Red Line

Part 5- Broken Home

Trigger Warning: Violence
*A/n: I don't speak Russian. I used google translate*

"Сложнее! (Harder)" the commander screams. I know if I don't listen I won't get dinner, or worse, but I'd rather not think about that.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hit experiment 125 as hard as I can while gracefully dodging his attempts to land a hit on me. I hear him drop to the ground and open my eyes. I let out a shaky breath as my muscles relax. Either of us passing out meant training was over for the day, and since I won I won't  be punished. It's nothing personal.

The officer on standby shakes 125, but he doesn't respond.
"125?" He calls as he continues to shake.
After a moment the officer removes his right glove and presses his fingers to 125's neck for a few seconds before pulling them away.
"Он мертва (he's dead)" the officer says.
No, that can't be right.
The commander glares at me, "Ты убил своего брата! (You killed your brother!)"
"Я не хотел иметь в виду. (I didn't mean to)" I say trying to keep an even tone.
"Что случилось с самоконтроля? Ты единственный, кто хотел убить, когда я так говорю! (What happened to self control? Your only meant to kill when I say so!)" the commander spits
"Это был несчастный случай (it was an accident)" I refute

The guards standing on either side of me grab my arms. I know resisting is futile. Fighting will only make punishment worse.
The commander turns to the table behind him and grabs a spoon.
What is he doing?
"Око за око, как говорится (an eye for an eye as they say)" the commander says calming
My eyes grow wide, "Нет, пожалуйста! Мне жаль (no, please! I'm sorry)"
He grabs me by the ponytail and yanks it down until I'm forced to meet his eyes, "Солдаты не просят (soldiers don't beg)"
I take a deep breath and steel my expression. Fighting will only make my punishment worse.

He hold my ponytail steady as he sits the spoon into my eye sending searing  pain through my head.
I won't cry, soldiers don't cry.

I wake up in a cold sweat and my hand darts up to my face . When I feel the robotic eye I slowly exhale and sink back into the pillow.
It was just a dream, that was years ago.

I look over at the clock which reads 5:30 A.M.
Late enough.
I quietly go out to the kitchen as to not disturb anybody and dig around the drawers for a pair of scissors.
Surely they're around here somewhere.
I shuffle through the junk drawer and see them gleaming in the last of the moonlight. I raise them to my head and chop my hair short enough that It would be difficult to grab it. It'll grow back, I reason.

I throw my braid in the garbage and sigh leaning back onto the counter.
"What are you doing kiddo?" I hear Clint ask from behind me
I jump, "nothing"
"Mhm" he huffs. I know he doesn't believe me, but I also know he won't ask.
He slides me a cup of coffee over the counter, "your hair looks good like that."
I accept the mug graciously, "thank you."
For as long as I've known him Clint hasn't slept very well either. Maybe it was his years as an avenger, or an assassin, or something that happened before that, but I know better then to ask.

"You like zapekanka?" He asks
"Yes"
"So does Nat. I was thinking of making some this morning." Clint muses
I run my hand through my now short hair. "can I help?" I ask although I'm not a very good cook.
He nods and I begin gathering ingredients out of the refrigerator. We have more here then I got in it as a child. Here we have raisins and eggs and cream of wheat whereas we simply had cheese. They had never given it to me hot because I had never earned it, but 125 told me it was even better that way.

"Have you ever made this before?" Clint asks snapping me out of my thoughts.
"No" I admit.
"Are you sure you want to help?" Clint asks dragging out the word "sure". Sometimes he purposefully treated me like a child.
"If I have to....." I respond. and sometimes I humor him.
He chuckles and gestures to the table, "go get ready. I'll make them myself"
I nod and take off back towards my room, obviously with my coffee in hand.