A gift from heaven (Loki x Natasha x daughter!reader)

Chpt.12 training, training and more training

The time flies by and now I've been here for almost eight years. Eight years of constant training and going on various mission around the world. At some point I even got used to killing bad people.

As I practiced ballet and upgraded my combat skills side by side with the other trainees, I couldn't help but wonder what my life had been before this. The answers were deep down, buried somewhere beneath layers of deception and manipulation.

And all the while, General Dreykow watched over me, his eyes ever watchful, as if holding the key to my past.

The exhaustion was relentless. Each day blurred into the next, a never-ending cycle of ballet and battle. My body became a battleground for pain, fatigue and scars. My muscles screamed in protest, and her bones ached, yet I pushed through it all. There was no room for weakness here. I was taught to never give and breaks are only for the weakest.

In the ballet studio, I was drilled relentlessly in the art of grace, posture, and fluidity. My feet blistered and bled in my tight pointe shoes, my legs trembled from endless pliés and pirouettes, and my back ached from the constant effort to maintain the perfect posture. The instructor's voice echoed in my mind, demanding more perfection, more precision.

But it was in the combat training where I truly learned the meaning of agony. I was paired with ruthless opponents, and the bruises and injuries became my constant companions.

Pain was my teacher, and I learned its lessons well. My body became a weapon, my mind a fortress. I grew accustomed to the sound of bones snapping and the metallic tang of blood in the air.

The lonely nights in my Spartan room offered little respite. I lay on my hard bed, unable to sleep, haunted by the questions that swirled in my mind. Who am I? What or who have I been before this nightmare? But those questions remained unanswered, buried inside of me, beneath layers of lies and deception.

My fellow trainees became my only companions, and even they were kept at arm's length. Trust was a rare commodity in the Red Room, where every word and action was scrutinized. The fear of betrayal was a constant presence, a gnawing paranoia that kept me on edge.

General Dreykow's watchful eye never wavered. He was a distant figure, the puppet master pulling the strings. He claimed they were helping me recover, but I still couldn't shake off the feeling that I was just a pawn in a much larger game.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as my body and spirit were pushed to its limits.

I couldn't remember my past, but I was slowly becoming someone else entirely. In the relentless pursuit of perfection, I lost a part of myself, and in its place, a new identity was forged - a weapon, a dancer, a survivor. The Red Room demanded my soul, and it seemed there was no escape from its clutches.

Amid the grueling ballet and combat training, another aspect of my transformation took root - learning how to wield a gun. The cold, unforgiving metal of a firearm became just another tool in my arsenal, and I was forced to train with it relentlessly.

In a dimly lit shooting range, I received instruction on how to handle various firearms. The recoil of the gun in my cold hand, the acrid smell of gunpowder, and the sound of bullets hitting their mark became my new reality.

I learned to disassemble and reassemble my weapon with precision, to aim with deadly accuracy, and to squeeze the trigger without hesitation. My instructors were unyielding, demanding more accuracy, quicker draw, and faster reloads.

But no matter how hard I tried, it was never enough. Perfection was the only acceptable outcome, and perfection remained elusive. Each missed shot, every hesitation, was met with a cold, unforgiving glare or the punishment of being starved or beaten up. I learned to endure the endless torture that was used in almost every country, so I wouldn't break if I ever get caught.

I felt the weight of my inadequacy pressing down on me, a constant reminder that I was not yet the weapon they wanted me to be.

The pressure to excel was relentless, the threat of punishment constant. My fellow trainees, like me, were caught in this never-ending cycle of striving for the unattainable. They formed an unspoken camaraderie, a shared understanding of the struggle they faced.

As the days passed, my constant fear of failure gnawed at me. My sleepless nights were haunted by dreams of missed shots and disappointing my instructors. But I still had no choice but to keep pushing myself through, to keep striving for that unattainable perfection, for in the Red Room, failure was not an option.

With each passing day, my mind and body were stretched to its limits, and the line between my old self and the weapon that I was becoming blurred.

The Red Room demanded everything of me, and it took everything I had to give. I was trapped in a relentless, unforgiving nightmare, where the pursuit of perfection left me feeling perpetually inadequate and lost.