flashbacks
Natasha can compartmentalise pain.
Has done it all her life.
But the pain she’s feeling now is comparable to some of the worst she’s ever felt. Her body is revolting against itself, wherever they touched her, is worse and she can pin point with accuracy exactly where she’s missing skin, where there’s bruises and broken bones.
If she had the presence of mind, it would be easier to catalogue what doesn’t hurt rather than what does.
She knows she about to pass out, lets Tony pick her up, tries to let him know that she’s going, going, gone, and feels herself disconnect from her body.
.
Madam hits her with the cane, the flexible rattan hits the bottom of her feet as she holds back a cry. She puts back on her socks and shoes, even though the blood will come through.
“Stand,” Madam says.
And Natasha does.
“Walk.” She commands.
Despite the pain, she walks with the other girls, normalizing her gait because she knows she’s being watched.
In the dormitories, Anya gives her a quick hug.
“You didn’t have to,” she whispers. “But thank you.”
Natasha nods and sits on the bed, peeling the sock off her feet. She washes it and wraps it as best she can, knowing that Ballet was going to hurt more than usual for the week.
But as she watches Anya take out the only food she’s had in three days, she knows it was worth it.
She knows she needs to protect her friends, no matter the personal cost.
.
She’s flying.
Opening an eye, she hears Tony talking, she feels the motion of flight and feels so nauseous.
She wants to throw up.
She thinks she might be dreaming as she holds up a hand, watching as it pulse glows, and then turns back to normal.
With a disconnected mind, she realises it hurts. The red.
The glow.
It’s painful.
She doesn’t understand for a moment and then all at once it swallows her whole.
.
Madam stands with Dreykov. Even though she’s the shorter of the two, her presence seems larger.
The girls are lined up in rows of five by height and for once Natasha is glad she’s not at the front.
She thinks she’s gone through a growth spurt, at least that’s what the other girl said.
Her dress still fits but it’s a bit more uncomfortable, her T-shirt sit a bit higher on her wait as she pulls it down, not wanting to be caught out.
They split the girls into height and weight, after weighing them, they’re stripped. Natasha is sent with four other girls into the infirmary.
“But we’re not sick,” says one of the girls, before a look from Madam cuts her off.
“You’re undergoing a series of tests,” she clarifies.
They’re laid on the beds, arms and legs cuffed. Natasha catches the eyes of Ana who is lying in the cot next to her.
She looks as scared as Natasha feels.
They’re injected, vitals monitored, Natasha feels fine; until she doesn’t.
It feels like it happens all at once the temperature, the cough, the difficulty breathing.
She hurts.
They inject her with other things and the tests continue.
She tries to sleep but they pump her with what she’s thinks is adrenaline because it makes her heart beat too fast, it makes her want to get up and move but she’s strapped down.
She groans and they ask her how she feels.
She tries to tell them but there’s not a word for it, in any of the languages she knows.
It’s days.
They’re testing for days.
They give immunity boosters.
They test more drugs.
They make them get up, test them on the oxygen machines, hook them up to more machines, make them run.
They take blood.
They take more blood.
Natasha is exhausted.
“This will make you better,” Madam says, brushing Natasha’s sweaty hair out her face. It would be affectionate, if Natasha didn’t know any better.
She’s too old to believe in that.
.
Her body is fighting back.
As much as it can against a foreign invader.
Vomit falls out of her mouth and onto her chest.
She can’t even remember when she ate last.
Can’t remember anything. She thinks they’ve stopped flying, but still feels in motion.
The iron man suit towers over her, no one is touching her as she writhes in pain.
She can feel her temperature fluctuate, holding her breath for as long as she can, so that she doesn’t have to feel another thing.
Someone tells her to breathe, but she’s forgotten how.
She can’t suck in a breath and panic beats in her chest as she only breathes in and not out. There’s pressure on her chest, and she wants to them to stop, tries to use her useless limbs to push them away.
They don’t stop and she can’t make them.
Something is injected into her arm, a tube down her throat and finally, she knows no more.
.