【 red room, 2016 】

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━━ Hawai'i has always had two faces that people could see. 

More accurately, it had a mask and it had a face. 

The mask was standard for the tourists, who chew up the urbanized facade and spit it out after they got their summer tan and saltwater curls. If they were somewhat decent, they might have to the ability to appreciate the environment and admire the culture with the buzz of a mai tai running through their bloodstream. But even then, they only consume the pretty parts, and they take from the stolen beauty again and again.

The natives were the sole witnesses of her true face.

Despite the exploitation and the illegal overthrowing of their kingdom, the islands of Hawai'i undoubtedly belonged to the Kamaʻāina ( children of the land ). The secret coves and the most beautiful, most isolated pieces of their home: all for them. 

If there was anyone who was capable of personifying that divide, it was the island girl of the Kohala coast, Kealoha Halia. 

Many just knew her as the ball of sunshine that practically ran North beach.

The tourists discovered their precious "Key" among the shore. Sand littered her brown skin, well-earned after spending her life in the sun. She would build awful sandcastles with the children of haole ( foreigners ) and have water fights during the daytime. 

But the natives knew their little island girl: their beloved Kealoha. They knew how she always picked a Hibiscus flower to tuck behind her right ear before sprinting to the beach every morning. They watched her every morning: how she slowed down to greet the lady behind the guri guri cart ( who, in turn, always offered a spoon of the newest flavor of the icy treat ) and the couple who ran the surf shack ( who had been in cahoots with her parents to customize a smaller board for her ).

The natives knew she was passed around every evening between a group of her parents closest friends from college. Some of them liked to brag about being the best night surfer around bonfires, but they had always been shown up by Ignacia Halia. ( Kealoha just knew her as māmā. ) The youngest of the Halia clan was always snuggled into her father's arm on his surfboard as they watched the way māmā annihilated her impromptu competition.

The natives were half convinced she had a kinship with Lono ( the god associated with peace and rain ). When she was happy, the skies were clear and the breeze cooled the droplets on her skin. When she was sad, there were devastating storms and hurricane warnings. When she was angry, people swore up and down that there had nearly been a volcanic eruption. 

It should have been a sign that something was wrong when the weather was dreary and depressing for the first time in recent memory. There was no greeting for the guri guri lady and the surf shack couple. There were no tiny footprints scattered among the sandy banks.

By the next morning, missing person posters were being handed out by every local on the Northern Kohala coast.

The picture they used of her had been a sweet one, just after her makua ( father ) had begun teaching her how to surf. Her hair had been much a lighter brown than when she had been born, thanks to the constant sun and saltwater, while her damp, frizzy curls were piled into a little bun on the top of her head.

Her smile was the star of the show. 

It always was. 

It was infectious, just as her laugh used to be. She had been missing a tooth after a sneak attack from the back of the couch went wrong.

Makani and Ignacia Halia led the island wide search for their daughter for months.

Three months, to be exact, before the parents had, too, met the same fate. 

The search for the couple had been far shorter, despite the lack of bodies to be found. The Kamaʻāina were of the shared belief that they had been far too distraught by the loss of their only child to go on. Their friends had only hoped that they could meet their daughter once more after taking Death's hand.

Of course, they never did get to see her again

How could they?

The girl wasn't dead.

The girl was very much alive ( unfortunately for her──death would have been a much kinder alternative to her reality ). 

The hibiscus was dead, and so was the Kealoha that only existed in people's memories.

Sand no longer littered her skin the way cuts and bruises did. The cold was harsh and the unending snowfall robbed her of the golden brown skin she used don.

Svetlana ( as her handlers opted to call her ) had learned how to fire a gun after those many, many bruises, birthed of a cruel nature, painted her skin. She learned to hit a bullseye on every target placed in front of her once her fingertips had healed from the acid they had been dipped into, in order to erase her prints.

Step one of erasing her very existence.

By the time she was six years old, Svetlana had such a solid punch, she could break a grown man's nose. By seven, she had killed a man for the first time with that perfect aim of hers.

The death had been instant. A single hole in the center of the man's forehead. It had started off as a single drip that flowed down the contours of his face until it landed on his lap. When he was untied from his chair, he slid onto the ground. His blond hair was stained red and surrounded him like a halo.

It had been a formative moment in how Svetlana moved forward in her training.

She had heard plenty of words, but now, they had finally sunk in.

It had been the moment she accepted that her tears did nothing but cause her pain. It had been the moment she learned that mercy would get you killed. It had been the moment she went from little Svetlana to a ruthless assassin.

