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Bourrée, bourrée, bourée. Jeté into a pirouette. Pas de chat.

Do it again.

It must be perfect.

A jump and a turn, flawlessly executed.

Again, again, again.

It must be perfect. You must be perfect.

Nathalia cannot feel her toes. When she takes off her ballet shoes, her feet will be bloody and purple, she's sure. But not yet. Right now, she must be perfect. No matter how much it hurts.

She finishes her routine for the 18th time that day, and Mistress Olga gives the signal for her to stop.

"Tomorrow you will do it better," the woman says, though it is impossible to perfect the dance any more. Nathalia nods and waits to be dismissed.

When she is ordered to leave, the young redhead returns to her bunk, changes from her leotard and tights into a black combat suit, then navigates the halls to Uncle Ivan's classroom.

There are twenty-seven other girls that line the walls outside the room, each of them standing at perfect attention, all wearing the same suit and boots as Nathalia. Their hair, though several different colors, is all pulled into a sleek ballet bun, not a strand out of place. Uncle Ivan doesn't like it when his girls have messy hair.

They wait exactly one minute and thirty-two seconds for their teacher to appear, his bald head and stern gaze rounding the corner from the Officials Wing. He smiles when he sees his pupils.

"My darlings. Such good form. Come, let us begin today's lesson," he says, opening the door to the classroom.

The girls file into the dingy little room, standing beside their seats and fixing their attention on the old man behind the desk. He tells them to sit, and they do. Nathalia focuses on his words and remembers them. Her bruised feet throb, but she ignores it. She must listen. She must be perfect.

What they have learned in Uncle Ivan's class will be practiced in Mistress Ava's. Today it is a maneuver called Sera's Kiss. They must master it, or there will be consequences. Nathalia does not worry. She has not failed yet, nor have any of her comrades.

The young redhead performs the move expertly, as though she has practiced it all her life. It is beautiful, it is deadly, and it is perfect. She does it forty-eight more times. Mistress Ava does not say a word, and Nathalia knows she has done well. It has been a good day so far.

After Mistress Ava's class, the students are given exactly thirty minutes to eat a small meal, just enough to sustain them until evening. The food does not taste good, but it gives them energy, as the rest of the day will be spent pushing their bodies to the limit. Nathalia wonders what today's training will entail. She knows that it will be difficult, but she will do it perfectly. She always has, she always will.

The students all rise at the exact same moment, then walk to the door and head towards the training hall, one beautiful, flawless train.

For hours and hours they work, running up walls, hopping across pretend rooftops, practicing with blunted knives and simulated bullets.

By the time Master Konstantin signals for them to line up, Nathalia feels as though every fiber of her body has been ripped apart. It is painful, but beneath the pain, there is pride. She is perfect. Mother Russia will be glad to have a perfect daughter serving her.

The twenty-eight girls are sent to the showers. The water is freezing, but it gets the job done. The young redhead washes her fiery hair and scrubs her skin raw, then turns off the water in the same instant as her comrades. They all step out at the same second, comb through their soaking locks, then retrieve their sleeping clothes. All of it is beautifully synchronized, a well-oiled and finely tuned machine.

The students form another line and march out from the showers, walking silently to their bunks. On the way there, they each stop to receive an injection from Mistress Nina. Nathalia doesn't wince when the needle pricks her skin, nor when the glowing blue liquid forces it's way through her veins and burns her from the inside out. Her expression is blank when she stands in front of her door, waiting for the lock to slide back. She is perfect.

All twenty-eight doors open at the same moment, and each student steps inside her sleeping quarters. They are sterile. Everything is white, from the sheets on the bed to the small dresser. There is no window, and the door behind Nathalia slides shut again, a heavy lock clicking into place. She lays down on the mattress. Her feet still throb, and liquid fire courses through her, but she closes her eyes, reviewing as many techniques as her mind will let her before it succumbs to sleep.

Nathalia rouses the next morning and swings her legs over the bed, standing just as the single light above her clicks to life. She is dressed in moments, her bedclothes folded neatly and placed on her pillow. She looks down at her feet before pulling her socks and boots on.

There is no hint of bruising or calluses. Her toes are pink and healthy, and they do not throb.

They are perfect.

Nathalia smiles.

Natasha Romanoff opens her eyes. For the briefest of moments, she forgets where she is. But the confusion lasts only a second.

She gets up and heads to her little kitchen, measuring out two perfect tablespoons of coffee and pouring it into the filter. The delicious scent fills her home as the drink brews, and she sighs.

The far wall of her living room is made completely of glass, and Natasha stares out of it at the darkened city. Though only five A.M, cars speed through the streets thirty stories below her, their lights like glowing ants. Her mind is filled with music as she watches the minuscule vehicles pass in and out of her vision. The same song repeats itself, over and over again.

She retrieves her coffee mug and fills it with the dark liquid. Taking a sip, she glances down at her flawless right arm, where she was religiously injected every night for thirty-nine years. It began when she was sixteen. How old did that make her now? She had stopped counting so long ago.

The song continues to play through her mind, as she recalls the steps to the routine. She hears Mistress Olga's voice.

"You must be perfect, Nathalia. You must be perfect."

Natasha smiles as Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" whispers through her head. She knows she could perform the routine flawlessly, just as she can still immaculately execute Sera's Kiss, and all of Uncle Ivan's specialized maneuvers.

"Again, Nathalia!" Comes Mistress Olga's command. But there is no need to do it again.

I am perfect. And I always will be. Thank you, Krasnaya Komnata.

-конец-