~ ⚡️Everyone is born with a number on their arm.
That number, is the amount of steps left to take before you meet your soulmate.
But what happens when the numbers reach zero as you stand before the very person you were created to destroy? ⚡️ ~
A S...
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~ 𓆙 ~
When Leonora came into this world, she was just like every other person; born with a series of numbers etched into her left forearm.
The number of steps left until she met her soulmate.
How Leonora differed though, was that she was born into an organisation of violence and bloodshed. Sharpened and primed to do the one thing she'd gotten severely good at over the years.
Executing.
She had no desire to take notice of the digits that adorned her skin, ever changing with each moment in time. She was told that it was pointless, that girls like her had no need for things that made you weak and most of all, distracted.
In fact, to no avail, they had tried to burn and cut her skin, to rid her of the countdown, to rid her of human emotions. But the numbers, as stubborn as herself, were not going anywhere.
Her parents, or donors as she preferred to refer to them, were a branch of the late Hydra. An even more underground sect of the terrorist organisation, set up in case Hydra should ever be compromised. In case men couldn't be trusted to see the job through. In case they needed a way to go by even more undetected, and what better way to do that than creating a female counterpart? Women were always easier to infiltrate societies, usually less messy in their methods, and could handle more pain.
There was born, operation Medusa.
And thus, Leonora.
She was now the only one remaining. All the other girls she had trained with had not withstood the tests before them. Brutal beatings, extreme workout regimes, tests of loyalty and faith and more horrors than a twenty seven year old could imagine in her life. She'd seen all her male colleagues fail, time and time again. Pierce, Sitwell, Rumlow, Hell even the one and only Winter Soldier who'd been compromised by something as sickly as nostalgia.
Men were weak.
After the Blip, when Hydra was well and truly over, Medusa had slowly risen to the surface, birthed from the chaos of the crumbling world with half a population. With one final mission.
End the remaining Avengers, and most of all, their leader.
Captain America.
Stop them from succeeding in reuniting the ravaged earth. Leave it vulnerable and ripe for the picking so Medusa could quietly swoop in.
Leonora had been shown images and slide shows of Captain America since she was younger, in his disgustingly patriotic colours, his brainwashing educational videos, his false heroic so-called victories in the war. He was nothing more than another fake God who needed to be brought down. Her blood filled with acid at the sight of him in every conditioning session. She was created to bring him down. She had studied his moves, his weaknesses, his soft spots and it'd only made her stronger.
Years of suffering and 'refining' had led her to this very mission. Where she stood now, panting, her long hair that was braided back, now hanging in loose curls off her face, her brows furrowed, creating deep creases of confusion and exhaustion across her features, her fist gripped tightly around the handle of her gun.
Pointed at him.
Looking at him for the first time, she was struck by how different he looked in person compared to what she'd seen in the media and at base camp. He seemed more human. More vulnerable. More magnetic. She brushed those thoughts to the side. It was never wise to falter when you'd finally gotten the advantage.
She was so focused in fact on her target in front of her and his inevitable execution, that she hadn't noticed his cerulean eyes widen in horror and shock as he quickly glanced at the arm that was extended out to him. He looked down slowly at his own, afraid to breathe, his heart stopping.
Leonora, pissed off and filled with hatred for the creation before her, followed to see what his gaze had landed on before her own breath was held hostage by her lungs. Right there, clear as day, in the numbers she'd all but forgotten over the years, covering up whenever she could, was a sickening realisation, too fucked up to be believed. Her sleeve lodged up amongst the fighting they'd endured.
000:000:000:000.
The silence hung deadly in the air, as thick as fog, before he looked up at her through his bloody nose and cut eyebrow, his face disgusted, mirroring her own.
