In the 21st century, The Soldier went rogue, HYDRA fell, but the files of the assassin still remained. The deaths were too big for SHIELD to let it simply go.
Apparently, the Avengers had no idea there were more than two people lost in time.
It wou...
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The small fire was slowly dying, the glowing embers flying into the chilly night air as the soldier looked onto the slightly burnt grass around the fire.
He was sitting on the ground, leaning against the car tire, a journal open on his lap while he gently held a pen in another.
The fire mirrored against his blue eyes, the only witness of the torn soul that he was trying to stitch together somehow, trying desperately hide away the overflowing feelings that hadn't surfaced for decades. They had been suppressed by drugs and electricity and poisons.
He flinched, hunching his shoulders as a memory flashed through his haunted eyes, leaving behind a blood-stained scenery and phantom screams.
A snap, he looked down. The pen that he had held so gently in fear of breaking it, was now snapped in two. It fell from his hand, landing on the ground as some ink spilt from it. Staining the ground, turning it black.
That was what he had been doing his whole life. That was what he had been taught to do, had done relentlessly whenever they took him out of the cryo.
He was the ink that stained the ground, soaking the earth in rivers of blood and torn families.
How horrible person-- no, not a person, but a machine he was.
They would forever weight down on his consciousness, the guilt would never leave. And the soldier almost craved for another dose of whatever they used to give him. He would have done anything to forget once again. He knew there was a lot more to remember, but this, the little that he had managed to see through his dreams whenever he tried to sleep, was a nightmare. Massacre, murders, a cold-blooded killer.
That's who he was. The soldier? Why did they call him the soldier? He is an assassin, a monster, a murderer.
His cheeks were wet with tears, and he hated them. Why were his eyes leaking water? He shouldn't cry for the memories he couldn't reach, shouldn't cry for the lives he was forced to take, because he didn't want to, alright? They weren't his to take, yet, he did. As if he was the executioner as if he had the right to take a soul, to take a child from their parent, a brother from a sister, a wife from a husband.
He wasn't supposed to weep, wasn't supposed to even feel and remember. Because weapons don't weep, and that's what he is supposed to be, a mere weapon, a killing machine.
"Fuck." he cursed, his voice soft as he rubbed his temples, screwing his eyes shut as he tried to prevent any more tears from flowing. He took a shaky breath in, resting his head against the car as he slid his fingers through his hair, grunting as he felt them get stuck in some knots.
He looked down onto the open journal, the writing that switched between English and Russian. He wasn't sure what caused the change of languages, but there was even a couple of German words lost in the middle of the text.
