Budapest » [Clintasha]

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Persuasion

Where Natasha was sure there was a cavernous cavity in her chest, something twinged, a twang of disagreement; her dissenting heart had been reinstated. Of all the times to spring a conscience, that was the most inconvenient.

Her feet lugged her away from where her heart was leading her. Each clack of her heels on the tile floor was like the sound of a chess piece on a board, and in her advancing game of war, she was battling herself into a checkmate. Once resigned to that course of action, there would be no easy route out; she was surrounded on all side by the army of opposing ideals: she was the black queen turned white.

Another pawn in play, Clint mirrored her movements and followed unnoticed under the command of the king in his earpiece.

Thrusting forward her chest, batting her luscious black lashes and swinging her hips like a pendulum, she advanced through several layers of security until she managed to slip through the stage door and sauntered her way to the dressing rooms.

Rows of mirrors framed in bright lights lined either side of the room, the same stock faces reflected in them; pale white as Siberian snow, eyes shadowed in black like smudges of gunpowder and lips red like battle wounds. But it was easy enough to spot the pride of the stock: being bombarded with bouquets, gifts jangling in her arms like the sound of medals pinned on veterans, curtsying with her cutesy curls around her face -- Svetlana, she was sure she heard one of the girls call the luminous red head.

Natasha tested the name: "Svetlana..!" She called out, voice underlain with understated authority, it was amusing to her how clipped consonants and pronounced vowels could have that effect. Easy as child's play.

The crowing and cooing over the young swan died away, and the girls dissipated, dawdling back to their posts where they began to dismantle their stage-faces; their tool of the trade no more. Innocent and fertile skin was uncovered from beneath a thick covering of foundation, young and fresh features concealed beneath fake lashes, brows trained into line to accentuate their features, and angles falsely painted on.

Natasha wished removal of her mask of makeup would reveal the same thing; peel away her facade, nothing so untainted or pretty lurked beneath. Where did the masks end?

Svetlana swooped over, regal as a Tsar child - before, of course, they had been beaten and bludgeoned; Natasha's head rung with recollection - and the short girl perched before Natasha on her tip-toes; trying to look larger than her small breasts and lithe legs would allow.

"Walk with me," Natasha invited in the girl's native tongue, a language that could enchant and encite trust. Natasha had her leashed with curiosity.

She offered the princess-for-a-day her arm, and the young girl, still in her white tutu, linked their arms like a chain. If the girl was about to be locked into oppressive employment, Natasha would do her the nicety of making her last moments of freedom one to remember.

She shut the door to the changing rooms behind them as they walked along, the click of Natasha's heels on the floor like the sound of war drums.

Posing as a stagehand, Clint lurked at the brow of the corridor, loitering in the shadows as Natasha performed her show. Beneath his rudimentary black clothes, his tabard and armoured leggings was equipped, and in his backpack, was folded a bow, with a quiver of arrows.

"You were very impressive out there tonight," Natasha complimented, her voice like nectar to the young girl, flashing her a grin that reminded Clint more of a glint sunlight on the barrel of a gun than an inviting grin. "Your parents must be very proud of you," she told her, resting her hand on the girls, her nails painted like red talons.