Cornelia Street - Avengers

White Widow

"How's one to know? I'd live and die for moments that we stole. On begged and borrowed time, so tell me to run. Or dare to sit and watch what we'll become."

Siberia, Late- 2014

(Remember That Night? Sara Kays)

...

"Let's begin," the Winter Soldier spoke, with a deep and stern tone. Alyona stepped forward, to where twenty-five weapons lay on a table. She had been through this practice many times before, but before her Papa would allow her to move on, he wanted her to be able to confidently identify every weapon HYDRA manufactured.

"Take a moment to look at each one. Then we'll begin," he told her, stepping back as she approached the table. He watched her circle it, stopping at each weapon for a few seconds. The serious look donning her expression piqued his interest.

"SR-1 Vektor, RPK. This one is simple, slimmer built towards the base. AK-47."

"Now match the bullets to each of the guns," he asked, she looked up at him, brows furrowing in the centre as she strolled around the table, deep in thought.

"I read a book yesterday. The pursuit of pure and evil. Which do you think you are, Soldat?" She stopped, teetering on dangerous territory.

The Soldier was quiet, and introspective as he watched her with an unwaveringly intent gaze before he asked softly. "Which do you think I am?"

Alyona moved to circle the table once more, picking up bullets and inspecting them from a distance. She shrugged off one of her gloves, getting a better feel for the bullets through skin-to-skin contact. "I think you're good," she whispered, without looking up. "Even when you do bad things, it's because someone else makes you. It isn't by your own doing."

Her answer stunned him; she had thought he was good. How he wished he was, for her. But how her answer would change if she knew the things he had done?

"Why do I have to do this?" She quipped, breathing out in a huff.

The Soldier straightened. "To keep you safe. To protect you when I am unable to."

She hummed, slipping her leather glove back on. "But you're never unable to."

"There are no guarantees."

"Why do I really have to learn different languages? I never leave Siberia, not as myself," Alyona glanced around the barren room.

"You ask too many questions," he told her.

The redhead smiled weakly, placing down a bullet in front of a gun. "My Papa says that. Says I'm too smart for my own good," she added, walking back around to his side of the table. "But... if I'm too smart, why do they need me to follow orders without question?" she asked, her voice gaining a subtle edge. "Why push me to learn things that don't matter here? Languages I'll never use, places I'll never see..." Her eyes flicked to his, searching for something—some sign that he knew more than he was letting on. "What's the point of all this if we never leave Siberia?"

She could feel it in the pit of her stomach, the slow unravelling of the carefully constructed lies she'd been told her entire life. And for the first time, Alyona wasn't sure she wanted the answers.

"Your Papa is telling the truth."

Her mind raced. The truth about what? She leaned in closer, her fingers curling into fists by her sides. "The truth of what?" She asked, her voice barely a whisper. The air between them felt thick, as if the weight of her question could shatter the fragile silence hanging in the room.

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the door as if expecting someone to walk in at any moment. His jaw tightened, and for the first time, Alyona saw a crack in his stoic facade.

Her face fell, "I don't like my Papa as of late. I know you do not favour him either."

His mouth parted, "Alyona..."

"It's alright," she interrupted, dragging her finger across the dusted metal. "You don't have to defend him in front of me. I won't say anything."

"You don't understand..." His voice trailed off, but there was something raw in his tone—something that proved that he was just as trapped in this web of lies as she was.