Survivor
Chapter One:
Survivor
Alla had survived.
She had lived a short life.
Filled with grief, perseverance, and hunger.
She was tired of fighting.
Every breath, every step was a fight.
But her mamulya had sacrificed so much for her. Just for her to die—just for her to disappear into dust. How could she do that to her mamulya?
Alla could feel blood seeping through her vest on her abdomen. Staring up at the clear blue skies in Wakanda, her father—nothing but dust beside her. Alla’s ears were ringing painfully. Her father was beside her. He was right beside her—how could he have just disappeared? Dust lays in his wake, his rifle discarded on the mulch below his feet. Alla stood there, her eyes wide. He must be playing some sort of joke on her. It wasn’t a joke. She started to walk, to find her mamulya, her mother, to find her mommy. Alla needed her right now.
Her ears were ringing painfully, high pitched. She stumbled, her foot caught in a tree-root. She was fumbling. Alla never fumbled. She was agile on her feet, aware of everything going on around her. She was failing. Project Glory never failed. It wasn’t made for that. Project Glory was made for more—made to be perfect. You are perfect, you are made of marble—
“Shut up!” Alla cried out.
Alla didn’t bother to save herself from the fall, to shield her injured shoulder or abdomen. She just fell. Took the impact with a small whimper. She felt excruciating pain, searing pain—worse than the serums. Worse than the beatings, the starvation, the electricity. Worse than those eight years of “heaven” as Project Glory. She wished for all of this pain to go away, to disappear. She wanted her papa, she wanted her mamulya. She wanted to die…
Alla could feel tears rolling down her cheeks, cold tears. Her wound on her abdomen now dull with numbness, wet with sticky thick blood. She could feel herself drifting off into blackness. Alla looked up at the sky, turning over to lay on her back. She wanted to stare at the blue sky once more, just before she had to go.
Alla just wished that wherever she was going would be better than what HYDRA told her. That she wouldn't go to “hell”. Like she believed in it anyway. She hoped she’d be with her Papa, wherever he had disappeared to.
Fiery red hair was tied up in two French braids, swaying in the wind as she swiftly sprinted through alleyways, squeezing her body between the brick walls of Washington DC. She slides under dumpsters, running at full speed. Hiding in the shadows quiet as a mouse, as fast as wind. She stops when she sees the Soldat standing in the middle of the intersection; her que to get ready.
She watches with a blank expression as the bullet ridden black SUV explodes, rolling on its top. She could feel the aftermath of the SUV catching alight. She could feel the warm pavement before her feet. Stalking towards the crashed car, matching pace with the Soldat. Alla was wearing a similar face mask, her eyes smudged with black charcoal. A muzzle over her mouth. A black vest on her chest, and a gun holster; she was decked out with mission gear, ready for what was coming.
Ready for the resistance that Director Nick Fury would give.
She was ready for a fight.
The fiery 12-year-old girl stood beside the Soldat, her back rigid.
The Soldat ripped the car door off, throwing it over his shoulder with force. Alla’s ears rang, silence enveloping her body. She narrowed her eyes as she saw a hole in the ceiling of the car, deep into the cement of the road. Alla tried not to react, instead staring at the Soldat, waiting for his instructions.
“Poydem.” The Soldat spoke, gripping Alla’s upper arm, disappearing into the shadows once more. Let’s go.
It didn’t matter if the Soldat spoke. It’s not like Alla could hear him anyway.
* * *
The sun had now set after hours of hiding, the two waiting in the shadows provided by alleyways. Alla had followed aimlessly behind the Soldat, tracking where their target had gone. They were now scaling their way up to the rooftop terrace of a vacant business building. They’d jump from fire escape to fire escape, climb up ladders, or bust quietly through doors to make their way to the rooftop terrace. Alla closed the metal door behind them, crouching low to the ground. She exhaled deeply, closing her eyes. This is it, the end of the line.
Lights were flashing below them on the busy street, colors of red and blue flashing by. The vibrations of motorcycles roll by. Alla’s heterochromic eyes surveyed her surroundings as the Soldat set up his gun beside her to her left. She was looking out, her eyes never leaving her surroundings. Her eyes danced across the roof. It was empty. No one was there.
It was just the two of them, clad in black. Hidden in plain sight. Hidden by the dark night’s shadows.
From the corner of her eye, Alla watched the Soldat finish setting up the collapsible gun on the gravel of the terrace. She pulled the rest of the ammunition out of the case beside her, handing only three of the heavy ammo to the Soldat, instantly closing the black plastic case. She felt the case beneath her fingers click shut.
They would only need three bullets. Nothing more, nothing less.
Moments later, the Soldat was ready.
He aimed at the brick wall, his sea-blue eyes narrowed. He knew exactly where his targets were. He knew that this was where Director Nick Fury would be.
Crippled. Weak. At Captain Rodgers house, lounging in his chair. In the dark. He’d pretend that everything was alright, telling Rodgers that there were people listening in on their conversation, in his house.
