Echoes

Nine

As the cold air hissed out of the soldier's casket, he awoke. Voices seemed to float in the air around him although there was nobody to be seen. 

Was he going mad? The soldier did not know. The last thing he remembered. . . the last thing he remembered was death. At his hands. Images and memories flooded his mind. He remembered what he had done. All of it. All the pain, suffering and destruction he had caused. And for what? To be put back in his casket again– dead to the world. 

Hot tears slid down the soldier's cheeks. He held his head in his hands, questioning himself with no mercy. Although his conscience was a mess, his head felt clearer than it had in weeks, perhaps months.

A door clicked open. The soldier looked up, his face still wet with tears he did not bother to hide. A man stood in the doorway. "Soldier. Engage Blackboard Protocol."

When he heard this, the soldier fell to his knees. He blinked– but when he opened his eyes, there he was. Back in the chair.

The mask descended. "No, no, no, please . . . no, not again," the soldier whispered. The men around him did not hear or care. When the mask was firmly fitted on his face, the soldier forgot all about his newfound memory. All there was– the entire world– was unbearable pain. And suddenly, it was gone.

"Longing. Rusted. Seventeen. Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car." A pause. "Soldier?"

"Ready to comply."

"Prepare for mission debrief."

The soldier woke up in a truck. It rattled as it sped down the winding road. Cold seeped into the trailer, making the soldier shiver. 

The soldier had a mission. He knew what he had to do. 

The truck stopped. Two men opened the doors and moonlight seeped into the trailer. The men handed the soldier a small knife and a pistol without a word. They gave him a motorbike and sent him to the nearest townlet.

The soldier saw him. The man he was here to capture for Hydra. The man was dark-skinned and wore a thick jacket to shield him from the cold. The soldier eyed the man's jacket in envy. 

The man was speaking to one of his peers. The soldier listened closely, probing for information to give to his superiors. 

"The next vibranium shipment will be next week. That should be sufficient for your needs, Klaue."

The soldier's attention drifted to the newspaper in front of him. There was. . . a picture. . . of a man who looked so familiar yet so much like a stranger at the same time. A jolt went through him that sent him reeling reminded him of the mission at hand. 

Turning around, he shot a round of bullets at the men, purposely aiming for their legs. Boom. Boom. Both men fell to the ground. 

But the man, the man the soldier had come to capture, pulled out a firearm of his own. He fired, and a beam of blue light shot towards the soldier. He tried to shield himself with his metal appendage, but the beam disintegrated it. Shocked and off-balance, the soldier stumbled to the ground. 

A moment later, the men from the truck arrived. The took the men the soldier had shot after incapacitating them. 

The soldier found the picture from the newspaper on the ground and bent down to study it. But before he could get a good look, a man from the truck snatched it away.

"Focus on the mission at hand, soldier."

"Yes sir."

No distractions for a weapon.