Road to War Part II: Yes, Anastasia

Girls, girls, what have we done to ourselves?

How old had she been on that first mission?  She doesn't remember.  She knows she was old enough for boys – and men – to start taking notice.  But keeping track of the years wasn't really something encouraged in the Red Room.  There was only the next lesson, the next assignment, mastering the skills they would need to survive when they left.  The length of time it took was irrelevant; at least, so long as you weren't one of the last ones.  Competition was a large part of life there, she remembers, and she knows that Yelena was her only friend, and a tentative one at that.

The missions she did for the KGB and for whomever would pay her afterward are a blur; she has read the files and committed those to memory, but she knows a lot was left out.  A lot was redacted.  Much of her life is a mystery, even to her.  She tells herself it doesn't matter, but, here, lying in the dark, listening for any sound next door, she can't really believe it.  How would her life be different if she had her memories?  She chides herself, turning over on the mattress and sighing, settling in comfortably.  It wouldn't, she decides.  As she has many times before.  She would still have made the choices she made because that's who she is now.  Who she was is no longer important.

A soft buzz brings her attention back to the present, and she sees the light of her phone on the nightstand.  Frowning at it, she picks it up and reads the message.  Clint, checking on her.  She responds that she's fine, which she is, then turns her phone on silent and flips it over so the light won't bother her when he answers.  Sometimes Steve sends her similar messages.  No one else has her current number (though she is confident Nick could still get ahold of her again), and she cycles through phones frequently.  She should do so again soon, she thinks, laying on her back and staring at the ceiling.  How long has she had this one?  Over a week.  Long enough.

She doesn't want to think of the Red Room anymore.  Not tonight, certainly, but not ever would be preferable.  It made her into something else, and she doesn't like to dwell on the past.  She's a skilled spy and assassin, yes, but she's more than that.  She knows who she is, now, and can make her own choices.  It was difficult, she knows, to adjust to life in the real world when she defected.  If Clint hadn't checked in on her then, too, she isn't sure she would have survived.

"Since you're going to be staying with us for a while, we thought you might like to anglicize your name," Agent Coulson was telling her as they rode the elevator up to Director Fury's office.

"To what?" she asked tersely, not looking at him.

He was unfazed.  As usual.  "Natasha Romanoff," he offered, his hands clasped in front of him calmly.

She turned to glare at him.  "What's wrong with Natalia?"

"Nothing.  Your American accent is excellent.  Where did you learn it?" he asked politely.

Her eyes closed briefly.  "I don't know," she replied.

He smiled gently.  "Forget I asked.  It will be a pleasure working with you, Miss Romanoff," he added as a farewell when the elevator doors opened.

She glanced at him and then into the room beyond, stepping out hesitantly.  He didn't join her, and she strode resolutely toward the office.  The floor was silent, and the wrap of her knuckles on the door seemed overly loud.

"Come in," the Director's voice called out.

Without hesitation, she opened the door and entered, going over to stand in front of his desk.  "You called me, sir."

He sat forward on his chair, removing his feet from his desk and setting them on the floor.  "I think you've spent enough time with our personnel.  Are you ready to prove your loyalty on a mission, Agent Romanoff?" he asked.