deprogrammed
With a deep breath, you looked straight at the novice widow before you, wielding their 8-inch blade. You knew she couldn’t beat you in hand-to-hand combat, so she decided to use a weapon for this sparring match. You didn’t mind; you knew you were the best in the room. Although you were considered old, being one of few people asked to come back to guide the younger widows in the Red Room, you knew Dreykov was constantly training new recruits to be better than their last. You graduated when you turned eighteen and operated for the Red Room for two years before Dreykov requested you to be a trainer for a handsome sum of money. As expected, your opponent drove forward with the dagger pointed at your skull. With one swift kick to her arm, she stumbled forward, quickly turning towards you, ready to go on defense. She expected you to make a move, like a twisted game of chess. However, that would be boring. You simply stood with your arms on the defense, waiting for her to strike. She bent down to kick your feet out from under you, but you effectively dodged her attack by cartwheeling over her folded form and landing behind her. Before she could react, you reached for her arm, twisting it inside out, forcing your opponent to drop the blade. With your right hand grasping her arm, your left arm picked up the knife off the floor and held it over her back.
“Break,” you spoke, your tone cold. You let go of the girl’s arm, letting her scurry back to her seat in the 2nd row of the recruits in front of you.
“Who can tell me what was wrong with her strategy?” You asked the group, intently staring down the student you just sparred against. “No one? Clearly, you guys are nowhere near ready to wield a weapon yet. Not a single one of you.” You paced back and forth, playing with the blade in your hand. You felt the soft ridges of the handle on your fingertips, your hand practically molding itself against the unwavering nature of the dagger.
“An engineer cannot make spaceships without knowing how a computer runs. You cannot play with weapons unless you know the very basics of combat. I had so many chances of taking her blade and stabbing her in the back. Hell, I practically did. Her guard was all over the place. I could smell what her next move was going to be. Becoming a prolific fighter will almost always win you a match. Collect yourselves. Mrs. Olga wants you for ballet in 5.” You watch as the scared girls practically run off out the door. You once overheard that your class was always the worst for them. You don’t know why, but it was probably because of the brutal sparring sessions you had with the widows that earned you the “most feared” title in the Red Room. You took it as a compliment. They feared you more than Dreykov himself.
“Red Widow, Viktor wants you in his office. Now,” A guard walks into the sparring room, his hands behind his back, waiting for your compliance.
“Understood. Let’s go.” It was a tradition that high-ranking officials and trainers never go anywhere without a protection guard. For security purposes, you assumed. A glimmer of fear washed over your eyes as you stopped in front of the double doors. Viktor never calls anyone up to his office unless your performance is unsatisfactory or you commit treason. You knew you were doing well as a teacher, and as far as you knew, you would never betray the only home you’ve ever known. You pushed the doors open to reveal Commission Officer Viktor Agafonov, who was responsible for assigning widows to specific missions and the Red Room’s global outreach effort. How ironic his surname was Agafonov, yet he was the meanest person you have ever met.
“My Red Widow, come take a seat. I haven’t seen you since you returned home,” he pointed at the chair in front of his desk.
“Viktor, nice to see you again,” you replied as you carefully sat before him. You kept your arms away from the armrests in case he had restraints ready to keep you to the chair.
“Your work to the Red Room has been invaluable to this program. And we wanted to reward you with a gift.” He lifted his hand, and his fingers curled inward to indicate someone to move forward. You squinted your eyes past his shoulders, trying to see the mysterious gift. The first thing you see is a glint of metal attached to a lump of black mass. Soon enough, you could discern the figure of a man with what seemed like a metal arm with a gleaming red star on his shoulder. His face was covered with a solid black mask, and his eyes pierced into yours.
“Я вручаю тебе зимнего солдата (I give you the Winter Soldier),” Viktor said with a glimmer in his eyes. At this point, the Winter Soldier was in full view. You could see his hair ending at his shoulders and his tactical build commanding the room. You believed that the lore of the Winter Soldier was purely a ghost story that didn’t exist. Yet here he was, standing before you, sucking the air out of the room. His presence was dominating yet mesmerizing. His ruthlessness was one for legend, accredited for Hydra’s most intricate and technical assassinations. Hell, your training was modeled after the training regime for the Winter Soldier. It was an honor just to be in his presence.
“He has been deprogrammed; however, his skill and strength remain. He will be helping you train the new batch of recruits you trained today for the next month. He will also be helping you develop those knife skills you so badly wanted to learn,” Viktor analyzed the expression on your face with a wide smile. You were excited beyond belief. You finally got to further your combat skills with your favorite weapon with the soldier that was most prolific in it. You stood up abruptly and outstretched your hand towards Viktor.
“Спасибо, офицер. Я не разочарую вас (Thank you, Officer. I won't disappoint you).” You shook his hand with determination. He squeezed your hand and put his other hand over yours.
“Будь хорошей, Красная Вдова (Be good, Red Widow).” And with that, you left his office with a gleaming smile plastered across your face.
—-
“Доброе утро, солдат (Good morning, Soldat),” you greeted the man in black. It was the following day, and the soldier was standing in the corner of the training room, picking out his choice of blade.
“You speak English, right?” the mysterious man inquired. His voice took you aback. It was low and foggy due to the black mask covering most of his face. It was the first time you heard the man speak; he sounded American. The syllables drifted off his tongue too quickly for him to be native to Europe.
“I’m fluent in 17 languages, Soldat,” you smirked at him. Multiple languages have always been a great skill for a Widow. It would make it easier to infiltrate and take down countries. However, he did not react to your statement. Instead, he turned back to face you, and only then you noticed how large this man indeed was. He could probably benchpress your entire body weight with one arm.
“Bосемнадцать языков (18 languages),” he spoke in Russian. It nearly made you laugh. His accent was discernible; however, his words were spot on.
“Let’s begin, Soldat,” you reached for one of the knives atop the table.