bonus chapter. scrapped scene
" hi, this is just an unfinished
drabble for you all ... "

* UNEDITED *

2 YEARS LATER
SOMEWHERE IN RUSSIA

Entering his senses was a pungent smell of strong petrol mixed with rubber.

The story, in a way, continues here. Inside of a regular-sized, open garage. Tires were displayed on the walls in an organised size order, an array of cardboard boxes stacked in the far corner. He could see a patch of darkened concrete beneath the clothes rack with wet cloths hung upon it, and an unfinished, boxed salad on one of the tables by the enterance. There was some sort of life in this place.

But there was not a soul in sight. It guides him to the table with a salad on, his eyes looking over the papers scattered around. Pink slips and insurance deals. Different signatures and different names on all the papers. Some envelopes were stacked up and unopened, some addressed to her, others addressed to strangers... But none addressed to the name that he knew from so long ago.

"Keep close."

A thick Russian accent tells him from the side.

Spencer looks in the direction of the blonde, and gives her a quick nod, following the armed girl.

His eyes trail over the pinboard. Thank you letters, and some roughly drawn drawings with crayons that sat in a little, copper pencil-pot. It was out of character, he thinks. So much so, it brings him to let out a smile. She never seemed the type to have kids. Never seemed the type to take care of them either. But he supposed, she never got a chance to either.

Toolboxes. Oil cartons. Rags. Elastic gloves. Nothing too out of the ordinary. There is nothing here, more specifically nothing (and no one) he needs and he looks around a final time with a sigh before they both walk out.

They make their way towards the house instead, looking around the empty neighbourhood.

It's quiet here. With dirt roads, cobblestone pathways. Fences that gate off farms...

The countryside seemed as peaceful as people make it out to be, he thinks. The fields are large, and he sees from a distance a herd of cows and another house whose owner probably owns them. The grass, though nearing winter time, remains its vibrant green colour, and the fields of wheat have their leaves sway side to side in the gentle, late-autumn breeze.

Autumn evokes nostalgia. Leaves like fire, and blood - and this past doesn't isn't that far away either. Memories take a liking to changing weather. Arabella has weathered many, many storms. The flash of violence, the rumble of political fall out, the blind fury of hell-bent ideologues. Storm after storm, some she's caused that aren't entirely hers. But right now, the air has changed. It's colder every minute. It's not a storm. This is a change of seasons.

That is to say, as winter time approaches Russia, a whole new composition of unruly chaos is born alongside it - some that comes from the mistakes of the past.

The setting sun kisses their golden skin, until they're sheltered from the blinding rays on the porch of a regular looking family home. His hands wrap around the handle of the door, and it doesn't come as a surprise to him that it's locked. She'd be stupid to not lock it.

Arabella takes out a paperclip from the pocket of her woollen coat, and her fingers are quick to bend it to the appropriate shape. It almost comes as muscle memory to her, and she's successfully greeted with a 'click' of the lock when she manages to pick it open.

A warmth hits their face and flushes their skin when they let themselves walk in, closing the door behind.

The house is clean and tidy. There's homely stuff, such a doormat and a coatrack full of different jackets. A pair of cozy slippers he chuckles at, and the walls are a warm colour of off-white. He walks deeper in through the hallway. There is a void of pictures. There is a lonely pneuma that settles in this house.

It's not so much of a home. Just a house. A building.

He peers into the kitchen, finding a few coffee mugs on the dish rack, and his lips twist upwards into a smile of amusement when he notices a sign hung up by the doorway of the kitchen 'this kitchen is seasoned with love'. He snorts. It's almost unbelievable to think someone like Valentizina has a corny quote like this on the wall of her kitchen.

"She got busy..." Arabella speaks up.

"Yeah... She did..." Spencer quietly mummers.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. It's just-"

Suddenly, he feels something soft wrap around his leg.

His shoulders shrug upwards in shock, lips parting as his eyes fall down at his feet.

