Different Call (Clintasha)

Chpt. 12 - Indecision

Natasha

I woke with a start my mind still hazy from the chemical and my nose stinging from its potency. What happened? I tried to recall the actions of last night. A rush of scenes, and emotions flooded through my mind and I squeezed my eyes shut in shame. Oh god what have I done. After several seconds, I decided not to allow the self pity to rule my head and instead brushed it off. It's in the past, I can't change it, doesn't matter. I stayed down and tried to assess the situation with the little amount of visibility I had. It was obvious I was in handcuffs, the metal cutting into my wrists. The chain connecting the two rings was looped through a single coil of the radiator, restricting my movement to a very small scope. I could hear the soft purr of my captor's breath and after a moment of listening concluded that he was asleep in the bed only feet from me.

With the knowledge that he wasn't conscious, I dared to open my eyes and move around to survey a further radius. His dufflebag was out of my reach next to the head of the bed but where the gun should have sat in his holster was nothing. I quickly scanned the room looking for the weapon, for hope of getting out. Above me was a row of shelves mounted out of my reach. From the edge of the second one up I could see the butt of the gun peaking over the lip of the shelf. He had stored it there firstly assuming that up isn't the first direction people habitually look in, and that it's harder to reach objects above you when hands are bound and gravity's against you. While both of these reason are perfectly valid, he failed to fully understand my capabilities. I quietly got to my feet, hands still bound and pulling me down. This was going to be difficult but if I could just get it-

I took a moment to get a hold on the coils of the radiator and then bent my legs, propelling myself upside down and kicking my legs out towards the gun. I fell just short of the shelf, my acceleration upwards now gaining on my decent and jarring my shoulders against my torso. My feet made a soft padded thump when I hit the ground again, the metal attached to the wall making a slight rattling sound. Fortunately the sound didn't disturb the man and so I prepped myself for another round. I jumped, kicked and this time the tip of my pointed toe grazed the handle of the gun, offsetting its balance just enough for it to fall from the shelf. I again landed to the ground with a thud and let out a shallow sigh of success.

The gun lay about four feet from where I was. I again stretched out my body, adopting a figure like those of the ballet I was taught and managed to, with a series of kicks and wiggles, get the gun up to my hands. I seized the familiar form between my palms and rose to my feet repositioning my body to fit a more organic pose. I trained the muzzle on the man's sleeping form. "Clint Barton," I hissed between my teeth reiterating what I had read on his file, "/Hawkeye/." He had shown weakness today and now after my moment of crippling emotion I was ready to follow protocol of my training and execute the ones who falter. I cocked the gun, hoping that the click wouldn't wake him. It didn't. Ironic how the roles can reverse, he's trying to kill me at one point but even a moment of hesitation and I'm the predator. My finger tightened on the trigger.

The sheets on his bed rose and fell with the steady cadence of his breath and all that I could think about is that soon the movements would be gone and the juice of his life spilt on the crisp sheets by my hand. He couldn't be much older than me; 2, 3...5 years at most. He was still just as young as I was, although my innocence had been long exploited whereas his being might not be corrupt yet. No. He's here, coming to kill me, and in essence there really isn't a difference there. He might have been able to hold onto naivety longer than me but both of us had still lost it some time ago. Regardless of his circumstances, he was still just in his 20s. Why should I be the one to end his life? What gives me the /right/?

He failed that's what it is. If we allow the weak to live we allow the defect in our DNA to continue and multiply with the rest, soiling the purity of our blood.

But who determines that he's the weak one? Maybe I am. With my set ways of thinking, maybe he who can show mercy is above the ever vengeful wielder of the weapon. I've always been taught to kill and maybe the moral strength required to go against your orders is something I'm missing. Or maybe it's because ever since I first time refusing to commit a murder they ensured that every last bit of disobedience. Every spark of possible insubordination or mutiny was beaten out of me. My body would ache with the injuries of my foolishness and assuming they didn't take it all, my mind was skinned of my thoughts and propaganda replacing the void that was left. I didn't know who I was far too many times for the limited years I had been on this earth and massive gaps resided within my memory. I couldn't trust myself or my reasoning so why should I listen now?

I had no right to put someone to death and neither did he.

With that, I dropped the gaze of the weapon.

I couldn't do it. My arm would no longer hold and my finger refused to tighten.

I couldn't do it. My legs gave way underneath me.

I couldn't do it. I unloaded the gun, sliding the amo across the floor out of my reach but leaving the the empty shell next to me as a part of the evidence to what happened.

I couldn't do it. And with that final thought I slipped into sleep for the first time in days.

I couldn't do it.

A/N So Natasha's starting to realize that her training was totalitarian and filled with soviet propaganda and by extension untrusting on the content of her lessons. Clint is totally oblivious to any of this going on but he can't ignore the proof of her conflict in the morning. The question is how will he react? And what are his plans for the young Natasha Romanoff?

I had a lot of trouble putting this chapter together because I feel like I might have rushed it but any longer might have dragged on?? Anyways, opinions? If you want anything done in the story just comment or send me a message and I'll find a way to weasel it in somehow (unless it's totally ridiculous then I'm just sorry but I appreciate the effort)

Chapter dedication goes to Bowl_Of_Cecilos