— Run tired soldier, they’re coming for you
TW — Mentions of death, brainwashing, kidnapping/held captive, mentions of war
————————————————————
“ᴏʜ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴘʟᴀʏ
ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴀɴɢᴇʟꜱ ʜɪᴅᴇ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ.
ɪ ᴄᴀɴᴛ ʜᴇʟᴘ ʙᴜᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴄᴀᴠᴇ,
ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ʟɪᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴘᴀɪɴ.
ᴏʜ ɢᴏᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʜᴜʀʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴ,
ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ ɪꜱ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜱɪᴄᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ”
————————————————————
|| February 5th, 1955
— New York Daily Times
Front page,
Ten year anniversary of the brave act.
CAPTAIN AMERICA
Ten years ago today, Steve Rogers, Captain America gave his live to the war. We honor the soldier, today. As well as every day to come.
In memory of the soldiers lost in battle, New York Daily Times offer statements from the surviving members of the group known as the Howling Commandos, a group created by Steve Rogers.
—
Four days later,
Small droplets of water ticked from the tiny bathroom sink, the sound ringing within his mind as if on repeat. It had been four awful days in this room, trying to piece together a life he once lived. Memories so distant had filled his mind, that day. The tender knowledge coming back to him made the soldier feel sick to his stomach. It had been an unsettling moment, one small glimpse into a life no longer his. He knew that man. The man in the plane. The one who died.
Soldat knew him more than himself now. Knew small things about him. Things he wouldn’t have known had he not shared a life alongside him. Things he shouldn’t have known. Small pieces of a life, seemingly stronger than the fog in his mind. Quick memories, that found a way past the barrier put up.
The moments were driving him mad.
The more he thought of this distant life, the more he had come to realize, he hadn’t even known this much about his own. He couldn’t find himself farther than the last ten years he had lived. It was as if he hadn’t lived longer than that. Like he had been only a ghost of a person before. Like he had be a shadow of the man on the plane. Someone who had never lived without him.
Everything he knew was the man on the plane.
Nothing else was coming back. He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t put a name to it. All he knew was Steve Rogers was here, once. He was roaming the world. And everything the soldat could remember tied to the man. The small strings of his memory all tied to him, to the man who died.
It was a desperate feeling. The unsuspecting tragedy of finding out your life had died with someone else. That every string attached to oneself rested within the palm of a man he hadn’t remember a week ago.
Soldat knew he had nowhere to go from here. And truthfully, he didn’t want to leave. He knew Hydra was looking for him. That at any moment they could come for him. Pull him away from the memories. That the cold was creepy up, ready to take him from the man who had died.
The memories in which broke past the fog where small fragments of a person.
That person, he’d questioned for four days.
That person was him.
Only, he didn’t know his name.
—
Five days,
Another day had come and gone. As the sun rose, the man had not. His tired body couldn’t bring itself to stand. It felt broken, bruised. It was cold, the kind of cold that lasted a lifetime. His mind was worse now. It was turning over, playing tricks on itself.
The more he remembered, the worse things felt. He couldn’t find a word for this. But somewhere deep within his mind, in a place he could not bare to visit, he knew had Steve been there, Steve would have called it grief. Or longing, perhaps.
Love, maybe.
Pain.
Any one of those words would have worked. They all meant the same thing. They all felt similar, as if they were all words made up to mask the truth. Words in which only meant loss.
His eyes were heavy, and scared. His mind was racing, paranoia creating an ache in his chest. He wasn’t quite sure how he had got there, now. The time between reading the newspaper and remembering the man on the plane’s name was blurred in time. Blank moments he hadn’t really cared to remember. He was already there, in the cheap hotel room. Sitting on the floor at the end of the bed, his fingers pulling at his hair, too panicked to keep still. He hadn’t slept in the days that followed the news report. He couldn’t stop for a moment. His need to remember far to strong, and he knew he didn’t have enough time.
He knew if he stopped for a second, he would lose the time he needed to bring himself back. That he needed to know all he had forgotten, before they could come for him. That he just needed a little more time, a little more time to know what to do.
If he didn’t figure it out, he would lose it all. He would be taken back to the cold.
—
Six days,
The small hotel room was ruined now. Rage had found the soldier that night, carrying him far from the flowing memories. Consuming him whole. He was half aware of the violence seeping from him, the way his body moved through the room. Destroying everything in its path. The way the grief was breaking everything put between him and the man on the plane. As if the ruins would come and carry him away. Take him far from here, to a place this kind of pain wouldn’t find him.
It had been hours since then. The sun was coming up now, and Soldat found himself sitting on the floor again. His back against the bed. His head leaning against his knees.
He hadn’t move since he had ruined the room. His bones were aching now, from hours of the desperate act of caving into himself.
The trickling noise was heard again, cutting though the otherwise silent room. The soldier focused on it, trying in the only way he could, to bring himself back to the present. He couldn’t stay this way forever. And he knew that. He had to move, to run. Find safety somewhere. He was a man running, stuck in a place that wasn’t safe, no matter how much the memories made it seem to be.
Only then had it come to pass, that the world hadn’t been on his side. The door of the small hotel made a cracking noise, the hinges breaking from the force behind it. It was a telltale sign that the world had turned its back on the man.
They had found him.
The cold had come for him.
—
// Photo’s and gifs do not belong to me, all credit to the creators