A grey-coated cat purrs in satisfaction as it curls itself through and around his leg. He gazes upwards at Spencer with light grey eyes, and a whiney meow that has the man slowly crouch down. He lets its nose sniff his fingertips, until it gives permission by rubbing its head upon the palm of his hand.

"Hi," he whispers, "Hi, pretty."

Upon the sound of his voice, she meows before leaving his touch to trot off down the hallway.

Spencer immediately stands up to follow its quick steps, watching it enter the living room.

"A cat?" Arabella scoffs, "Assassin my ass."

She follows both the cat and Spencer, with a small sigh.

It sprints across the couches, and leaps upon its cat-tree. His eyes look around. The walls were empty, no quotes this time. The couches were a warm shade of brown, a white blanket folded in the corner with some square pillows. He finds that the colours of her house were warm. Not everything matched, but perhaps that's what made the aura so inviting.

"It's rude to break in."

A voice from behind speaks and he immediately stiffens. When did the door even open?

Neither of them speak. Not until he slowly turns, meeting her at gunpoint she holds him under.

It seems that as warm as her house is, she's still cold.

Arabella immediately raised her own gun, lips parting after she gulps thickly.

"No way to greet an old friend," she lowly answers.

"I don't trust you," Valentizina speaks back, a soft Russian accent taking place in her low pitched voice.

He's in her house. The last bit of space she has left, that she created for herself to start over. It feels invasive, him being here. And for him, he admits, wrong to be dabbling in the past that she wants to leave behind. But he doesn't have a choice.

Both Spencer and Arabella stand guilty, yet they don't have a choice.

Valentizina Alianovna stands armed, her locks dyed back to their natural colour of auburn red. She's lost weight, a lot of it muscle. And there's no avoiding the fact that she looks worn out and tired. Her skin colourless and eyes dull. But she's dressed warm. A woollen coat, and black jeans.

It feels, to Spencer, like staring at a stranger.

"How did you find me?" she rasps out.

He raises his hands, "Put the gun down. And we'll talk. Like adults."

"You shouldn't be here. It's unsafe."

"That's kind of why we're here," Arabella chimes in, "Because we're all unsafe. You included."

"You'll be in big trouble," Valentine warned again, "I don't want either of you hurt."

The blonde walks backwards, smirking as she dryly bit back, "I'm not looking for a fight. Just drop the weapon. And we'll talk."

"It's like I said, I can't trust you."

Arabella trips slightly, stumbling as she continues to move backwards, Valentizina's smile growing, "Watch your step, traitor."

"Watch yours."

The youngest is quick on her toes to kick the weapon out of Valentine's hands, foot dangerously close to kicking her face. But the redhead is smarter to catch Arabella's leg, letting go of the weapon to slam her down onto the wooden panels below. The blonde groans out in frustration as she hits the floor with a thud, reaching out for Val's ankle for leverage as she jumps up, pulling the eldest down to the ground instead.

The thing about fighting Valentizina? She's been alone for long enough to know how to handle things alone.

During the Cold War, there was a theory. One agent in the right place at the right time with the right skills could be more defective than an army.

She doesn't land on the ground with a thud, but with a back roll that send her standing right back up. Arabella now wastes no time, swinging at Valentizina who catches her punch, grips at her shirt and slams her against the wall in the hallway. Given the proxemics, the blonde grips at her shirt and finds her weakness to be her stomach that she knees with a leverage of strength. It provided Valentine to loosen her grip enough to have Arabella push her into the kitchen, and slam her down on the kitchen counter of the complex.

"Stay down, I don't want to hurt you," Arabella practically growls, pressing her down harder against the surface.

Valentizina's frustrated because she's not lying. She doesn't want to hurt her and it's annoying - deep down, she craves for the feeling to be mutual. Instead, she can feel how tense the blonde is too and it makes her chuckle. But when she attempts to sit up, Arabella slams her down harder. Her chuckle only faded into a cry of frustration when she feels Arabella's hand grab hold of her cheeks, "Stay down," she repeats, "I don't want to hurt you!"

"You started it," Valentine hissed.

Her hand flies to stretch behind herself, finding itself brushing upon a plate that she's quick to pick up and slam against the blonde's head.

