A Different Call

4. Her Mission

Natalia's hands floated above her head like a delicate butterfly. She reached for the sky, standing on the tips of her toes with her arms forming a circle above her. The strength and poise chiseled into her from years of training kept her balanced and unwavering.

She dropped her arms gracefully to her sides, then raised them up to her chest in a wide circle. She spun like a top, the world becoming a blur of color. She stopped flat-footed with her hands behind her back. Her wrists crossed each other with her fingers curved into claws in the way she was taught to end a ballet.

There weren't many memories or traditions she treasured from her time in the Red Room. However, ballet was the one thing from her training she actually enjoyed. No, enjoyed wasn't the right word. They taught ballet to improve the girls' strength and grace. Despite the grueling lessons, it was the one thing Natalia used for herself; to calm her mind.

Natalia shook her head, expelling the confusing thoughts from her brain. Individuality was foreign to her. The very idea made her head ache. She turned off the radio, plunging her apartment back into silence.

She sank into the red arm chair and unlaced her pink ballet shoes. She also removed her tights, leotard and skirt, exchanging them for a black dress.

The dress had one sleeve down her left arm, leaving her right arm and shoulder bare. The material was expensive and weighted. It cut low in both the front and back with a slit down the skirt. Just above where the slit began, Natalia strapped a holster onto her right thigh and a switchblade onto her left. The dress complimented her curves and slim figure.

Reaching up, Natalia freed her hair from the ballerina knot. The red curls bounced down her back. She enhanced her porcelain face with red lipstick, mascara and eyeliner. Dried nail polish matching her lips glossed her short fingernails. She draped a silver and ruby necklace against her throat with a matching bracelet on her right wrist and pair of earrings. Finally, she stepped into a pair of black heels.

She gazed into the full body mirror in her bedroom with a critical eye. She was the very image of unsuspecting death, a beautiful killer, a Black Widow.

She had heard the car, spotted the child, and just moved. She didn't remember thinking or hesitating. She felt the wind of the car whip past her as the screeching of tires filled her ears. The life in her hands trembled, safe, protected and alive. It was instinct, like when a mother sees their child in danger, except it wasn't. The girl wasn't her daughter. She can never have children.

When the adrenaline faded, Natalia silently cursed herself for risking her life to save another. She was trained to take lives, not save them. Her mouth spoke before her brain could catch up. "Are you okay?"

The girl had nodded, squeezing the life out of her stuffed toy as her entire frame trembled. Then the child embraced her, an assassin with the blood of her victims dripping from her hands. Natalia couldn't remember the last time she had been caught off guard. Her fight instincts flared up as she managed to quell them with an awkward pat on the little girl's back.

The girl would have been several years into her training if she was in the Red Room Program. Maybe that was it. Maybe she felt sympathy or pinning for something that was taken away from her, something she could give to the girl in one act.

No, that can't be it. Emotions are a weakness, a liability. She was taught better than that. A Widow felt no emotion, no compassion. A Black Widow is not weak.

She hadn't been thinking. It just... happened.

As she stared at her reflection now, her normally stone composure was confused, her eyebrows knitted together as she frowned. For the first time in her life, she could see something more than a killer. In that moment, she had been more than a killer. She had actually saved a life. Playing the moment over and over again in her head didn't help her believe it more. Perhaps... Could she dare hope to be more than a harbinger of death?