Chapter 1
Prologue
Stalingrad, Russia, 1942
Framed by flames, Ivan Petrovitch stood tall, seemingly immune to the chaos around him. People were screaming, stumbling from the rubble that their city had been reduced to, shaking and in shock. He looked around, eyes cold and hard.
In his arms, the infant screamed. He looked down at her coolly, the pink-skinned child with the tufty red hair. “Shh,” he hissed at her. “Тихий, ребенок!” The child only wailed louder.
He had half a mind to fling her away; let her roast in the flames of a nearby building and be rid of her wailing. Yet the dying yells of her mother haunted him- “Следите за нее! Пожалуйста!”
What am I to do, he wondered, With a wailing infant?
Turning his back on the people and the flames, he strode back to his car, the infant still wailing in his arms.
The Red Room, Department X, Russia, 1945
Ivan Petrovitch sat behind a pane of glass and watched twenty-eight girls, each of them between the ages of three and eight. His face was blank as he watched them, each of them unique, but not for much longer. Each of them would practice the same skills, even go by the same codename. Hair colour wouldn’t mean much for them then.
His gaze flicked between them, from the blonde three-year-old to the five-year-old redhead. Her hair was incredibly red, to the point where Ivan could barely believe it wasn’t dyed. She was quick and lithe, and though not the tallest of the girls, she was easily winning her mock fight.
As the little girl pushed her older foe to the ground, she lifted her head up, as if to allow a non existent breeze to cool her forehead of sweat. For a moment, her eyes met Ivan’s, though that was impossible- the glass between them was only one way.
The girl looked down and stepped back, allowing the older Black Widow to stand.
The Red Room, Department X, Russia, 1950
The name of the girl Ivan had pulled from the fire all those years ago went by the name of Natalia Romanova, and she was beautiful. Now ten years of age, she was lithe and graceful, used to pain and utterly loyal to her country.
Young Natalia sat in the chair, not entirely lucid, breathing hard through her nose. The scientists were stabbing at her with needles, cutting into her skin, enhancing her, upgrading her. Ivan stood behind the glass, watching as she squirmed and writhed with pain, lips clamped together so as not to cry out.
The poor, poor girls of the Red Room, he mused. Their minds so broken, their bodies so battered, I doubt they’re human at all.
And as he turned to leave, Romanova cracked open her eyes, and her gaze seemed to bore into him, and he shivered despite knowing that she couldn’t see him.
Moments later, she went under.
The Red Room, Department X, Russia, 1954
Ivan was once more behind the glass, eyes on the redhead Natalia Romanova. She was training with the Winter Soldier, by far the USSR’s most vital weapon. Young Natalia kicked and flipped and swung, trying desperately to defeat the long-haired, metal-armed man. He shoved her up against the wall, metal arm against her throat, and only a sharp call from a staff member around the edge of the room prevented him from snapping her neck.
Natasha sank to the floor, gasping, and her eyes met Ivan’s. He turned away, and felt her gaze burning his back.
“She’s ready,” he told the woman before him. “It’s time to send her out.”