Most importantly, it had been the moment that cemented her status as a Black Widow.

The fear of being taken from her home had disappeared. This was all she would ever have anymore. So, she made sure she was the best. By eight, there was only one other in her class, who had been able to truly match her in a fight.

She had otherwise proven herself to be the best.

Best marksman.

Best interrogator.

Best killer.

The only thing she had truly lacked was likability.

Not from her targets──she could charm those creeps like it was nothing.

Not from her handlers. Dreykov, the Madames, the Soldier──they all favored her above the others for her unforgiving nature and immeasurable talent.

Among her class? That was a different story. 

They hated the way she was the favorite of the class, and the way she knew she was the favorite too. She was arrogant about her skills, but no one could pretend like it wasn't deserved.

Madame V, General Dreykov's most beloved Widow, held Svetlana in high regard. Likening her to Widows such as Yelena Belova, the most aggressive, bloodthirsty Widow to come out of the Red Room, and Natalia Romanova, who, despite being a traitor to them, was still considered one of the most dangerous assassins in the world.

The others made several attempts to get rid of their biggest threat in surviving the Academy. However, Svetlana paid no mind to them.

She killed each one of them when they were pitted up against her. Svetlana held no kindness in her eyes. Svetlana held no mercy for her opponents.

Svetlana had been fourteen, nearing the end of her second cycle in the Red Room, when Natalia Romanova had infiltrated the institution. She was a hardened girl. She had seen too much and done too much for a girl who had just barely begun her teenage years.

When the alarm sounded and the Widows made their way to Dreykov's office, Svetlana hadn't expected to see General Dreykov with a bullet in his head. His blood flowed down the wrinkles of his face. His graying hair was stained red. He looked just like her first kill. Just like then, she had been enraged, but this time, she had been left with her own thirst for blood.

She hadn't expected Madame V to be the one with the gun, nor had she expected the assassin-turned-Avenger to be the other half of her opponents. But there they were.

Traitors together.

The Widows were relentless against the pair. Natalia Romanova showed mercy against them. She did only what it took to make sure she didn't die. 

Madame V fought her Widows like she trained them. She did not feel guilty in further ruining the girls she trained. It was still easy to see why they were considered the best to come out of the Red Room.

Svetlana was among the youngest of the Widows. All very skilled, all much older than she was. So while she held her own, landing some immaculate hits that her handler would have been proud of, had she not been on the opposition, Madame V had yet to teach her everything. Svetlana was among some of the first to be taken out of the fight. 

However, she was no quitter. She was quick to adapt to a different role in the impending bloodbath. Currently, she appeared to be the only one who heard the sound of beeping getting louder. She turned her foot, and rotated on her knee: a move she had been practicing just minutes earlier. Her Widow's Bite was fully charged to kill the fool who thought it smart to throw a grenade over a group of assassins.

But before she could do anything, a bomb of red smoke went off.

The first thing she noticed was her nose twitching, like she was about to sneeze. Next, once she opened her eyes, there was a red, glittery effect around her before everything turned normally again. Her bloodlust had been significantly tamed as she looked at the remainder of the Black Widows. 

She watched as a woman in a white suit reached for the pair of injured Widows, checking for any sustaining injuries. Madame V wrapped her arms around them, looking relieved ( and almost ... protective? ) while the Avenger leaned into her touch. 

They were more than allies in this hellhole. The way the took care of each other, held each other, they were almost like ... family.

There was a prolonged moment of silence among the girls. With their common thread, the primary abuser, was finally dead and their minds were freed, there was a question of ❛ what now? ❜

❝ Get as far away as you can from here. You can make your own choices now. ❞

That was the Avenger's idea: the first to have ever escaped Dreykov's chokehold and lived to tell the tale.

It was an insane idea.

But she supposed they were free to make their own choices. It was such a bizarre notion that Svetlana was almost positive this was a cruel trick of the mind from Dreykov.

You will never be free from the Red Room.

You will never escape your red ledger.

You will always, always, be a killer.

But Svetlana paid no heed to those warnings. 

Not yet.

Despite her rather mature repertoire, she was still fourteen. Those thoughts, those warnings, would be a problem for future Svetlana. 

But for now? Svetlana Novikova was finally free.

━━ please enjoy and vote and comment!

━━ i opted to change her birth name from moanna to kealoha, because while i think moanna fit her, the meaning of kealoha fit her arc better

━━ madame v is an original character of mine from my marvel series that i hope i find inspo to write again soon