The compound was quiet these days.
Aside from the few calls she'd get centering dead-beat criminals or wannabe villains. Or the few and far between visits she'd get from Steve, Natasha was usually left alone in the choking silence, to reminisce over happier times.
She thought she'd been alone in the tower that day, but the soft sound of piano keys playing from another room broke that belief.
She investigated, obviously, and had to admit her not-so-short-lived surprise when she found Elizabeth Chastain partaking in ballet rather than some low-life burglar trying to get his hands on some riches.
And as the music flooded through her ears, so many horrible memories flashed behind her sharp forest eyes.
"Again."
Some of them weren't strong enough, and Natalia failed to own the decency to spare sympathy for them when they smacked against the resin-soaked floors in utter exhaustion and were taken away to be exterminated.
She knew she could never be as weak as they, and so she danced through the pain, and she worked through the man, and she killed through the pain.
"Again."
There were no breaks in life. No time to rest. That's what they were teaching them, that they had to work always. Cutting out the weaklings help the strong ones to flourish, that's what Natalia had been taught. If you complain, you die, if you fall, you die, if you FAIL, you DIE.
She didn't want to die, no. She needed to be strong, she had to be strong.
"Again."
Red.
Red on the floor. Red on the walls. Red on her hands. Red on the man with the bagged head who only wanted to be there for his family-
"Natasha."
And she was back. The music had stopped and Elizabeth stared at her with true worry. The distant glaze fled from Natasha's eyes as she looked to meet the girl's gaze.
"Would you like to join me?" Elizabeth questioned once she was sure the woman in front of her seemed to be alright. Natasha looked wearily at the now-turned-studio and down at her outfit, one which would not be the best for a dance class as such.
Elizabeth followed her gaze down at her clothes and simply shrugged, a ghost-smile playing of her lips.
And so, barely fifteen minutes later, the former-assassin chasséd and spun and leaped across the room with her friend, the moves coming back easily in a memorized second-nature sort of way. Her blond-tipped red hair was tucked back in a neat bun at the crown of her head, and replaced a familiar black leotard and pink tights with a too-big plain black shirt she'd tied up and a pair of black biker shorts she wasn't aware she owned until now. She'd gotten more flashbacks when she slid on those old ballet shoes again, as well as they simple shocked revelation that they actually still fit.
But this was nice. She could dance however she wanted, with no instructor at the from of the room barking at her every slip-up. It was calming, the sound of the piano filling her head, it took her away, if for only just a moment, from the ever-burning agony that so many people she cared about were dead.