【 reseda, 2017 】
━━ tw abuse

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━━ Freedom was boring as shit.

She could admit that maybe it had its moments. ( Really, it was one singular moment, thanks to the Memphis group home that comprised of lots of angry teens who exclusively offered solutions dependent on bleach and hair dye in order to help alter her appearances in exchange for more effective ways to knock a bitch out. ) However, if this was the freedom that so many of her former peers had vied for, then goddamn, did it suck.

Any legitimate papers she have owned had already torched by the time she was four years old. All that meant was that she was forced to spend weeks, if not months, waiting in the group home for her contacts to ( illegally ) create a new identity, and in turn, brand new legal documents for her. 

However, she didn't use them for their speed. She used them the same she had been used: because they were good. Six weeks later, Svetlana Novikova was officially deemed a bad memory. Stevie Novak, a bitchy, emancipated orphan with a shitty ( albeit prepaid ) apartment and a questionable gig at a local club, took her place. It took less than a week for the Golden State to claim another lost soul for its own.

She spent sunsets contemplating how dangerous American law would really be if she had just slit the throat of the next person who grabbed her ass. She thought maybe she should sucker punch the next frat douche who decided the best place to puke was her shoes. 

When the sun began to peak from the horizon, she paid close attention to the needle littered streets she walked on with only her black tights as a barrier between the cement and her skin. She thought about slamming her fist against the brick walls because her dickhead boss decided to take half of the staff's tips ... again.

But she took a page out of an old companion's book by closing her eyes and counting to ten to stop herself from taking a broken beer bottle to someone's throat. Because she wasn't a killer. Not anymore.

( Well, she was recovering. It was a process. Don't judge. )

In the meantime, she was transitioning towards a schedule adjusted for school. 

Something she hadn't been looking forward to.

She already had insomnia that was induced by nightmares. The new work schedule, the addition of school, and her own personal "homework". 

You know the kind? 

When you're so paranoid that you keep surveillance of your neighbors? ( Speaking of, she had a few new ones across the hall. )

Stevie pulled the keys out of her bag as she walked through the apartment complex, and for a moment, she thought she had the world's shittiest luck because of course the blond spawn of Satan was throwing his garbage bags, which she could guarantee were empty beer cans and baloney packs, out with a new kid──no, the new kid──following right behind him ... not that she paid any attention to him.

Johnny ( the aforementioned ❛ blond spawn of Satan ❜, he also happened to be her neighbor ) couldn't shut up for one minute. He took one look at her and had the compulsive need to insult her.

"You look like shit, skunk head." ( That wonderful nickname was courtesy of the grown out black box dye and the bleached hair that went from temple to temple──thanks to the troubled teenagers of Turning Winds Group Home. )

Without missing a beat, Stevie shot back, "Go fucking kill yourself, Jason."

"You first, Fleetwood."

Stevie couldn't help but roll her eyes while unlocking the door. She dealt with the same shit every day from Johnny Lawrence. Of the eight months she had lived here, the summer had been the worst. He had worked hard to get himself into another drunken stupor, mocking the state of her dress when she went off to work and when she came back.

"Fuck you!" She opened the door while flipping him off without looking back at him.

In an attempt to be more obnoxious ( in Stevie's opinion, at least ), he shouted the exact same obscenity at her and used both hands to flip her off instead of just one. ( Whoop de fucking doo. ) He, of course, was too late as she slammed the door in the middle of his hungover insults.

She followed the same routine she made for herself every time she came home from coming out. She locked the three separate locks she had installed ( until she bullied Lawrence to fix them. ) She turned on the security alarm and scanned over the surveillance footage from while she was out. 

Only when she confirmed that there was nothing new to be concerned with, did she put her things down and allow herself to relax, even if it was just barely. It didn't matter that the most interesting thing to happen around the complex was Johnny being too intoxicated to open his door and he fell asleep outside. Stevie did not live a life that allowed her to be anything short of suspicious.

