that you didn’t hear him do so all night despite everything that clearly happened here.
A noise from the sitting room makes you jump, the glasses, nested together, slipping from your grip, shattering on the hard marble tile.
“What the hell?” A garbled voice asks. The Soldier’s hand is still on your wrist, both of you frozen by fear as Eric stumbles into view.
The laugh that tumbles from him is nothing less than sinister. Your stomach flips.
“Like father, like daughter. You have a taste too?” Even from four feet away you can smell the whiskey on him. “He’s good.” His eyes note your wrist in The Soldier’s grip, “Or did he have some of you?” Another blood-curdling laugh, The Soldier lets go of you.
“I can’t blame you Soldat,” Eric grabs your arm pulling you to him. “She’s quite a well-bred bitch, isn’t she?”
“Papa,” you try to pull away, “stop, please.” It’s useless you know.
“What? Don’t want me to join in on the fun?” He throws you to the floor in front of The Soldier.
“You like to watch Soldat?” He asks before pinning your arms down. “Of course you do,” he sneers, “if I say you do.”
You can’t bring yourself to look at The Soldier, just will your soul into that distant place, just wait it out. Except the sound of metal snapping and the feeling of Eric’s weight being lifted from you bring you careening back into your body.
Gasping you sit up, scurrying back until your hand meets a shard of the glass you’d stupidly dropped earlier. A cry of pain shoots from your mouth before you can think to stop it.
With one hand The Soldier tosses Eric to the side, his head hitting the corner of the bottom stair. Cradling your hand you stare at the prone form of your father, the bit of blood trickling from his head, wondering if the devil could die so easy - until The Soldier blocks your view.
Crouching before you he takes your bleeding hand in his, examining it.
“First-” he clears his throat, “aid?”
“Kitchen,” you answer in a disconnected voice, looking around him at Eric.
“He’s… Not.” Ah, not so easy then. “Let me help?” You nod and let him help you up.
He follows you into the kitchen. You pause at the cupboard where the silver and linens were kept.
“There’s a tablecloth in there you could use. If you want to cover up.” You point to the right door. He nods and get’s a crisp white cloth out. Turning your eyes from him as he wraps the tablecloth around his waist you watch the blood steadily pool in your hand. You only know he’s done when he presses a white napkin into the pool with steady pressure.
“Kit?”
“Under the sink.” He looks behind you locating the sink and gently guides you in that direction. You stop by the island holding the cloth as he directed. After shuffling around in the cabinet he finds the kit and pulls it out.
“Here,” he turns the water on. You don’t even flinch as the flow hits your wound. He grabs a few more napkins and turns the water off, gently drying your skin holding the fabric tight until the bleeding slows.
“Might need to stitch it,” he says. You just shrug. He nods. Releasing your hand he grabs your waist lifting you up to set you on the island.
It’s strange how efficiently he works to stitch and bandage your hand. Even more strange is how gentle he is. When he’s almost done you look back toward the stairs.
“Still unconscious,” he says.
“How do you know?”
“Can hear his breathing, no change.” Methodically he erases any trace of the mini-medical service he provided. You just sit dazed, wondering how he can hear Eric’s breathing from here.
When he’s done you feel obligated to tell him, “When he wakes up he’ll take us both to task for this.”
He shakes his head, “Doubt he’ll remember. Can make it look like he slipped in a bathroom, makes sense being so drunk.” It’s actually a pretty good idea.
“But you’re not…”
“I can just go back before he’s conscious.” The thought makes your stomach clench. “Show me the right bathroom.”
You lead him up the stairs to the other side of your large Kensington home where Eric’s rooms were. The corner of the vanity was actually sharp enough to account for such a head wound.
“Ok, I’ll take care of it.”
You hover as he retrieves Eric, bringing him into the bathroom. He presses the wound into the corner of the vanity to leave blood in the right and reopen it. Eric, to your surprise, doesn’t wake. Painstakingly, he positions Eric as though he collapsed there. It was almost art.
Even so… you couldn’t help but be afraid.
“He’s going to know,” your voice cracks, so pathetic but you can’t help it. “when he wakes up he’ll have my-”
“No. Where’s your room?” Unconcerned you lead him to it, blessedly on the other side of the house. He looks around the hall outside, seeming to make calculations.
“I’ll stay right here,” he gestures by the door. “If he wakes and comes here I’ll take care of him.”
“You can’t, he’ll-”
“He shouldn’t…” He clears his throat again, you realize he speaks like someone who’s not used to doing so. “He shouldn’t do that to you…”
“He does what he wants. You should know that.”
The Soldier shudders and looks away, “Different.”
Suddenly a million questions flood your mind. Why didn’t he run? Why didn’t he fight back? Why let them do that to him? But you know the answers already, know they’re similar to your own. There’s only one thing you don’t understand.
“Why did you help me?” He looks surprised.
“You helped me.” He studies you. “What’s your name?”
“Catherine.”
“You’re a good person, Catherine.”
A bitter laugh breaks from somewhere deep inside you.
Good.
He didn’t know that at eight you’d beaten your own mother right where he’d been tortured and raped tonight, he didn’t know that you’d killed her years later after she tried to save you from this. He didn’t know that you’d beaten girls to death with your bare hands and murdered people and felt nothing for any of it. He didn’t know the depths of darkness bred into you.
The laugh shifts into a sob, you try to hold it down but it comes anyway. With a thud, you hit your knees, the carpet stinging a bit.
This was absurd. All of it. The goddamn Fist of Hydra telling you that you’re a good person after you ate chocolate digestives, after stopping your father from…
“Fuck,” you choke out. He sits on his knees across from you, reaching out his flesh hand. You take it, holding so tight it aches until you stop crying.
With burning eyes, you finally look up into his. They’re grey-blue, though far from cold. What had Hydra done to this creature?
He helps you to your feet, and you release his hand, somewhat regretfully.
“I’ll keep watch. I swear, I’ll keep you safe.” He looks toward Eric’s room, “Even if only for tonight.”
“Ok,” you nod, turning to enter your room. Something takes hold of you, stopping your motion.
Before your mind can protest you fling your arms around this man’s torso, holding on so tight. Tentatively his own arms wrap around you. A clear tremor shakes him but you don’t let go.
No one had ever done what he had. All your life his men had known what he did, to your mother to you, and no one stopped him. Not a damn one had ever dared or cared enough to try. Until this Soldier.
“Thank you,” you breathe. He looks a little dazed as he nods in acceptance.
“Sleep well, Catherine.”
For the first time in years, you actually do.