I knew then, my head tucked under his chin, the eventually we would have to part ways. But I wanted to savour the seconds. His body was like a hot water bottle, and I was going to horde his heat. The stroke of his hand was like the kiss of a Mediterranean tide and I let it glide over my body. His heartbeat was the steady pulse that could lead an orchestra; and me alike. 

A wiggling tear sloshed onto his bare arm, making a ‘plink’ on the metal. "It's never going to get better... Is it..?" I tilted my head up to him, my eyes outlining his silhouette in the darkness.

He had the opportunity to brew me a potion of lies, but administered me the truth. “Not now...” He seethed like the words were a dagger to his back. “But someday, you’ll come through this...” And even though his first sentence had a semblance of truth, his second tasted like deceit.

I let his arms cave me, the most comfortable restriction I’d ever experienced. Cage bars were cold, stiff and solid. His arms were warm – even the metal one had been transplanted heat from our hug; they were malleable, shaping to my tiny frame that could be crushed like grains of wheat. And his flesh and muscle could be squeezed under hand; he had the bruising fragility of a human vessel to his soul.

And that wasn’t the last time I sneaked to his quarters. We established an alliance. A reliance. But our friendship had to remain confidential. I couldn’t risk anyone impinging on our secret circle of trust, or anyone trying to split us apart. So we spoke in silences; adventurous skims of the hand, defensive companionship in the field and stealing silent stares.

In corridors, he’d mesh fingers on the way past – sometimes slotting a creased slip of paper between my fingers; details of the guard shift, to arrange my drop-ins around their patrols. My ammunition’s clip would deplete in the field, my gun clicking as nothing dropped into the cartridge; he wouldn’t just reload me, he’d sacrifice his gun for me. He’d linger at the intersection between our two parts of the building, and through the bustling halls, just smile vacantly, like my watchful satellite.

I came to know the touch of his skin; the ridges and whorls of his fingertips as we kissed palms, his hand dwarfing my dainty one. I came to know his musk, the aphrodisiac of vodka mixed with cordite; sinful scents, repugnant and compelling. I came to know the shape of his lips, how when he smiled, the right side tended to quirk first, a dimple dipping in his cheek. I came to know the pitch of his voice, able to pick out his resonance in a stream of ambient noise, like a clarinet beneath the percussion.

When every day I was put through my paces, he knew how to draw the laughter from me. Even if I was in agony, he managed to rectify my pain with the right Hippocratic mentality. Even when it seemed hopeless. The days I wanted to hide beneath my bed, trying to drown out the world with my hands over my ears, he found a way to coax me out of my bubble of despair.

Still, the field work intensified. Daily they’d uncover a stockpile of documents for us to loot or a significant person to lynch. The resistance against the USSR was fluctuating, starting to spring up hither and thither. People didn’t just drop to their knees and salute the earth before accepting death, they stood up, refusing to just take the blows. That’s when I realised I wasn’t the only one doubting the Soviet Supremacy.

The orders came with shouts. And the orders came from high up; Khrushchev himself.

Books I had devoured in my education had told me that Budapest was a grand city; ancient with castellated towers that spiralled into the sun. It told of the river Danube, how it split Buda and Pest in two with it’s span of shining water. How the hilly banks, with rockslides of churches and spires climbing the mountainous terrain shone, shadowing the plateau parallel. It told of a city still entrenched into archaic ways, streets still cobbled and walls of chalky stone.

What we met was a wreckage, ancient walls that had gorged on industrialisation. What was once pristine squares and antiquated buildings had become a battleground – littered with shrapnel in the form of empty mustard gas canisters, dust and rubble as an afterthought of grenades and flaming balls of debris that were once cars or market stalls.

Whole fronts of buildings had collapsed down from where tanks had blasted rockets through them, sending history crumbling to the ground.

I stepped into the storm, the town ravaged by the residents. I stepped out into the snow, white carpeted streets, stained black with soot and singed detritus.

I dodged the decapitated head of Stalin’s statue that was discarded on the floor, the copper scratched and punctured by the revolutionaries. And as I parted from the fleet of cars that had taken us there, a hand took mine.

“You ready to pretend we’re the bad guys?” the Winter Soldier whispered close to my ear; cocking the Soviet slugger in his arms.

“Do we have any other choice?” I whispered back to him, my voice nearly getting lost in the firestorm of bullets being fired and the whistling of the gale – snowflakes drifting by on the rapid wind.

They weren’t peaceful. The moment we set foot upon their territory, they clamoured, cascading forwards in their mobs with their banners strung up on poles: like lances belonging to a fleet of rebel knights. They’d armed themselves with anything they could grab; illegally obtained guns: handguns, machine-guns, semi-automatics. Knives pilfered from kitchens and toolboxes, pitchforks, hammers.

At the corner of the street, was the secret police building: the tatty soviet flag flapping on the breeze. They were dragging our ranks out into the grey daylight by their collars. They’d lynch them, throwing them onto the scraping ground, tearing at their hair. They’d throw punches, lob kicks and try gouging out their eyes. They desecrated the building; carving names into the brickwork and hurling bricks through the windows. Inside a fire had caught, and the draperies had started to be eaten by the heat.

