Prologue

                                    

                                          
HYDRA FILE
SUBJECT NO.:18709
SUBJECT NAME: Agapova, Anastasia Ivanovna
CODE NAME: Black Widow
D.O.B: 16/02/2002
GENDER: Female
SPECIES: Human
RACE: Caucasian
HEIGHT: 5'2"
WEIGHT: 57.3KG
PROJECT: Red Room Initiative
LANGUAGES: Arabic, Bulgarian, Cantonese, Danish, Dutch, English, Finnish, French, German, Greek, Hindi, Italian, Japanese, Mandarin, Polish, Romanian, Spanish, Turkish
ABILITIES/TALENTS: Hand to hand combat; martial arts (for extensive list see Dr. Morozov); acrobatics; superhuman strength, agility, speed, reflexes, healing, stamina, immune system, and athleticism; espionage; marksmanship; hacking; hijacking; aviation; vehicular skills; sailing; intimidation; interrogation; leadership; ballet; and battle tactics
NOTES: Subject has shown to have severe anger issues; she can be controlled instantly via use of her subject digits; the Yekaterinburg mission can be used to easily manipulate the subject
𓆩♡𓆪
The young girl sat and cried. She didn't know for how long; that didn't matter. All that mattered was that she couldn't tell which part of her brain was hers–she needed more serum, or she would surely go just as insane as her mother had.
She felt as if her mind was being split in two; like she was a marionette whose limbs were never allowed the sweet relief of rest from her puppeteer. She was a pawn, a weapon in his sick games, and that thought just made her cry even harder.
Nobody in that sick institute gave a damn.
They didn't give a damn when she had been kidnapped as a babe. They didn't give a damn when Madame Popova made her dance until her toes were bloody and bruised at three. They didn't give a damn when they dropped her in the icy tundra of Northern Greenland with no gear at six, or when she had gone on her first honeytrap mission at seven and treated like filth afterwards.
And they sure as hell didn't give a damn when she sat in her 'room'– a glorified cage with a reinforced, locked glass door instead of bars–and sobbed quietly after yet another honeytrap mission at twelve; she felt disgusting.
She was disgusting.
The child pulled her legs tightly up to her chest and sobbed even harder.
𓆩♡𓆪
To say she remembered her first day of hell would be an understatement.
She relived it every fucking day.
She relived being thrown out of a black van with the other hysterical girls. She relived the desperate screams of frantic children as they were separated from those they loved and forced into shipping containers. She relived scratching the guards as if her life depended on it when they held her down in an offensively bright medical room and injected her with a strange red liquid that made her mind go fuzzy; she had never liked needles, but then again: what two year old does?
She didn't like much after that night.
The next decade flew by in a horrifying haze: nightmares, training, the Yekaterinburg mission... They all blurred into one terrible torment, and there was nothing her or anyone else could do about it. 
She was just a weapon; weapons never weep, and weapons never change.
Why should she?