#vallie

— Double Edge ⚔️

The air hung thick with a metallic tang mingled with the musty odor of long stagnant air. A faint, earthy dampness carried on the air currents, hinting at the storm brewing outside. Dust motes danced like spectral figures in the single, solitary shaft of moonlight piercing the gloom from a shattered skylight high above, a light that seemed to struggle against the gathering darkness of the storm.

A cavernous expanse of concrete and forgotten machinery, defunct equipment loomed like silent sentinels, their metal forms draped in cobwebs and grime. The floor was a patchwork of cracked concrete littered with debris—scattered bolts, twisted metal scraps, and patches of oily residue that reflected the scant light in shimmering, unsettling puddles, some catching the faint, silver glow of the rain as it lashed against the broken panes above.

Voronov moved with practiced silence, her boots barely whispering on the grimy concrete floor, each step measured against the backdrop of the falling rain. Her long, dark brown hair was pulled back in a practical French braid, and though her face was partially obscured by the tactical hood she wore, the glint of her hazel eyes, sharp and assessing, was visible in the faint light.

Her orders were simple: eliminate the target, a rogue operative deemed a threat to national security.

A faint scuff echoed from the far end of the vast space, a small sound swallowed almost instantly by the oppressive silence, punctuated only by the distant, rhythmic drumming of rain on the corrugated metal roof high above. Voronov froze, the sound of the approaching storm a low thrum beneath her heightened senses.

Her hand instinctively went to the silenced pistol at her hip. She melted into the deeper shadow cast by a particularly large, rusting piece of machinery, its complex network of pipes and gears providing excellent cover. The steady patter of rain against the building's skin seemed to amplify the silence, making her own breathing feel too loud. Her senses were on high alert, straining to pick up any further sounds in the echoing space.

The sound came again, closer this time, accompanied by a low, almost mechanical hum that seemed to vibrate through the concrete floor, a counterpoint to the relentless rhythm of the rain.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows near a crumbling brick wall, where paint peeled like diseased skin, the soft hiss of rain a whisper behind it. Tall, lean, this entity moved with a chilling precision, every motion devoid of waste. A black tactical suit clung to its frame. Short, sharply cut platinum blonde hair framed a face dominated by unnervingly blank, phthalo green eyes that scanned the broken landscape with chilling efficiency. A prominent scar angled down across its left eye. Voronov's breath hitched.

"It can’t be."

Years of grief, of burying the memory, warred with the undeniable truth before her. The posture, the way she held herself, the sheer presence—it was none other than Chernyakov, appearing as if summoned from the storm itself.

[additional notes:]

⚔️ This was originally an idea by me and my friend ( @accio-bagel ) for the pride month, but let's just say, life happened 🫣

⚔️ Also, credits to @accio-bagel for creating the spy profiles, proofreading the fic, and honouring me with a collab with her lovable rogue, Ellie Crawford! 🐦‍⬛✨

⚔️ This fic is highly inspired by the film Black Widow