She dragged herself into the bedroom, and gingerly climbed onto the mattress. She didn't make a sound. She refused to, God forbid somebody heard her.

Like every other time she tried to sleep, she forced her eyes shut, hoping her sleep would be a dreamless one. Like every other time she tried to sleep, she had her night terrors that always seemed to have a crimson tint to them. And just like every other time she tried to sleep, she proved exactly how terrifying it was by the unrelenting grip she had on the gun beneath her head.

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━━ Miguel Diaz had always had an appreciation for the finer things in life. He liked the picturesque sunsets during walks on the beach with his family. He enjoyed thunderstorms and butterflies and the abstract designs his yaya created. But as he watched the girl who cursed out his blond neighbor with stars in his eyes, he could definitively determine that there was no possible beauty that could surpass hers.

"Carajo," ( damn ) Miguel muttered with a slacked jaw before slightly turning his head towards the blond, "Who was that?"

His eyes never left the door she slammed shut.

Johnny whipped his head around, and shoved his finger in his face, "No."

Miguel was taken aback by how violently the man said the word, and stared at him, "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean 'no'. You need to hear it in Spanish, Menudo?" Johnny asked before repeating himself, "No!"

"But─" He couldn't even get a word out before he was cut off.

"She," Johnny moved his finger to point at the apartment she had disappeared into, "is already a giant pain in my ass. And I reeeally don't need that bitch getting any more annoying with your loser ass hanging around her." Miguel's face dropped at yet another casual insult ( at least it wasn't racist this time ... he supposed ... ) before he lifted his head up. 

Once again, he pretended as if the words had no effect on him. A perk of dealing with all that kind of talk as kid, it's really easy controlling yourself in front of them.

"Well, can you at least tell me her name?"

Johnny just curled his lip in disgust, causing the new kid in town to backtrack, "Or yours? I'd be cool with your name too."

He was ignored in favor of a toolbox and his stupid, red car.

Miguel eventually just shrugged, "Okay, well ... have a nice day ... I guess." He had more important things to do anyways, like unpacking his room and imagining the girl next door in a white dress.

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━━"Просыпайся! Сейчас же!" ( Wake up! Now! )

Svetlana had always been a light sleeper, even as a little girl drenched in sunlight. The Soviet hellhole she was trapped in only made her more aware of every sound, as she, just like every other girl stuck there, was terrified of being on the receiving end of the Madame's frigid temper.

Her eyes avoided the Madame's as she seized her hand to unlock the handcuff before it clanged against the metal headboard. As soon as her arm was freed from its shackles, she sat up, discreetly rubbed her thumb against the bruises on her wrist before remembering to stand in order to make her bed. She didn't take long in straightening the flimsy sheets before taking her position at the foot of the bed. She stood still, even as the Madame's iron tipped cane came in contact with the back of her leg.

At this point, Svetlana knew better than to flinch.

A cane to the ankle would be the least of her troubles if she had a reaction. The girls, ages ranging from five to ten years old, were in two perfect lines. Straight backs, beginning to understand that slouching resulted in the Madame's cane.

Each step was supposed to be perfectly in sync. However, it was difficult for a bunch of children to stay in line, so it resulted in several new welts on the girls in the meantime. Eventually, they had forced themselves to watch the feet of the girls in front of them to stay on tempo.

Svetlana had been in the front of the line, setting the pace before she had stopped behind a red panel and iron doors. Madame B walked to the front of the lines, and slammed the floor end of her cane down to the ground. The double doors opened revealing thirteen tables with the parts of two guns, and on the far end of the room, twenty-six human shaped targets. 

Madame B sent a pair of girls to each table. Svetlana had been with a black girl who looked just a little younger than her: Annika. The pair glanced at each other quickly. They had smiled weakly at each other, far too beaten down to be much more emotive, before turning to face the targets in front of them.