Now was the time.
Alla waited patiently for the Soldat to hit the trigger. Three times.
That’s how many times it would take to puncture through the brick wall, through the furniture, then to the weak body.
She knew all of this. So didn’t the Soldat.
Then, they’d run.
There would be ‘back up’ waiting for the assets at the end of the block. They’d get away quickly, slipping through the night, through the shadows.
Alla had already planned their escape.
They would shove the Soviet Rifle expertly back into the case, the Soldat would take Alla and jump from roof to roof, then scale down the side of the building through the fire escape. Then the two would run through the shadows, the ‘backup’ meeting them.
Then they’d be done.
Alla back in her cell. The Soldat back into cryostasis for another year or so. Back into their routine.
Possibly, Alla handed back to Dreykov. Back to the Red Room and Madame B.
A trickle of anger spread through Alla’s spine. She ignored it, gripping on the cement in front of her. She can’t get angry, Alla reminds herself.
She watched as the Soldat fired three times, the vibrations coursing through the cement. Alla recoiled. She shot up quickly, taking the ammunition from the smoking Soviet Rifle. The Soldat shoved the case into the shadows. Another asset would retrieve the case and rifle later.
The two took off running. The wind blew Alla’s ginger braids behind her. Alla reached for the Soldat, and he pulled her into his arms. She gripped on tightly, glancing behind her. She had her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, interlocked at her ankles. Alla was like a kola. She’d learned about them sometime in the Red Room. She couldn’t remember much. Her memories were fuzzy. Or, did she learn about them in HYDRA? The Soldat vaulted over the edge of the building, to the next.
The Soldat set Alla down next to him, sprinting through the night. She dared a glance behind her, feeling thuds in the cement behind her. She can see a blurry figure racing its way towards her and the Soldat.
Alla vaulted over another ledge, free-falling towards another cement rooftop. She ducked and rolled, springing up gracefully then took off running. She’s trained for this day. Practiced, bled, and sweated to prove herself. The two ran for a while, rooftop to rooftop. Alla forced herself to match paces with the Soldat. Over exerting herself.
Alla dared another glance behind her, feeling like someone was following them. Her eyes widened as she saw the Captain America advancing on the two. The two finally reached the rooftop they were supposed to escape from, but she felt something woosh behind her. Alla ducked, and rolled away from the shield—Captain America’s colorful, red white and blue shield.
She watched as the Soldat caught the shield in his metal hand. Alla stood up swiftly, standing with her back to the Captain. They needed to go.
The Soldat threw the shield back, his metal arm moving quickly. Alla turned to see the Captain be pushed back from the force of the throw. Alla took that as her signal to split. She jumped off the roof, gripping onto the fire escape railings, falling to the ground gracefully. The Soldat followed quickly behind. The two ran, meeting the black car with the ‘back up’.
* * *
Alla awoke with a gasp. She was back in her cell—or, a new cell. It looked newer. She was lying on a cot, still in her black tight tactical suit. She shivered from the cold of the cement walls. Laid on her back, glaring up at the ceiling. She could feel the blood caked on her fingers, sticky and peeling. Alla closed her eyes painfully, the memories coming back.
She killed her friend.
No. Not her friend. She was no longer friends with anyone. A Widow does not have friends. She is nobody.
You are nobody.
Friends are for those who are weak.
Who have a place in the world.
You do not have a place in the world.
You are not weak.
Alla shudders, squeezing her eyes shut.
It’s just memories, it’s not real. There is no blood on your hands. Not right now. She pulled her bloodied hands to her eyes, rubbing them tiredly. She felt some of the dried blood itch against her face. Sighing and sitting up, her body was sore, she could feel bruises forming over her limbs. Ignoring the pain, Alla pulled herself off the cot.
The cell door opened.
Alla could feel the scrape of metal against cement on the floor, the metal barred door opening up, Alla stood at attention. Her chin up, eyes straight, shoulders back. Arms held behind her back. The light from the hallway blared through the dark cell Alla was in.
It was Rumlow.
Him.
Alla subsided the shiver of fear that crept up her spine. She would not look weak in front of him.
“Get going, Pretty Little Girl.” Rumlow seethes, a nasty smirk on his gruff face. He was in tactical gear. He advanced closer to Alla.
The twelve-year-old girl stiffened. She watched his movements, ready for anything. She was used to this. Used to being used. It’s what Alla was made for. She’s a Widow. She is made of marble. She is nothing, she has no place in the world.
Rumlow’s gloved hand tucked a stray piece of copper hair behind her ear. The Widow’s eyes followed his movements. She relaxes into the well-known mold of a submissive little girl. Ready to help him in whatever way he needs.
“You’ve got a mission, Project Glory.” Rumlow taunted. His fingers caressed her cheek.
The Widow’s eyes fluttered as she nodded her head. She ducked her head as she passed Rumlow out of her cell. The Widow made her way towards the exit of the backside of a bank.