Where Natasha was sure there was a cavernous cavity in her chest, something twinged, a twang of disagreement; her dissenting heart had been reinstated. Of all the times to spring a conscience, that was the most inconvenient.

Her feet lugged her away from where her heart was leading her. Each clack of her heels on the tile floor was like the sound of a chess piece on a board, and in her advancing game of war, she was battling herself into a checkmate. Once resigned to that course of action, there would be no easy route out; she was surrounded on all side by the army of opposing ideals: she was the black queen turned white.

Another pawn in play, Clint mirrored her movements and followed unnoticed under the command of the king in his earpiece.

Thrusting forward her chest, batting her luscious black lashes and swinging her hips like a pendulum, she advanced through several layers of security until she managed to slip through the stage door and sauntered her way to the dressing rooms.

Rows of mirrors framed in bright lights lined either side of the room, the same stock faces reflected in them; pale white as Siberian snow, eyes shadowed in black like smudges of gunpowder and lips red like battle wounds. But it was easy enough to spot the pride of the stock: being bombarded with bouquets, gifts jangling in her arms like the sound of medals pinned on veterans, curtsying with her cutesy curls around her face -- Svetlana, she was sure she heard one of the girls call the luminous red head.

Natasha tested the name: "Svetlana..!" She called out, voice underlain with understated authority, it was amusing to her how clipped consonants and pronounced vowels could have that effect. Easy as child's play.

The crowing and cooing over the young swan died away, and the girls dissipated, dawdling back to their posts where they began to dismantle their stage-faces; their tool of the trade no more. Innocent and fertile skin was uncovered from beneath a thick covering of foundation, young and fresh features concealed beneath fake lashes, brows trained into line to accentuate their features, and angles falsely painted on.

Natasha wished removal of her mask of makeup would reveal the same thing; peel away her facade, nothing so untainted or pretty lurked beneath. Where did the masks end?

Svetlana swooped over, regal as a Tsar child - before, of course, they had been beaten and bludgeoned; Natasha's head rung with recollection - and the short girl perched before Natasha on her tip-toes; trying to look larger than her small breasts and lithe legs would allow.

"Walk with me," Natasha invited in the girl's native tongue, a language that could enchant and encite trust. Natasha had her leashed with curiosity.

She offered the princess-for-a-day her arm, and the young girl, still in her white tutu, linked their arms like a chain. If the girl was about to be locked into oppressive employment, Natasha would do her the nicety of making her last moments of freedom one to remember.

She shut the door to the changing rooms behind them as they walked along, the click of Natasha's heels on the floor like the sound of war drums.

Posing as a stagehand, Clint lurked at the brow of the corridor, loitering in the shadows as Natasha performed her show. Beneath his rudimentary black clothes, his tabard and armoured leggings was equipped, and in his backpack, was folded a bow, with a quiver of arrows.

"You were very impressive out there tonight," Natasha complimented, her voice like nectar to the young girl, flashing her a grin that reminded Clint more of a glint sunlight on the barrel of a gun than an inviting grin. "Your parents must be very proud of you," she told her, resting her hand on the girls, her nails painted like red talons.

"I don't have any parents, ma'am," the young girl sighed, looking down.

Natasha's heart felt a stab of pain, but she broadened her smile, now bordering manic, to cover it. Is this a test? She asked herself repeatedly. "Everyone in the theatre was certainly proud of you..." Looking at Svetlana, a vision of illumination, was like looking into her past. How different would she be now if someone was kind to her?

"I hope so," the girl said, beaming up at Natasha. So easily sweet talked, she wouldn't last long. "If you don't mind me asking, ma'am, what is this about?" The child asked, her perky cheeks still raised in an uplifting smile. She practically skipped along beside her, her frills and ribbons fluttering and bouncing.

Natasha passed through a sentry of two guards she knew to be KGB plants, ever conspicuous; perhaps it was their slightly different accent in the Hungarian setting, or perhaps it was their robotic manner. Natasha didn't spare a glance left or right, just kept walking with her head raised high on her shoulders.

"I work for an organisation very good at recognising talent... And you're a very talented individual," Natasha began the seduction, the smiles and sickly sweetness. It would be better than the brutality she faced being roped into the regime. "They want to recruit you."

"... Recruit me, for what?" The girl asked, her smile broadening even wider, which felt like another stab to the gut.

Natasha couldn't do it. Passing around the corner, out of eyeshot and earshot of the bodyguards she dropped the act. She pulled the earrings out of her ears that were making her lobes droop with the weight of them and discarded them on the floor. With a violent smudge of her hand, she smudged away the crimson slash of lipstick that stained her lips; she colour of all her bloody endeavours. She kicked off the knife-sharp stiletto heels that she was teetering on into a nearby janitor closet.

"Ma'am, what are you doing?" Svetlana asked, her voice querulous and the smile slipping from her bright youthful face. She took a couple cautionary steps back.

"Saving you," Natasha answered simply and coldly, snagging the girl by the wrist and dragging her along. She started to feel the girl's resistance.

