The Avenger's soulmate

Chapter three: The drive

Ophelia pulled the dress over her olive skin, the fabric stretching and pressing around her curves. It was itchy and a tad too long, its hem trailed dangerously by her toes. Lydia had said it was fine if she wore heels, there would be no issue. However, the blonde often made overstatements, and Ophelia feared this would be one of them. Nonetheless, she slipped the black heels on as they waited for the car, her heart buzzing with energy. A party. Fear and excitement jittered through her veins. Parties were not part of her natural habitat, nature was: Pressed back to the tree, listening to the silence, the weight of the rifle weighing on her shoulder rather comforting. But the city life was not made for bullets and blazing battlefields, it was for the drunken and ditzy. Lydia had grumbled at that when she'd said it. "City people aren't ditzy." she'd huffed, passing Ophelia her fur coat to wear.
"Okay, I take it back, I'm sorry." Her friend admitted, slipping into the coat's embrace. Individual hairs had scratched across her skin then, tickling her neck, drawing up close to her nape. Lydia wore a lilac gown framed by a black coat, her blonde hair swept into a bun. Her friend did not believe she looked as elegant.

Chesnut curls sprang from a centered scrunchy somewhere, posing as a mushroom, protruding from a space between the back and top of her head. Loose curls, shorter than the rest fell at the forefront of her face, bouncing in gentle strands by her cheeks. In her time as the soldier, they'd curated her attire, the gloves, the mask, the shaved head. It'd taken many home remedies and odd options from the internet to get her hair to the length it was today. It was a choice she could make. The length, and color of her hair. Seeing it for the first time, curated by her own hands, looking nice, it made tears well. Before three years ago, she didn't know what her real hair looked like, she had been pleasantly surprised at the many stages it began to grow. The short stubs stage where she had a toddler hairstyle, then the cloud of curls followed by an odd bob.
"Let's go, Mikalin!" Her friend's muffled voice yelled from the floor below.
Ophelia glanced gingerly at her reflection, "Alright." she yelled down, grabbing her bag and making for the stairs.

The sun was beginning to set, its last gleams of light dancing across the pavement, trickling across the front of her heels as she scurried towards the taxi. Bustling into the car, her friend bundled herself in beside. "Stark tower, please."
"Yes, ma'am." The chap said, his face glazed with a golden hue.

The car purred into life and they were off. Trundling down the road, Opehlia gazed from her window at the setting sun's district. Shades of sunset played across skyscraper windows, slowly ebbing away with the seconds. "So, do you think you'll meet the one?"
"Huh?" she asked, meeting those peering eyes of black. If one was to stare long enough, they'd get lost in them. Like a human locked in a dark room alone for years. Ophelia felt like she'd go mad under that abyss, her darkness cowering into the crevices of her brain as her friend stared, probing her to answer her. "Who will I meet?"
"My gosh," Lydia flung herself against the seat, "your soulmate."
"Oh, no."
"Why not? Fate could be bringing you together right now."
"Or a taxi is. To a party, that you told me to come along to."
"Yes well, fate works in mysterious ways."
"Or you do."
"Whatever."

There was a pause before Ophelia swiveled, "Will you meet your soulmate then?" a smile tugged at her friend's face.
"Maybe." she cooed, "maybe we both will."

If there's any doubt here: Lydia does not know. Ophelia's suffering, the scars across her back, the claw marks dug into her thighs, the slice of skin ripped away. Lydia does not know of it. All her senses are turned off to the history of Ophelia Mikalin. Their friendship was built on quiet comfort and trust. Ophelia hadn't spoken often, but Lydia did, chatting in bursts of energy to her new friend who was gladly there to sit and listen. Ophelia had hated silence, with Lydia she got none, so she stuck to her, for three years. During that time her friend yanked her from her shell, and forced her on walks with her, to events, dinners, and public avenues together. Without Lydia, Mikalin would've still been in the same apartment she was back then, trying to piece her memories back together. So she owed her a lot, Ophelia tried to do everything for Lydia, for every event she wished to march to, Mikalin would follow. It was fun. For a time, till the fatigue caught up to them.
Ophelia had left then. They'd stayed in touch but the long nights out dwindled, Lydia visited a few times a year, and they video-chatted, and texted—all of it. Jackson had once said Ophelia was more in love with her friend than she was with him. In a way, it's true. She loved him enough to leave him but loved Lydia enough to stay for eternity, always coming back.
And yet, today she felt this doubt. The doubt in her loyalty to Lydia, she felt like she should turn on her heels and flee. The pull in her gut was growing stronger, a foundation of nausea in her body. This event radiated something: Suffering? Connection? Fate? Pain? The thoughts from earlier, the questions of souls built in her brain again. Should she ask Lydia for her opinion on her damaged skin? Would the reaction be the same as the driver from before? Ophelia sank back into her seat, gazing through the window without a focus. Blurred objects whizzed by: Lamppost. Dog. Man. Building. Lamppost. Finally, the metal carriage slowed. Spluttered. Stopped.

"Alright," Ophelia said quietly, "let's do this."