Little Dark Age

Chapter 1

Name: Caterina Romanova

D.O.B: Unspecified

Height: 5ft 1In

Weight: 90 Lbs

Physical attributes: Red hair, cropped short, once used to identify ———————

Additional notes: last survivor of the BWG2. Aggressive in nature due to the addition of the Winter Solider project.

If seen do not come in contact with the girl, will strike, will kill. Deadly and unpredictable.

~somewhere in Russia mid-2012~

Wailing, loud and clear, tortured and horrified. Unnatural. The cries continued day to night without no signs of stopping.

Huddled in shadows of the damp corners of a cell, sat a girl no older than one would think seven. Matted red hair created a curtain between her and the rest of the world as she hugged her knees with the utmost care. Every so often bloodshot eyes and tears would peak over the scabbed knees to survey the surroundings. Sometimes some would walk past, run or knock on the door teasingly causing the girl to cry out and tremble in fear.

Sometimes, if lucky, these tears would settle only leaving the girl to heave and cough. Throat scratchy, eyes stinging and lips trembling as of to threaten another breakdown. This girl wasn't crying because she was taken from her family into this horrendous place. She never knew family, all she knew was small cells, masked men and strenuous training. No dreams of a mother or a father to calm her nightmares. No whispered sweet nothings to comfort her. No laughter or smiles.

Nothings.

Pain, loneliness and killing. Is all she knows and is what she's best at.

When she was out, chained to not attack the men dragging her across the stone floors without much care. The whispers they say: 'Daughter of the traitor.' 'Only survivor.'

These words mean nothing to her, mind muddled with pain or too drugged to understand. This was the only way to subdue and get her to submit to their ways. Today was not much different.

They let her train with the other girls, they were graceful little puppets to her. The way they spun on high toes was captivating. The art to them seemed like training, to her it was a chore, the way her thighs cramp up or her toes hurt. It was nothing but torture. But she suffered and pulled through. They built her this way, to do everything they wish.

It didn't work like that.

By the end she was tossed like nothing but a ragdoll back in the cell, they call her 'their greatest creation' but treated like anything but. Head throbbing, either from the impact, the chemicals in her system or the training. Crawling back into the corner, her safe space. Routinely huddling up as she wrapped her arms around her legs, head on knees her hair created a curtain from the harsh reality.

Her stomach felt empty, the last time she had eaten was not something she could even recall. Was it the tasteless sludge? Bread maybe? Or were they feeling nice and gave her some water with the tooth-breaking crackers? Should maybe they be testing her? Starving her until she can't any more. How long can she go without eating before the mixed chemicals in her blood pulled her just to the brink of death and keep her there when her limbs here are loose and tired? Heart weak and breathing shallow.

Death was inevitable for anyone but her. The way cuts stitched themselves, leaving jagged scars or broken bones took an unnaturally quick time to heal. If only she couldn't feel the pain of being repainted and torn apart. Screams can't help her as they see how deep they can cut, and how much damage a bullet can cause. Watch her train as she bleeds out, weak and trembling in a puddle of her own blood.

A weapon, that's all she is. Will ever be.

The tortured screams continued.

They will continue through the night, too in pain to sleep but too achy to stay awake. So she drifted on the edge of consciousness until the dark dipped and the light peaked through the bars of the cell. No glass, so if she was strong enough to stand up on her tip-toes and reach through the frozen metal she could feel the chill of the day brush the tips of her fingers. That made her eyes light up.

She couldn't see much, it was all white most days. Cold and windy. The courtyard for training had snow and was sometimes slippery but the girls she trained with battled through. Only for their blood to be splattered, contrasted with the snow on the side.

With no idea where she was, why would she even know? Russia? They spoke that here, she was Russian. Her accent when she desired to speak. Which was not much, due to the worn-out voice from the cries or the pure fact that she was not commanded to.

Moving to sit on the bed, or what looked to be a poor imitation of one. Rusted and worn frames, lumpy mattress with stains that weren't worth thinking about and a moth-eaten blanket. She sat waiting, nails digging into her thighs and her jaw tightened as she listen to the distorted voice outside of her cell.

The door creaked open.

She instantly tensed up, twisting her body ready for attack as her eyes nailed onto the door and whoever comes near her.

Four people enter, three all vaguely familiar faces she can't place a name on. They dragged along an unknown, struggling man. Screaming bloody murder and they threw him into her room.

Grabbing the pocket knife she was allowed to keep, and flicking it open as the click echoed through the cell it remained deathly silent even the man pleads sunk the bare minimum of noise. All eyes are on her.

The girl sat still, her mind blank as she stared at the man before her. Her expression was unchanging, with no emotion showing on her face. She was just waiting, waiting for her orders to be given. The man before her shifted uncomfortably as he knew. The utter fear in his eyes said more than the pleads.

The silence was oppressive, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Finally, a voice came from the intercom, cracking as it broke the silence.

"Do it."

Two words, that's all it took.

The girl immediately rose from her seat and moved towards the man. She had been trained to kill, and she would not hesitate. The girl walked up to the man without a word, with no hesitation in her movements. Gripping the knife in her hand with precision and skill. There was no need to ask questions; she knew what had to be done.

As the man stared at her, he saw her eyes flicker with malice and determination. The girl's expression was cold and emotionless, showing no mercy. With just a few swift, precise movements she had the pleading man tacked on the floor in no time. Kneeling over him as she plunged the knife into his chest and pulled it out watching with blank eyes. The blood quickly seeped out coating her hands and legs.

Turning to the people who watched as they muttered between themselves, jotting down on the clipboards on notes. She looked at them as if waiting for a compliment that would never happen. Awaiting for the next order, it wasn't training day today. It was lab day, the day that she feared the most.

And this was just the first, them trying to improve something they call perfect.