The Winter Soldier and I stormed over, elbowing aside revolutionaries; kicking them down and stabbing them with the concealed knives in our palms; tearing apart the masses to reach the building. Others slipped through in much the same way, killing and culling and arriving at the facade of the building to capture the perpetrators.

They launched themselves at us, poised to carve into our skin with their nails and flailing their limbs to batter us.  A sweep of the leg and a precise punch wiped them out to the ground. Cuffs were snapped on wrists, whilst others warded away those trying to protest the arrest: gunning them down as they mindlessly lolloped at us.

Some required a wrestle, a scrapping of dodging fists and feet; twists of the wrists and disarming. I had to prize a knife from the hand of one and kicked him in the base of the spine to finally immobilise him. Once vulnerable, I’d cuff his hands behind his back, his face still buried in the snowy sludge and urge him to crawl to my seniors.

We lead them away from view. The civilian criminals, who had caused such unrest and defaced government property, were lined up against the wall of the citadel. And we waited for the order, eyes facing the masked soldier with the shaggy brown hair. A clinch of his metal fist and bullets would fly; with only brief bursts of wounded noises and minimal pleading.

The Winter Soldier took my arm once they were dealt with and we stormed back to the burning building.

“What on earth are we going back for?” I protested, trying to remove his iron grip.

“Files. There is paperwork in that building that must never see the light of day.” Releasing my arm, he strolled through the flaming doorway and disappeared past the smokescreen.

I hesitated, feet slipping on the snow as I abruptly halted. I could feel the heat radiating on my face. Fire, it never sat well with me.

“Natalia, if you’re coming, you need to hurry up!” He hollered from a window above, his unruly hair floating on the warm air gushing from the flames at his back.

Not giving myself the option to doubt, I threw myself through the doorway, leaping a small hurdle of fire as I entered. Most of the interior was fogged over with dense black clouds and the walls were being scaled by the crackling flames. Inhaling bucketloads of smoke as I stood idle, I clamped a hand over my airways and peered through the darkness.

Ahead, I could see a staircase. I sprinted up, fire starting to eat at the path behind me.

The smoke had gathered on the next floor, but the flames still yet to follow. Squinting to my left and right, my eyes burning with irritation from the heat. I could see down the corridor that one of the doors had been broken open; sagging on its hinges and splinters scattered over the floor.

I dashed to the end of the corridor and skidded to a halt inside the room.

“We haven’t got much time...” He urged, ear pressed to a safe as he twiddled with a dial.

“I hadn’t noticed(!)” I spluttered into my hand. “Surely the flames will dispose of the files...” I suggested.

“Perhaps...” He admitted, eyes still tuned out as he focused on the clicking of the safe. “Is that a rsk you’re willing to take?” With a clunk the safe door swung open.

“Considering I ran into a burning building for this, yes!” I intransigently responded.

He flicked through files, throwing down the ones that he wasn’t looking for. Then plucked one out and shovelled it into his jacket.

“And how come you’ve only taken one?” I crossed my arms and tapped my foot at him.

Down the hall planks of wood fell through, the corridor now alight as the fire spead.

He hadn’t an answer for that one, he was fortunate the structure was collapsing around us. “Time to make a quick exit...” He prompted. With a pivot, he turned to the window and spread the glass panes open. He perched himself on the edge and peered back at me. “You coming?”

“Out the window, are you insane?!” I squawked. “I’d rather run through the fire..!”

“Suit yourself-“ He leant forwards, about to drop down over the edge.

“No wait!” I disagreed, watching the flames rise higher and lick at the ceiling. “Take me with you.”

He didn’t waste any time, slinging me over his shoulder and marching back to the window. One leg dangled over the edge, he lifted the other and we slipped off. The fall made my stomach lurch and my heart drop into my throat. The collision with the ground was hard; the slapping of feet that reverberated through our bodies. His shoulder dug into my stomach, but he quickly relieved me of the awkward rag-doll posture.

“Our work here is done...”

But when we reached base again, it turned out it wasn’t just them who’d lost heavily in that recent skirmish. Our numbers had narrowed too. Unaccounted for by the protesters of Hungary. Four Black Widows had been killed in the fighting. Unusual on the basis of our extensive training alone.

Their bodies were returned with precise injuries; perfect snaps of the neck, accurate bullet holes between the eyes and perfectly sliced arteries. The thing that didn’t add up was how perfectly killed they were: minimal mess.

We all bowed our heads as they were ferried past on stretchers, with their vacant staring eyes and mopped up injuries. But out of the corner of my eye I saw one person without their head lowered: a blonde. In fact she slipped away, like a paper plane on a gust of wind. She receded into the shadows with a smirk. Her chin raised with pride.

A/N - Dead black widows? Oh dear.

I finally completed my art coursework today! Three weeks still to go. I'm going to do my graphics instead now; get it all done before the deadline on March 25th. It's been a long time coming; kinda terrified. Anyway, I needed a retreat from the hostility of study and coursework, so I concoted this chapter for you. 

The image in the multimedia is actually about the historical event described in this chapter

Dedication goes to littlethormaid11! 

P.S - I did heavy editing of this since the upload; I didn't like the chapter at all.