ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ sᴘɪᴅᴇʀ (anotherwidow) wrote in crownplazaic, @ 2021-07-21 20:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, will graham, yelena belova |
WHO: Yelena Belova & Will Graham
WHERE: the grounds, then indoors
WHEN: evening of Wednesday, July 21st
WHAT: nightmares and darkness
STATUS: Completed
WARNINGS: may contain spoilers for Black Widow / mentions of blood and violence, etc
Yelena descended the staircase of the hotel, her palm sliding across the banister. She felt every curve and hard line, grounding her in reality, as she went up to the fourth floor and back down again. This was reality. This was real. She was here, Natasha was here, and Natasha was alive. She repeated it to herself, again and again, inaudible whispers to herself. This wasn't a dream. This wasn't the void, the slip and slid of time loss, of chemical subjugation. That was why she needed the handcuffs. Not only because she was used to sleeping with it on for decades. The Red Room's assurance that their precious Widows would not slip away, would not get up and kill their masters, before they had no choices in the matter. When she first arrived in Crown Plaza, she thought she could do without it. Back home, she'd been trying to go without it, for longer and longer periods of time. But here, she didn't have the reassuring weight of Fanny pressed up against her, furry body and doggy breath offering a connection to what was real and what were nightmares. She staved it off here with vodka and running herself tired with her sestra and staying up late watching ridiculous action movies with Steve. Each time, she would stay up watching movie after movie until she nearly nodded off in the comfy leather seats of the movie theater until Steve nudged her, finally insisting it was time to call it a night. She was sure her sister's friend wondered why she would run herself ragged that way. She was sure he only grew more worried when she posted on the networks, the slightly ominous ask for handcuffs. She had told him why. Kind of. She told him enough. If Natasha trusted him, it was good enough for Yelena. But she didn't want to get into the weeds with the details. She didn't want to give up any details that Natasha might not want revealed. If Natasha wanted to tell her friend about what was done to them as girls, that was her sister's prerogative. Each night, it would always start the same. Yelena stared through the glass at the ballerinas until it was her turn. The severe looking woman with the high swept hair. Madame B. The relentless daily routine was always the same. Those weren't ballerinas at all. It was other young girls, twenty-seven of them, just like her. All Black Widows in the making. Twenty-eight girls. About 1 in 20 survived the program. And all of them, trained to kill. Trained just like this. The gun in her left hand. BANG BANG Switch. Right hand. BANG BANG Switch. Left hand. Repeat. Bullseye on the target every time. And suddenly not a target, but a man, with a hood of burlap over his head. The gun back in her left hand as Yelena raised it, cold and sure. BANG There was something removed and impersonal about killing someone with a gun. It was efficient, to be sure, but it could be something someone grew too comfortably detached from. Like a video game. Like it wasn't real. That was why Yelena preferred blades. If they were going to make her take life, she would make sure she felt it and never forgot how difficult it was. It was supposed to be difficult. It was supposed to be. But it wasn't. The close quarter struggle as she reached for the black case on the ground. The hard backhand across the face. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth. The swishing sounds of the knife being unsheathed, passing through the air as she swiped it back and forth, lightning fast, at her opponent. The slight resistance each time the blade made contact, slicing through cloth and skin. The crack of sinew and bone as her arm was grabbed, wrenched back, forcing her to the ground. Her knees hit the stony pavement hard. That was going to leave bruises. She cried out, feeling the pain. She had to let go of the knife. She let it fall in a controlled drop into her other hand, where it was free to stab, burying the blade deep into her opponent's abdomen. Her other hand pushing, adding pressure, pressing it in deeper before twisting the knife and ripping the blade sideways to finish the job. The moment, when she moved to kick over the fallen body, when the cloud of red gas sprayed into her face. Blinking furiously to clear her vision. Except it was what finally cleared her vision. She was free. Her mind was her own again. And someone else paid the price. "OKSANA!" "Free the others..." Yelena bolted awake with a cry and almost immediately felt the sharp sting. She looked over to where her right wrist was cuffed to the bed. The metal of the cuffs had cut into her flesh, breaking the skin. The thin trickle of blood that flowed down the side of her arm. Yelena rubbed at her wrist now. The broken skin, already healing, still stung like crazy. She didn't bother to dress it in bandages, but she had washed it out, cleaning it as best as she could. She stopped at the edge of the water, where she had gone walking with Natasha. It seemed peaceful here. |