They'd have her head for this. Or not. Perhaps it would be her neck in a noose. If they were feeling particularly cruel the electric chair, prolong it by shocking her in bursts until she lost control of her convulsive limbs, and if she was lucky, consciousness. They'd never be as kind to show her the lethal injection; it would be too easy an escape route...

"What do you mean saving me?" Svetlana demanded in a voice that was a bit too loud and seemed to rattle off the walls like the ricochet of a bullet.

Natasha dragged the girl into an unoccupied changing room as she heard a charge of boots herding through the corridor towards them. She clamped a hand over the girl's mouth and forced her against the door like a barricade. Tasha felt the buzzing of her scream compressed against her palm, then felt the bite as the girl gnashed her teeth; she was uncertain whether the red colouring her hand was the girl's lipstick or her blood.

"Stop biting me like a little bitch and listen close. Those people out there, they work for the Soviet government, they want little girls like you turned into big girls like me. They'll hurt you a lot more than I am right now. They don't care how they hurt you either; they'd whip you, beat you, rape you, or have someone else do it for them. Either way, your chances of making it out alive are slim. So here's your choice: it's them, or merciful me..." Natasha issued the ultimatum, feeling the girl's salty tears sting the wound on her hand - yep, that was definitely her blood - and she nodded. "If I take my hand off are you going to scream?" Svetlana shook her head, and Natasha removed her hand, slowly, cautiously.

"Who are you?" She pleaded, her voice whimpery and weak which only made Natasha's choice easier, the girl wouldn't give the first bout of training. She was reminded of the girls left to die in the Siberian snow who couldn't negotiate the obstacle course.

"Natasha Romanoff, and I'm the woman who's going to save your life."

As soon as the patrol had passed, Natasha dragged her back into the corridor, her feet pounding against the floor and that of the sobbing young girl's padding along beside her. She was like a fierce female tiger defending her young, willing to strike out and wipe out anyone who had intention to harm her precious cargo.

They pattered down a stairwell and burst out of the backstage door, into a smoky alley with the stench of burning diesel in the enclosed walls. The smoke was churning out of the limousine they had hired out to mask where they were really taking the girl. Promise of fame and fortune was enough to lure any little girl; Natasha knew it would've lead her away like the pied piper when she was a child.

They should have hired a hearse, Natasha mused, because climbing in was as good as signing your own death warrant.

The driver and passenger had clearly had it rogered in Natasha had gone rogue and sprung out of the vehicle in sync, locking and loading guns with distinct clicks.

Bare feet splashing in the slush, Natasha took a run across the cobbles to launch herself at the first. A thick swathe of her gown flapped behind her as she jumped, like her banner of war fluttering in the wind. She locked her legs around the man's neck, squeezing, suffocating and then twisting and jerking to snap his neck. The cracking of bones rang out and Svetlana screamed.

Natasha wrestled the gun off the second as she felled the first and put the bullet in the man's head before she, or his comrade, hit the ground.

Svetlana screamed again.

Natasha had the breath winded out of her as she landed smack in the snow, the stone ground hard against her back and icy water soaking into her clothes.

"Get in the vehicle!" Natasha yelled at her, disorientated. "I said get in the vehicle!" She screamed as she got to her feet, a hand to the back of her head, lightly concussed.

Svetlana, in all of her infantile grace, tried to kick Natasha, it was futile. Natasha caught the high kick and sent the girl falling into her back with a grunt and a wail. "You killed them! You killed them!" Svetlana screamed herself hoarse, squirming on the ground and trying to claw her way away from Natasha.

"Shut up!" Natasha yelled at her, tearing a shred off her dress and plugging the girl's mouth with it. She could hear back up congregating inside, the buzzing of walkie talkies, the low mumble of Russian, the distorted sound of her name. She tore another strip off her dress and used it to bind the girl's small pale wrists, knotting it tight before throwing the girl over her shoulder. "Sorry for this Svetlana, it's for your own good."

She hurled the girl onto the seat in the back of the car, draping her across it and slamming the door with enough force to make the limousine bounce on its axis. She dashed the length to the cabin and clambered it. As she'd seen Ivan do countless times in her childhood, she put the limo in gear and punched the engine to life.

She kicked it into gear with a struggled gurgle of the engine and floored it, sending sludge and snow spitting off the spinning wheels. She heard the ruckus as KGB agents emerged, left behind in the black sputtering smog of the exhaust fumes. Gunshots pranged off the vehicle, sparking against the metal, but didn't even make a dent against the bullet proofed vehicle. Svetlana, now having rolled out onto the floor, screamed and curled up at the sound.

What made Natasha swerve as she entered the Main Street was the slam of metal being pierced and the appearance of an arrowhead in the cabin, inches from her head.

She spat out a string of curses in Russian, mostly in confusion, and honked her horn an alarm.

"Sir," Clint reported in from the rooftop of the theatre. "She's taken the girl. I'm going into pursuit."

A/N - yep, I know it's been a long time, and not being able to write has been as painful as not being able to read. Let's just say AS levels and mental health sucks.

Just a quick shameless self-promotion here for my Instagram which is 'Skywalkerren' where you can keep up to date with my writing, headcanons, edits and playlists I put together. It's basically an outlet for my unused creativity, and is currently very Star Wars related. Check it out?