Shadow and The Outlaws (On Hold)

Chapter II

"I'm just random girl, with gentle manners."
Caravan Palace, Wonderland

FIVE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS LATER

DATE: APRIL 19TH

The loud honk of the morning bell pulls me from my sleep. I open my eyes, feeling slightly sick, but this is nothing unusual. I swing my legs over the side of my camp bed, and hold my stomach, still recollecting myself.

"Mornin' sunshine," Cora's voice comes from the other side of the room.

"Hello," I greet quietly, pushing myself from the sheets. I watch, as Tom, our daily guard, pulls open the door to our cell.

"Good morning ladies!" He sings cheerfully. Ah, dear Tom. He's always so happy, I don't know how on Earth he got this awful job. He deserves so much better than looking after criminals and serial killers. Somehow, that man always manages to put a smile on my face, before I go out to my normal dull routine.

"And good morning to you too Tom," I greet, arranging my hair in front of the cracked mirror.

"Very good morning," Cora says, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively, as she turns on her bed, to make her hips bulge out. Tom laughs, and wags his finger at her, but all Cora does is blink flirtatiously.

"I swear," I say, quickly making my bed, "if you two don't stop making eyes at each other, I think I will be sick."

"Oh, watch that accent, love!" Cora cackles. She always finds a way to make a mockery of my British voice.

"Yeah, well it's London, innit?" I sass back, in a Peckham accent. If you want to fit in down in South London, you need the voice, no questions asked. However, to be honest, I actually have one of the poshest British accents you'll ever hear.

"You've been all over the world, haven't you?" Cora sighs, looking at me enviously.

"Enough to give me good cultural experience," I answer, dusting down my dirty orange suit, before turning to Tom. "You been anywhere, Tom?"

He looks thoughtful for a second, "I went to Sweden. Once," he decides. This catches my attention.

"What was it like, Tom?" I ask frantically, "Sweden is famous for clocks and chocolate, am I correct? Oh, and ABBA!"

"I thought chocolate was Belgium," Cora chimes in.

"Cora, countries can be famous for the same thing. I'm pretty sure they both mass manufacture chocolate."

"Like in England, where all they eat is fish and chips, and they drink tea all day?" She questions innocently, batting her eyelashes.

I roll my eyes, "Cora, you know that stereotypes have always pissed me off, so give it a rest, won't you?"

"Alright, alright," Cora chuckles, finally sliding off her bed. "No need to get mouthy, Em."

I hum in response, as Tom opens the cell gate, and Cora and I walk out, to join the rest of our partners in crime.

"Attention. Will Emilia Brookston, from cell sixty two, block A, in the female sector, come to the main office please? I repeat, Emilia Brookston."

Though it seems, not today.

"Em, did you do something?" Cora says, narrowing her eyes at me.

"No!" I splutter. "I haven't done a single thing, I swear!"

"Pity," Cora kisses her teeth, making me sigh in irritation.

"Well," Tom gestures to the main office, up on level nine, "you best be going, Miss Brookston."

"Alright," I say, "I'll see you guys on the other side."

"Have fun!" Cora calls out, as I make my way to the lift.

As I step inside, it occurs to me that I have never in fact been to the main office before. Cora has been once or twice; something about an escape attempt and throwing food across the cafeteria.

Maybe they're finally considering releasing me!

It's such an exciting thought, that I squirm against the lift walls. I have been extremely well behaved, one I hope that sets an example different to my father's.

Ugh, my father. My mood instantly drops, remembering the trauma. I breathe deeply, recalling Cora's advice on how not to have a breakdown. I am so caught up in my breathing exercises, that I forget that I am here, and when I open my eyes, I see a security guard staring at me as if I have gone completely mad. Embarrassed and a little scared, I shuffle out of the elevator.

The guard clears his throat, "Brookston, Emilia Brookston?"

I nod. He makes a gesture with his head for me to follow him, and I oblige. We head down a grey corridor, for about a minute, before he paused at a door, and scans his ID. The guard pushes the door open, and makes another gesture with his head, this one telling me to go in. I, again, oblige.

The door shuts behind me with a thud, and I jump slightly, before turning my attention to the middle of the room. There are two green armchairs, and seated in one of them, is a woman. I eye her cautiously, as she lifts her head to see me.

Under the florescent lighting, I can see that her skin is very pale, and red ringlets of hair surround her face. Her eyes are a delicate shade of green, and she's wearing a black catsuit. Not entirely sure of what to do, I continue to linger at the door.

"Well, don't just stand there," the woman laughs, flapping her hand in the direction of the seat opposite her. Her accent is American, although I can detect a faint trace of Russian in it. If she's trying to hide it, she's doing one hell of a good job.

A little confused, but mostly shy, I stumble towards the seat, and sit down rather awkwardly in it.

"Emilia Brookston," the woman sighs. "I've heard a lot about you."

I stay quiet, scared that if I open my mouth, I'll say something wrong.

"Daughter of infamous Ukrainian arms dealer, Dmitri Brookston," she continues, "and daughter of famous French- British actor, Annabeth Verge. I'd say, you've got quite the background," she chuckles. I look at her strangely. Why isn't she looking at me with disgust or contempt?

She extends her hand. Remembering how my mother used to say "When somebody extends their hand to you, you shake it. It's simply good etiquette," I pull my own hand from my side, and shake the woman's hand.

"Natasha Romanoff," the woman says, raising an eyebrow. "Though, if your father has told you about me, you may know me better as Natalia Romanova."

I blink, as I stare at her. Natalia Romanova? The Russian assassin, trained by experts who had mastered the art of kill? Swallowing the dryness in my throat, I finally make myself utter three words. "I know you."

"And she speaks!" Natasha laughs, clapping her hands. I find a smile making its way up my face too, even though I am a little offended by the comment. This lady just makes me want to giggle, even if what she says isn't funny. She just feels right.

"Now," she says crossing her legs, and leaning back in her chair. "I've come here to meet you, because I think that you might be the kid I've been looking for. I've read about you," she says, watching my face for a reaction. "You don't have a good history. And from what I've heard people seem to judge you heavily, just because of your father. They don't look at you."

I cock my head, completely taken back by her logic.

"I'd like to adopt you, Emilia," she says, putting a hand out. I flinch, and pull away. "Sorry," she says, quickly withdrawing her hand, "I forgot, you don't like being touched, do you?"

I shake my head.

"Sorry," she repeats. "As I was saying, I want to adopt you, because I want you to have a good life. Not like me. You don't deserve to be seen the way your father is seen. Would you like to move in with me?" She asks, looking me dead in the eyes.

I take a deep breath. "I would like that," I whisper. "I would like that very much."