Echoes

Freight Car

The soldier steeled himself. This hour may as well be his last, but he would make it count. Even at the cost of his own life. For the greater good.

He set his jaw and gripped his rifle in his hands. Nothing mattered. Except for the success of The Howling Commandos, nothing mattered.

"Sergeant, you with us?" the Captain asked. The soldiers blinked and nodded. Oh, the Captain had changed so much, grown up so fast. And now he was where he always wanted to be, on the frontier.

The soldier hadn't felt the same after the Captain had rescued him from Hydra. He didn't know how long he had been there. It was just a blur of pain, red and black. A blur of voices. Angry voices. They wanted something from him. What? He had nothing to give except his sanity and freedom, and no man should be stripped of those.

The soldier closed an eye to aim. His finger tightened on the trigger. Boom. Red. Then followed by black. Then nothing for the guard. Empty eyes, empty soul.

The soldier moved on, for he had no time to ponder. He never did. Now was a time of action, the red of fear and the black of death. Boom. Boom. Boom.

He had to protect his team. The Howling Commandos had saved him, he would save them. Boom. Boom. More specifically, the Captain. Above everything, protecting the Captain was his strongest instinct. The soldier had to make sure that he was - safe.

And the Captain felt the same, for he was noble at heart even when he shouldn't have been and he was a good man. And that's where everything went wrong. The Captain couldn't save everyone. All his men had a will to live, and yet, the soldier's will to protect was stronger.

And then the soldier slipped. Off the freight car. Down, down, down, clawing at the air helplessly. He knew he was going to die, but no, not like this, while his best friend watched, helpless. Nothing was to cushion his fall except the hard rocks, and the cold, unforgiving snow.

Yes, he was going to die, with his mind at the top of the cliff and his body sprawled out in the valley below. In the heat of the moment, he tried to cushion his fall with his arm, but it was instead sacrificed, a patch of red on the pure, white snow. His vision and his mind went black. He could feel himself being dragged off, but he had neither the energy nor the will to see who it was.

And it was like that for a long time, his vision going back and forth, conscious for a few seconds before the sea of black took him again.

The bright lights woke him. His arm felt cold, numb, and heavy. Faces peered down at him. And all the soldier felt was anger. Anger and pain. He bought his hands in front of him only to find that his left arm had been replaced by a metal appendage. He clawed at it, trying to get it off, only scarring his flesh in the process. So he reached out to the nearest surgeon, and his metal fist closed around the surgeon's neck. Commotion. Then black, and cold.

After a time, the ice-cold casket containing him opened with a gasp, and the soldier began to regain his senses.

Wake up boy, the puppeteer has arrived.