"Начать." ( Begin. )

With an uncomfortable ease, one you especially shouldn't see from children, each of the twenty-six remaining girls began putting their Glocks together. Svetlana had been among the first few girls to assemble her firearm and empty her magazine. She had even made a nice cluster in the center before placing the finished product on the table.

They awaited further instructions until each girl had finished their warm up successfully. 

"Вы провели последние три года, изучая, что нужно, чтобы стать Черной вдовой," ( You have spent the past three years learning what it takes to become a Black Widow, ) Madame B had begun her speech, "Вы научились обращаться со своим оружием. Ты научился сражаться. Ты знаешь самые эффективные способы убийства." ( You have learned how to handle your weapons. You have learned how to fight. You know the most effective ways to kill. )

There had been a lull in her voice, and Svetlana had watched as the targets were moved away. One chair was all that stood on the far end of the room. 

Well ... that and the man who was tied to it.

Some of the girls gasped when he was led out, but Madame B was not phased, "Сейчас тот момент, когда мы проверяем ... психологию ... наших будущих Вдов. Если вы не справитесь со своей задачей, вы будете исключены из Академии." ( Now is the point at which we test the ... psychology ... of our future Widows. If you fail to complete your task, you will be removed from the Academy. )

The implication had made itself clear in the her tone. 

If you didn't have the stomach to kill, you would be killed.

The girls had gone in order of completion. She had heard three gunshots before her. The first two girls had succeeded in killing the target. A nine and ten year old who had been in the truck with her when she had first been taken three years ago.

The third girl in line, another nine year old girl, had hesitated as she stood in front of her target, who started crying and begging for his life. Madame B had taken out her own firearm to put a bullet through the nine year old's head. Svetlana had flinched at the feeling of her blood spraying her face before Madame B ordered her to move forward.

It was warm and wet and dripped down her cheeks.

Svetlana was forced to step over the girl's corpse before taking the gun into her hand.

The moment the man saw her move with a weapon, he started begging again. 

❝ Help me. ❞

❝ Let me go. ❞

❝ I have a wife and children. ❞

It enraged Svetlana.

How dare he think his life is more important? 

He had children?

They were children.

A child was dead because of him. A child, who had been too kind for her own good. A child, who showed mercy to a man who didn't give a damn that she had died. If any of them died.

So Svetlana would not make the same mistake as the girl before her. She would not show him mercy. 

Her gun was loaded and aimed at him. 

His face got ugly when he realized she didn't have the same kindness in her face. His sobs were piercing loud and only further confirmed her decision. She took a deep breath, centering her aim, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot of her dreams woke her up with a shaky breath. Before she ever even opened her eyes, Stevie had pulled her gun from beneath her pillow to scan her room.

A habit that felt impossible to break.

When she found her room was clear, Stevie took a deep breath and flopped her head back onto her pillow. Her gun rested on her sweaty, sports bra clad chest. The weight of the weapon was a familiar one. It was a less painful feeling to wake up to, compared to the metal that wrapped around her wrists.

Stevie, refusing to close her eyes, tried to take deep breaths in an attempt to get the images out of her head.

It was useless.

Those were images she would never escape from. 

She hadn't regretted it: killing him. He clearly had no issue having little girls die for the chance to get out. But at the same time, it had been her turning point. 

Her defining moment.

It had been the thing that caused Dreykov to actively pay her attention. And honestly ... if she had known the kind of attention she would garner from him because of it, Stevie couldn't help but wonder if seven year old Svetlana should've taken a page out of the nine year old's book.

Maybe she should have given the hostage another prolonged moment of false hope. 

Maybe Svetlana should have painted the walls red with her.

━━ this plot >>>>> anything else i have ever written

━━ next couple of chapters will be more miguel x stevie forward, pinky promise

━━ ( speaking of, if you have any ship names for them, please drop them. i wanna know them. ) update: i've come to mevie