Road to War Part IV: The Space In Between

How We Choose the Framing of the Scene

She doesn't say anything while he drives. She doesn't ask where they are going or offer suggestions or tell him what happened. Or stories, like she usually would, to fill up dead space. He is unaccustomed to her silence and it makes him worry. It's not like her. He tries to remember his first mission, or any other that strongly affected him, but cannot. They wouldn't let him keep such a volatile memory, he supposes. It would hurt his proficiency. Should he wish for those back, or is it better not to know?

When they've reached the next town over, he finds a hotel. It's nothing fancy, but it's what he can afford with the money they provided before he left. Though he isn't sure what the average rate for a night is these days, so maybe they could upgrade. She doesn't comment on his choice, just sits in silence while he parks the car and turns off the engine, her gaze directly ahead. Tentatively, he reaches over to touch her arm lightly, and she turns to look at him.

"We should go inside," he says quietly, feeling tongue-tied by her gaze.

She nods numbly, then climbs out of the vehicle. He follows, and they enter the lobby together. Both of them look like regular civilians, neither wearing clothes that are tattered or blood-spattered. He'd thought she might be, but doesn't see any evidence like that on her. Just a generally shell-shocked demeanor. She remains silent as he gets them a room and leads her upstairs. He supposes their lack of baggage and her behavior will be remarked upon, will be suspicious. But the job is done, and not near here, so it won't much matter if they're noticed. They just need to get through tonight, and hopefully tomorrow she'll be more herself. Then they can go back.

The irrational thought of never going back, of going somewhere, anywhere, with her flits through his mind, but he pushes it away. What would they do without their handlers, their missions? How long would they last in the real world? Besides, then they would be traitors. And neither of them could stand that, he thinks.

They reach the room and the key grates in the lock, but he gets it open. She walks passed him and goes to the bed, sitting down immediately. He deadbolts it behind them and moves over to the window, leaning against it, and assesses her carefully.

"Natalia," he says. Her eyes snap into focus and fix on his face. "Tell me what happened." Perhaps a direct order will be effective.

She nods slowly. "We were... I've been compromised," she admits, self-loathing in her tone.

"How?" he asks, gentler.

Her brow furrows and she stares at the ground. "The girl – she and I – we were friends. I don't... I haven't had that before. Her family was nice to me. Nice to the person sent to kill them, to hurt them. They invited me to be part of the family. To feel at home. To be safe there. It was... It was different. I... I wasn't prepared," she says haltingly. The last statement is firmer than the rest and she looks dejectedly at the pattern in the carpet at her feet. He doesn't say anything, not sure what to say, and the silence stretches on. When she finally looks up, there is a spark of anger in her green eyes. "What are you going to do about it?"

Somewhat taken aback, he frowns at her. "Nothing," he replies.

She jumps to her feet and approaches him, as warily as she ever has in the training room. "What do you mean?"

For the first time he can remember, he hopes he appears nonthreatening. "What would I do about it? I'm not your superior," he adds when she opens her mouth to speak. She shuts it again, looking perplexed.

"Then what are you?" she asks, deflated, shoulders drooping.

He chews on his lip uncertainly. "Your friend," he murmurs at last.