(IDK what to do, so this is a filler part, until I get an idea. Unless I randomly do, during this part?) Italics are other languages, namely Russian.
Natasha pulled her red locks into a bun. She gracefully walked out, into the studio.
"1, 2, 3, 4," a madame called out softly.
Natasha warmed up at the barre, then suddenly twirled five times.
First position, second, third, fourth, fifth. Again. Twirl. Demie plie. First position, second, third, fourth and fifth. Again. Again. Twirl. Positions. Leap and twirl. Positions. Over and over again.
Natasha got lost in the music, but noticed the other girls tense up. Quickly, she got in line.
An older madame, with grey-white hair and a menacing stride walked in. If the madame from the theatre was daunting, the new lady was terrifying. Even the younger madame scuttled out quickly, mumbling an excuse in Russian.
"Madame B," Natasha saluted, mockingly.
Madame B. glared. The other girls in her troupe quailed under Madame B's furious glare, but not Natasha.
"Dance of the heart," she instructed harshly, in Russian.
Natasha immediately jumped into the dance.
It was elegant and powerful. Full of wisdom and sorrow. It was the dance of the heart. Natasha knew it all too well.
She bowed down and heard someone gasp. She ignored them, leaping up. Someone cried out but still, Natasha danced. The cries turned to cries of pain and something tugged at Natasha's heart.
"Please," the girl cried out.
Natasha finally looked up. With a jolt, she realised it was night. One of the girls -Carissa- had fallen during a high jump. Her ballet slippers were on the ground, lying near her feet.
Her feet, she realised, were calloused and had many blisters, new and old. An occupational hazard, Natasha knew. But that wasn't the cause of pain. No. What was most, for lack of better words, intriguing, was the fact that her feet bled crimson onto the polished, white, marble tiles.
They had been going for hours and the girl couldn't take it anymore.
Growling in Russian, Madame B. ordered someone to help the girl. They led Carissa to her room. But Natasha felt no empathy. If she, or any other girl in the room took her shoes off, they'd find the same thing, most likely.
Madame B. walked over to Natasha.
"You could have done better. She is weak if she can't stand pain. Ballerinas know pain, among other things."
Natasha stared at the lady, understanding the look she passed to her. She didn't want to, but she did.
"But, Madame B., she'll break."
Madame B. sent her a cold look. "Only if she can be broken."
This was a conversation that had happened before. And one that was to happen again. When Natasha didn't know. She wouldn't think about it, lest the event she was dreading in the not-to-soon future come to mind.
"Come, Natalia. We have much to do. You must train harder if you want to succeed. The time is approaching for the final dance. The final dance before... Before your graduation. When you will finally take the stage for something much deeper, little ballerina."
Something much deeper than wearing a tutu, Natasha knew. Something much, much worse...
And if she wasn't careful, the three boys would be caught up in the middle of it.
And once that happened, there was no stopping the danger to come. The danger she posed.
She, Natasha the dancer, or she, Natalia, the Russian, posed.
She was not what she seems.
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Not What She Seems-Natasha Romanoff
אקשןNatasha is a dancer. A ballet dancer. She lives an ordinary life for a ballerina. So it seems. So, on the day that a group of three boys and their friends come and reluctantly watch her performance, she wasn't expecting it. She wasn't expecting th...
