𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

»»» 𝔵𝔦.𝔦𝔦𝔦

trigger warnings: violence, blood

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𝐑𝐮𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐚

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The Siren stepped foot in Russia in the middle of a ghost town.

Abandoned buildings stretched as far as the eye could see, an eerie wind stirring up dust and dirt. 

There was no sign of life. No greenery—only an absence of the sun in the midst of a cruel winter. Even through her padded suit, the cold seemed to seep into her bones as the night became her companion, the crunch of her boots on the asphalt the only sound of her approach.

Nearby, silent as the wind, she could sense another prowler in the night. Anfisa kept her distance, waiting from afar. 

The girl, despite her earlier troubles, had quickly stepped into her role as the jet had approached their destination.

"This is it?" Truth had questioned Viktor, standing behind him as they flew above the town, searching for a place to land. She was dressed in her all-black suit, her multitude of knives strapped to the leather of her legs, her whip coiled by her hip. The cloth mask that usually concealed part of her face rested on her collarbone like a necklace.

"This is where Ms. GPS back there told me to go," he had answered, jutting a thumb back toward the cabin where a brooding Siphon sat. "You want confirmation, you gotta ask her."

"No, it's fine," she muttered, her eyes scanning the landscape. Nothing out of the ordinary, but her gaze locked onto a stout building made of concrete. "Can you land us near that building?"

"I most definitely can," he replied, knowing better than to question her reasoning, guiding the aircraft to the right as he drifted lower.

"Thanks," she mumbled, lost in her thoughts and things to come. It wasn't unusual for her to grow pensive before a fight—something about readying the mind and body, and all that nonsense Viktor didn't quite understand.

"That's because you've never been a soldier," she'd told him once. "When you make a living out of killing, death is an old friend, but you need to prepare yourself to meet him."

So, he left her to her thinking. If that was what she had to do to survive, then who was he to question it?

"You remember the plan, right?" she asked eventually.

"You've only reminded me about it, like, five times already." Feeling her eyes turn away from the view to stare at him, he had sighed. "Yes, I remember."

"And—"

"Yes, I will keep a very close eye on our stowaway, and, yes, I will be careful not to touch her because she's got that," he made a gesture with his hand, "weird, energy draining thing."

"Alright. I'm just checking," Truth said, stepping back to leave him be.

"Hey," he called just before she walked away, turning his head toward her while keeping his eyes on his task. "You give 'em hell out there. And don't die. I'm too young to start planning your funeral."