Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Eight: Mastery

I'm pretty sure the soldier noticed the rolled up magazine I'd stuffed in my jacket. It had become even more obvious as I'd lagged behind, my limber fingers distracted by fastidiously tearing out the headline and date, and if he wasn't clued in by that, the walloping splash as I discarded the refuse pack of paper was enough. But he said nothing.

The whole car journey he made no indication he'd seen it. When we reached base again and we had to debrief before Karpov, he never mentioned it. I smuggled the contraband into the camp with a witness holding his peace. That's when my misguided trust for him was born. That night, I folded the scrap of scraggy paper into a tight triangle, with compressed edges and squirreled it away into my pillowcase - the one they never changed. I treasured it. It was a souvenir of my day of freedom, a token to remind me that everything wasn't as it seemed. It kept that streak of doubt for authority alive in me; feeding the flames.

That's when my training notched up and gruelling became inhumane. I had my usual hours, monotonously planting my fist into a cushioned bag, hauling myself up on a bar to toughen my brick-solid arm muscles and contorted myself on an aerobics mat to learn agility and nimbleness. I was delivered to extra training as the troupe retired to the quarters; because falling behind was not an option. Getting cut was not an option. But of all the handlers to help me harness my hardly honed skills, I was given the winter soldier.

I was directed to the gymnasium and I nudged my way through the flaking black glossed metal doors and they clapped shut behind me. The soldier was already there, but in alternative gear to that I usually saw him in. Usually he was done up to the nines in creaking black leather and stomped with a jingle: his chunky terrain-enduring boots like a bass drum and the grenades and clips of ammunition like a cymbal. He was drowned in a baggy black shirt and matching trousers. Barefoot he stood on a training mat binding his hands in straps.

I meekly hung back by the door, head bowed respectfully.

"Natalia?" His voice was welcoming and reverberated around the cavernous space.

"Yes, sir..." Permitted by his voice to look up, I met eyes with him.

"Please, come on over," he requested in English, beckoning me over with an inviting smile.

"Yes, sir..." I mimicked his language and toddled over foolishly, arms crossed over my chest.

"No need t' look so miserable... I'm not that awful, am I?" He pulled a disheartened frown and heart-wrenching puppy dog eyes.

And for the first time, he managed to coax a grin out of me. And a flush of laughter. It was a modest giggle and a shy flash of teeth. But I was intoxicated by the residual afterglow; the strangest warmth settled in the pit of my stomach and a foreign sensation tingled in my cheeks where I'd smiled. It had been so long, I'm surprised I hadn't forgotten how to.

I edged onto the combat mat to meet with him. He really was a powerhouse of a man; a fortified tower, bulked out like brick with rippling muscles, with the curious bionic enhancement of his metal limb. His shadow drowned me like the Atlantic Ocean and I craned my neck to be respectfully attentive.

"Why don't you get your hands strapped up and I'll see what you know?" He suggested, giving me the once over and giving me an encouraging squeeze on the shoulder.

I started blankly back at him, feet planted to the ground. He was met by bewildered silence. I picked at my chipped nails, bitten down into jagged lines with raging red raw skin bordering them.

"For... For fighting?" He divulged, seeing if he could paint some form of expression onto my dull hanging face. "You do know how to wrap your hands?"