The girls are small. Two dozen of them, in three neat rows of four, staring up at him. They wear the same black leotard and black stockings, their feet clad in pointe shoes. Their hair is identical, tied up in a tight bun at the base of their skull. The oldest looks to be around ten, the youngest no older than three.
The girls move synchronously, little robots in their neat lines, eyes staring forward, unblinking. The Mistress is severe, her body clad in dark clothes, hair pulled up tight, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. In her hands, she holds the Cane. The Cane is much more painful than it appears.
The Handler's voice is firm, and the Soldier obediently moves to follow the girls. The position is familiar, as is the burn in his feet as he rises onto his toes. Pain is irrelevant.
The girl with the red hair watches him as he moves, her green eyes wide and orb-like in her sallow face. She isn't being fed enough, he thinks, taking in her stick-like limbs and sunken cheeks, but she moves as gracefully as a swan, a precision in her movements that shouldn't be seen in a child this young.
She isn't the youngest of the group. But he is drawn to her nonetheless.
The Soldier has been tasked with supervision of the Girls. The Mistress had left ten minutes prior in a swirl of black skirts, the Guards scuttling along after her like insects. The Handler had snapped at the Soldier to remain in position, to watch the Girls and ensure they stayed compliant in the Mistress's absence. The Soldier had obeyed.
The girl with the red hair watches him from across the room as she chews her food. She sits with one other girl, a girl with blonde hair and brown eyes who can be no older than four years old.
The other Girls cast nervous glances at him from the corners of their eyes, their limbs tense and thin shoulders quivering. They fear him. The Soldier is not sure why.
"You are the Monster, yes?"
He looks down. The girl with the red hair stands in front of him, her fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes are terrified, but she stands tall, her chin raised in defiance.
Small, blonde, skinny, blue eyes, clenched teeth, blood under the Soldier's fingertips, long fingers clutched in his own -
"I am the Asset," the Soldier replies. He is to only speak when spoken to.
"They tell us stories about you," says the girl with the red hair. "You hunt us in the dark. You slice our throats and hang our bodies on your bedroom walls."
The Soldier is not sure why the girl believes him to have a bedroom. Only humans get bedrooms. "I sleep in ice and glass and stone."
The girl blinks slowly, like a cat. "I sleep with my wrists tied to the bedpost."
The Soldier looks down. He notices the bruises around her wrists. "You are a child."
"I am a Widow," she says, her voice emotionless. "I am a servant of Hydra."
The Soldier's throat feels tight. He does not understand why. "You are a child."
The girl with the red hair looks at him with those fierce, green eyes, then turns and walks away.
Her name is Natalia. She is the best of the best. She has five confirmed assassinations. She will be the death of America.
(She has a little sister. She is six years old. She sleeps with her wrists tied to the bed. She is a child.)
Sometimes, when he looks at her, he sees another little girl. This one has thick, brown hair and grey eyes, and wears an old-fashioned dress. She smiles and giggles and holds out her arms for him to pick her up and spin her around in the air. The Soldier is not sure who this little girl is, or why he thinks of her. She is nothing like Natalia. She is healthy and happy and looks a lot like him.
Natalia is a good child. She does her exercises, she holds her position. In training, she was put against a girl twice her size and much older. She got her legs around the other girl's throat. The other girl was cold and dead within five minutes.
The Soldier hears whispers about her. That the Red Guardian needs a child for his next mission. That Natalia is being considered.
The idea fills him with terror.
"Come now, Natashenka," he croons. His big, awkward hand runs softly through fine, red hair, softer than he ever knew himself capable. "Don't cry, little one. Come now..."
The little spider's hand is clutching tightly at his arm, tiny fingers digging into the meat of his bicep. She is already strong; much stronger than the other girls, despite being no more than seven. The Masters may have gifted her with something much the same they did to him. It doesn't feel much like a gift, no matter what they tell him.
"Little spider," he tries again. All he gets in reply is a small sob.
"It's not fair," the child moans. She glares up at him, bright green eyes brimming with tears. "Why did the men take her away? Why did they take my Yelena?"
"She is going to a better place," the Soldier says. The words taste like poison on his tongue. "She will be taken care of."
"It's not fair," Natalia sobs again as she buries her face in his chest. His hands cradle her tiny body close to him. She's small, fragile. She is his world. "They took my little sister, they took my mama, they took everything from me!"
The Soldier shushes her frantically, pressing her close to his body. "Little one, you must not say such things - you know how they listen."
"I don't care!" she cries. Tiny fists beat down on his chest as she bawls, body shaking in his arms. "I don't care, I don't care, they took my family, and they're going to take you too!"
"Hush, hush, my spider, please," he pleads. He ducks his head to press kisses to her soft hair, breathes in. She smells clean, young. He has never known her to smell any different. "They will not take me, you understand? I will always be here with you."
Natalia looks up at him, tear-stained cheeks red and puffy and the Soldier feels his heart break all over again. "You promise?" She holds out her pinkie, such an innocent gesture, and it makes the Soldier want to cradle her close and never let her go. Instead, he reaches out and hooks his pinkie around hers.
She is nine years old when the guards come for her during practice. The Mistress doesn't say a thing, just purses her lips and tightens her grasp on the Cane.
He asks for her, and is beaten with clubs.
He escapes, one night, to find her. He fails, and the Handler punishes him.
They take him to the Secretary, whose blonde hair and blue eyes make butterflies erupt in the Soldier's chest. He is older, now, but still just as handsome as the first time he crouched in front of the Soldier and cracked his hand across his face. The Secretary smiles at him, taps his cheek.
"She isn't coming back, Soldier. You are not a father, or a brother. You are a machine. Your job is not to comfort her. Your job is to train her, and to kill her if she fails."
"Please," the Soldier whispers. The Secretary's face twists into something ugly, something inhuman.
"It's been too long since a calibration. You are malfunctioning. You'll feel much better after the wipe."
The Soldier knows fighting is useless, yet he tries anyway. He fights the whole way to the Chair - he kills one man, crushing his windpipe with one quick squeeze. He throws two more into a wall, where they crumple and don't get up. Someone sticks him with a cattle prod, and the pain is excruciating. He must lose consciousness, even if only for a second, as the next thing he knows he's in the chair, restrained and with the Secretary's disappointed face looming above him.
"You know better than to fight," the Secretary chides him. "Now, hold still - you'll feel better soon."
Then the machine clamps over his head and he's swept away in agony.
