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^browsing through the wide expanse of the Internet when I found this soooo here it is
Not gonna lie, I was so excited writing this chapter Almost as excited as I was when I saw we have THIRTY FIVE THOUSAND VIEWS
Thanks to those who voted/commented/shared and being supes awesome
Recently got hooked on Daredevil and finished the whole friggin' thing in like a week and now I don't know what to do with my life
Shoot me now🔫
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Pippin detested the color pink.
When she was young, it seemed a lame stereotype. Girls like pink. Pippin also detested stereotypes so she had always insisted on never wearing pink. She had slowly begun to hate it, which probably wasn't normal but that was okay because Pippin wasn't really that normal anyway.
Now, as she stared at the soft, pink walls of the room the masked men had tossed her in, she hated it even more.
She hated that these four walls held her back from Felicity, Oliver, and Barry. Her hand smacked against the wall, echoing in the ample room.
It was simple, a mattress, a toilet, a sink, a lamp, even a shower. She was surprised it was such a big room. She was expecting a small dungeon room with chains or rats which captured the essence of Chekov's soul.
She doubted he had kept that name. It sounded too Russian to him and he had always been in love with America. He had probably changed his name to Bob or Joe or something like that.
She snorted at the thought, the noise echoing the slightest around the space. Thinking about Chekov made her stomach churn, especially the thought about meeting him soon.
She sat cautiously on the bed, rubbing at her temples and hoping this was all a bad dream. Every second that she spent in this place would bring a torrent of memories that she had spent years trying to bury. Every second that went by, she kept chanting to herself to keep calm.
There was no use with that monster.
The only upper hand she had was to act opposite of how he knew she would. With an angry sigh that echoes across the room, she propped her head in her hands. There was no use looking for any weapons or any objects she could use as weapons. Chekov was too smart for that, he knew how she worked.
She scoffed a little at that. How terrible that the person who knew her the most was the same person she hated the most. Her finger darted to the scar just under her clavicle, almost thoughtfully. So much silence in the room was starting to irritate her.
