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1 | 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙄𝙉𝙎
Sweat drips down my temple as my feet fly under me. My gaze is focused on one thing and one thing only—the horizon.
The rapid footfalls of the other trainees running beside me is like a sped-up synchronized beat. I haven't heard a lot of music before outside of what I get to hear while I'm out on missions, but I do know that I like it.
The sweat from my temple drips down my face and lands on my bare arm that pumps as my body flies forward with the group.
We approach Ms. Aarons. She watches us carefully as we come rounding the corner, every step counted and calculated to fall at the same time so we all run at the same pace. Every foot fall, every breath of air, and every motion of our arms are on count.
Ms. Aarons's eyes linger on me as we near.
"Are those goosebumps, Nikita?"
"Yes, ma'am," I huff evenly between breaths. The sun hasn't risen, meaning the temperature is low.
Her brow raises. "Cold?"
We pass the woman. Without turning or slowing, I call, "No, ma'am."
My life has always been fast-paced. I wake up in seconds and head straight to the field every single morning at four. All the other young women and I are already dressed for a work out so we can get right into training. We all run at the same sprinting pace on the dewy field until the sun rises around seven, then get straight into ballet. It's the same routine every day unless I'm assigned a mission, which happens weekly. After ballet it's weight training, then hand-to-hand combat. After that we get our first meal of the day. The training continues as soon as the thirty minutes we're given to eat is up, and then we transition into shooting. We train all day everyday for a chance to graduate from SWAN's program we have all grown up in. The group I train with started out as forty young girls with bright eyes. Now we're nine women with the ability to kill in a moment's notice.
Once the run is over ten minutes later Ms. Aarons orders us to the red room. We get two minutes to change into our ballet clothes and to pull our hair up into tight buns at the top of our heads.
As I'm putting on my pointe shoes, one of the other trainees—Caroline—shoulder-checks me. The force makes me drop a slipper to the ground.
The locker room is impossibly quieter. A pin could drop in the room over and you'd be able to hear it.
I look up and glare at Caroline. She doesn't meet my eyes, but she smirks to herself as she tugs her black hair in a bun. The other girls watch as they get ready. They know Ms. Aarons's hatred towards me, and they know Caroline's tendencies to get on other people's nerves. She only does it to get into their heads to psych them out, to make them concentrate on their irritation or anger towards her so they lose focus and get eliminated from the program. Caroline's latest target has been me for the past few weeks. It's a move I would expect from her; I'm a threat to her chances of graduating at the top of our class because no matter how much Ms. Aarons despises me, I am one of her top assets. Caroline's move is also a stupid move. I'm not petty. I don't lose my temper, I use it to my advantage. Caroline is a fool to believe she can kick me from the program.
When no fighting ensues, everyone minds their own business again and forgets about the altercation. But I don't forget.
"Line it up, ladies," Ms. Aarons's abrasive voice echoes from the red room. "Now, or you know the punishments."
We swiftly enter the red room.
It's not called the red room for its color, it actually has cream walls with beige accents and drapes, but because of the stains on the ground. The red room is where the shooting training occurs, the ballet is, and where we do hand-to-hand combat. Over the decades and classes that have gone through SWAN's program, the floors have collected a horrifying amount of dark stains that we dance over. I recognize some of the stains as my own.
Ms. Aarons calls order after order before she stands back and watches us go through the motions in fluid movements. Our bodies move like we're weightless, but our strong leg muscles flex as we leap. We're powerful, yet graceful.
The session ends with each of us going through the motions individually. We all get our turn to prove ourselves, but when I get mine, Ms. Aarons cuts me off early. I slowly stop my movements and wait for her next order.
"Start over. That was horrendous."
I push down the shame and confusion—I thought I was hitting every motion perfectly—and restart. But then she cuts me off and makes me start over again. Three more times and buckets of sweat later, Ms. Aarons tells us to hit the weights.
I step along with the group until Ms. Aarons calls, "Not you, Nikita. Come here."
I feel everyone's eyes on my back as I walk towards the aging woman, Caroline's gaze the strongest.
I expect her to scold me, or to backhand me. Some sort of punishment for my failure to be perfect.
Instead, Ms. Aarons holds her hands behind her back as she looks down at me. "I have a mission for you."
My heart skips a beat. No one has never had more than two missions in a single week.
"What is it, ma'am?" I reply stiffly.
The corners of Ms. Aarons's lips rise. "I don't supposed you've heard of the Avengers Initiative, have you?"
⑅ ⑅ ⑅
"Hey, Romanoff."
I turn. Caroline jogs a little to reach me, and when she does she crosses her arms. She looks me up and down, sizing me up like she's tougher than me. The bruise around her left eye contradicts her confidence, especially since I'm the one who gave her the shiner during combat.
Cockily, Caroline says, "What is it, your third mission this week? That's got to be a record, especially for you."
I glance down both ends of the vacant hallway we're standing in the middle of. "We're not supposed to be—"
"Calm down, the stickler's on the phone," Caroline interrupts with a roll of the eyes. "I just wanted to say good luck."
I quirk a brow. "What for?"
"I couldn't help but over hear that your mission includes the Avengers," Caroline says like she didn't intentionally eavesdrop. "The last three who went on a mission that involved the Avengers never came back. Aarons knows by now not to mess with them. . . unless, of course, she doesn't want you to come back."
I slam Caroline against the cold wall with my arm pressing against her neck. She doesn't lose eye-contact with me.
My nostrils flare. "I think you're forgetting who's at the top of our class."
I let her shove me off of her. She adjusts the strap of her nude leotard and says, "Not for long, suicide mission or not. We both know how much Aarons hates your guts. Soon you won't even be a memory." She flashes me a devilish smile before turning on her heel and walking down the hall to the locker room.
I idle in the hall for a moment to collect myself. Caroline has never gotten on my nerves to the point where I've physically threatened her outside of combat. Something about what she said about Ms. Aarons not wanting me to come back set me off. Everyone knows Ms. Aarons has a favorite for every class of trainees, and that she also has a least favorite. I am, for unknown reasons, her least favorite of all six classes. No matter how hard I punch, how perfect my stature is, or how accurate my shot is, she always turns her nose up with disgust at whatever I do. Sometimes I even blink wrong. I take each punishment and tell myself that I'll never mess up again, but somehow I still make mistakes in her eyes.
The more I think about it, the more I realize the likelihood of Caroline's words ringing truth. Sending me on a mission where it's certain I will fail at is a perfect way to get rid of me instead of just kicking me out because of Ms. Aarons's dislike.