Arabella immediately stumbles back, and there she is, crouched down weak enough to her advantage.

Valentizina rolls back on the counter enough to give the leverage it takes to wrap her legs around her neck, hoisting herself up on her shoulders. Grappling the blonde down with her legs, Arabella once more made contact with the floor, slowly giving into the eldest's tight grip around her neck.

"How did you find me?" Valentizina breathed heavily.

"You didn't," she coughs, choking out, "Didn't seriously think we believed you were d-dead?"

"How do you know? Answer me!"

Tactic after tactic, Valentine thinks she has her opponent beat now. But Arabella uses Valentine's own mindset against her, her legs wrap around her neck and she leverages her strength to roll back, sending Valentine to be tossed over her.

Valentizina grunts, head smacking against the floor boards when she hits the ground.

"No one told you to respect your elders?"

Aggravated, Valentizina reaches for a piece of the broken plate by her jumping back up on her feet. With a spin, she sends a kick Arabella way that the blonde dodged skilfully. Now they're going back and forth. Trading blows, crouching, jumping side to side, and Valentine knows, that in the end, the smarter fighter will always win.

It doesn't explain how they ended up like this. With Valentizina pressing the shard of glass against Arabella's neck, the blonde's fingers wrapped around hers. The redhead drives it down further, and she increases her grip as they stare at each other.

Arabella feels it.

The blade beginning to cut through her skin. But she also feels Valentizina's darkest potential of killing. She's not afraid. She's angry. Full of venom. Trauma and hurt. This is a coping mechanism. It always had been. And that scares Arabella more than the thought of dying.

Suddenly, Valentizina let's go, leaving Arabella shook up and shaking.

"Being dead is no fun," Valentine deadpans, "No problem for sparing you."

She'd know, because technically, she was a dead girl walking.

She's not supposed to be alive. Never mind known to be. But she is. Very much so, alive, under a different identity to hide from the whole world that's against her.

Her eyes fall upon Spencer, who's stood with crystal eyes, and a brave expression.

"Pretty boy," she called out, "Nice hair."

It's longer than the last time she saw him. Curlier. He lets out a small smile, looking down at his feet in fear.

"I couldn't not see you," he quietly said, "People are out to kill you, Valentine. I just... I really needed to see you."

"I know," she softly spoke, "As long as it's not you doing the killing."

Her measly attempt at a joke had earned her laughter from zero people.

Tough crowd.

"Hey, don't cry, you wuss," she scolded Spencer.

"We're here to help you," Arabella spoke up, "So that we can clear the bounty and you can get back to living."

"People like me don't live," she sighed.

"You tried to. And if it wasn't for me, it would have worked. I'm sorry-"

"Don't blame yourself anymore," Valentine cut her off, "It's not worth it. At the end of the day, I would have been found either way. No matter what I would have done, I'd go to bed as a killer and wake up as one too. You did what you had to do, kid. Don't take our fight personally."

Arabella sniffled, nodding her head.

"Come on, guys. Don't cry..." Valentine awkwardly looks between them, "Do you like my kitchen quote? I got it from my neighbour as a house warming gift."

"It's nice," Spencer weakly chuckles, looking at it once more.

Home.

She never really had a home. A home was always a distraction and in her line of work, one couldn't have distractions. That includes family and friends and anything else that requires personal attachments, because when it gets personal, it gets clouded by your own feelings. Not initiative. What there was of her heart was only in her work - not beyond a doormat of a cheap apartment. In fact, Valentine had met operatives who have families and lives beyond the field - these operatives never lived long.

What you carry, it weighs you down down down...

But these days, she stands, with the heart not in her work, but in the right place.

Valentizina learnt love from sacrifice. She'd learnt love from living. And no matter where she'd gone - what she's done, all the dark things she does not regret anymore, but will not speak of - that is one part of her that she's always going to keep safe now. Love.

note.

bro idk what just happened xxx hope u liked this lil drabble/scrap.

ANYWAYS LOVE YOU ALL
— STINA

say it back.