All her life has been pain. Every moment of it, from biting cold to stinging blows. NO OTHER life has very been offered or even glimpsed. Her life is this R O O M, the ring in which she has killed to stay alive, will do it again.
In the Red Room they are taught that every weakness can be exploited, they are taught how to exploit each one. Once, they bring in a pair of bonded, those tied together by forces that Natalia Romanova is too young to understand. And yet she watches as the woman is beaten, biting her lip so hard that it bleeds in order to keep silent. It is the man that screams, that cries out for mercy. At first, Natalia believes it is only emotional attachment, a wish to not see the object of his affection harmed. And yet, she notices that it his HIS skin that blooms with bruises, the layers of tissue breaking apart to weep blood. Tied together, unable to be separated except through death.
They were told some hours later, after both individuals had been thoroughly tortured, that the woman had been one of them, a Widow, and that she had abandoned her mission to the motherland in order to be with the man. They were told, should they ever feel the presence of another in their minds, they should report it immediately, avoid the temptation of betraying Russia. The other girls could only stare blankly at one another, wondering what it might feel like to be so at the mercy of another.
Natalia, however, simply stared at the corpses of the bonded individuals, and covered her bleeding knuckles. She hadn’t fought yet that day, wondered what he might have done in order to be punished.
Every effort was expended to keep herself from his mind. She didn’t want it. She wanted to be G O O D, not to be tempted toward betrayal. And yet, she could not see the logic in committing treason in order to avoid treason. For surely there was a reason she was so tied to another. Surely fate would not tie her to an enemy of her mission. Mostly, it worked, she hoped. Perhaps she had even been successful in blocking out the pain of each, rare, blow that was landed against her. She wasn’t sure, hoped she never had opportunity to ask. The only times she allowed herself contact was on the edge of sleep, unable to hold back for just one instant before succumbing to exhaustion.
She was in the middle of a fight, luckily not one of the lethal bouts so often held in the facility. She is hit, goes down, but that is not what she feels. Instead, she is crushed by anguish, torn apart by a heartbreak that is not her own. The control she had so meticulously built snaps, tossing her consciousness into a collision course with his as they drag her physical body to the infirmary. She had thought such a thing would fill her with anger, annoyance at the disturbance. Instead, it is only sorrow she feels, no longer able to keep herself from him, communication a single word with a comfort that is instinctual to supply. As if she had been created for such a thing instead of death and blood.
