Disclaimer: I only own Wilhelmina "Will" "Mina" Otto and her story. Everything else belongs to the wonderful creators of Marvel and the Marvel Cinematic Universe. This is merely a fanfiction inspired by their comics and novels. Also, I have never been part of any army, past or present, and everything I have learned is from history, my own family's stories, and a whole lot of research. I apologize now if anything is wrong.

There are spoilers for Infinity War, so if you've not seen the film then, then well, SPOILERS!

Also, my German is limited, and I only know the basics, such as hello, and goodbye, so those parts are written in english, unless stated otherwise.

There are translations for all languages at the bottom.

Also everything will be written in American-English as for this series I want to push myself. If there is anything wrong or anything Americans never say, please do tell me as I am not American, nor have I ever been to the USA.

To Stan Lee, creator of worlds.

1922 - 2018

Feral

Hamberg - 1845

She awoke to thumping, the sound of sharp knuckles smashing against her door, the desperate breathing rising to a worried whine. Sitting up, Wilhelmina leapt out of bed, twisting suddenly as her husband tried to grab her, and before Matthias could rise, she had slipped on her shoes and pushed open their bedroom door. Ignoring the fact that she was very naked, the woman grabbed Matthias' coat on her way past, and it wasn't until she was drawing back the bolt of number fifty, that she'd wrapped it around herself.

A fist almost hit her shoulder as she opened the door, but she grabbed the hand, twisting it away before the grubby fingers could even touch her. Ignoring the boy's yelps, Wilhelmina raised the hand, unfurling the tanned fingers until she saw the claws, the dark red mixed in the dirt and the story of death that lay behind it. Her eyes flickered to her brother, meeting his grey eyes, and dropped his hand.

'Victor!' Wilhelmina said, quickly closing the door behind her, cutting off the light. 'What are you doing here?'

Unlike her, Victor wasn't a redhead. He'd inherited his dark hair from their father, his height and burly shape too. Truth be told, she found it a little unnerving to see her father's double, that if she were to cock her head, Wilhelmina would see Thomas Logan instead. That was until Victor smiled, and then he was all his unknown mother.

'Hey, Willa,' her half-brother breathed, a cocky grin etched on his lips. 'Can we say tonight?'

'We?'

Stepping to the side, Wilhelmina finally spotted the young boy. He was pale, young, back hunched and dressed in a loose pair of trousers and shirt, that looked to be Victor's. He had a soft face, his eyes a deep, calculating grey, but it was his hands, which gave his status away. She scowled, glaring at Viktor.

'And just which lord did you steal this boy from?' she asked curtly, arms folded. 'I won't let you in if it means I'll be killed for treason,'

Victor shuffled, running his far too long fingernails through his hair.

'He's not a lord's son,' he breathed, eyes closing for a brief second before he turned to stare into his sister's eyes. 'He's our half-brother: James,'

'James?'

It was like a slap in the face, and as Wilhelmina studied James' face, she finally connected the dots. The way his eyes were set deep in his skull, his jaw, and the mole on the right-hand side of his neck: traits all handed to her and Victor from the Logan line.

Sighing deeply, Wilhelmina pressed her hand to her forehead, her nails digging slightly into her skin as she breathed a deep, exhausted sigh. Lowering her hand, Wilhelmina slipped her hand to the doorknob, twisting it tightly, allowing the warm light to filter back onto the street.

'Come inside then,' she said, looking at James. 'Do you like hot milk? You must be cold. Traveling to Hamberg in the winter is never enjoyable.'

James frowned, blinking hurriedly at her. Victor smiled softly and shrugged.

'He doesn't speak German, Willa — only English. We stopped speaking it years ago to fit in'

Wilhelmina's lips tightened, to the point where they almost diapered into her lips. Drawing herself up, she tucked a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, yellow eyes burning.

'Well then,' she said curtly and seemed to glare. 'That is a shame. He'll have to learn.'

And then, suddenly she smiled, extending her hand out to James.

'Welcome,' she breathed, her English rusty after years of disuse, 'James,'

Her half-brother took her hand, holding it tight. After a moment's hesitation, Wilhelmina smiled, and grabbed Victor's arm, pulling her family inside.

Düsseldorf - 1943

The walls shook as the bombs fell, the high pitched whistle of death plummeting down towards the earth as the people sat, protected by the cellar's depth more than its structure. Dust fell from the stone roof, scattering the quiet mutterings into loud shouts, and in the dark, children cried. Flickers of light — candlelight — created scattered fractures across the damp walls, drawing out ghostly, nightmarish figures, highlighting not only the people's terror but also their fear in the unknown.

Will winced as another bomb fell, eyes screwed up tight as the child beside her gripped her arm, nails biting into flesh, drawing beads of blood. The child didn't belong to her, in fact, she didn't even know his name. However, she had scooped him up when the bombing had started, dragged him away from corpses, and death, let him scream until his throat rung raw, and the tears were dry.

He sat in her shadow, face pressed deep into her neck, and every time a bomb fell, he shook. Will closed her eyes, controlling her mutation as incisors threatened to grow, and pressed her hands to the floor, feeling the vibrations that traveled up her spine. She had situated herself under a doorway, glaring at any newcomers who came in, as if demanding her right to be there.

Dressed in a pair of trousers, and a white pressed shirt, held up by suspenders and a warm coat, she didn't come off as the stereotypical German woman Hitler wanted them all to be. Her hair was cropped short, the longest of those black strands touching the tips of her ears, and her eyes were as yellow as the moon above. Scars clipped her jaw, three broken lines of a childhood accident marring her features, shrapnel markings, heckled her right eye, and shoulders, reminding those who saw her that she was deadly, and in the darkness, the dog tags gleamed.

If one were to look at those tags, to see the red line where the cord marred her skin, they would find names that did not belong to her. Four in all hung around her throat, the heaviness wary of the deaths that they carried. Some were new, shaped into a curved rectangle with the blood of the comrades still stained on the metal, others were old, dented and misshapen into odd circles, and some were made long after the soldier died, and yet, only one was hers.

Francis Parker.

August Stahl.

Fabien Rodin.

Will Otto.

Will Matt Otto — William Matthias Otto — Wilhelmina Marta Otto.

Sighing, the Will closed her eyes once more. Oh, how she missed them.

Luca had been the first to die, his head coming clean off during the Civil War that he barely knew what had happened until he was lying in the dirt. There had been Fabien, in the Franco-Prussian War, a fellow prisoner of war who had kissed her dearly, before being filled with bullets, his body sent back as a warning to the French. Finally, there was August, his role in the Kaiser Wilhelm II's army, like her, conscripted rather than voluntary, until his body hung from the rafters when he'd tried to flee.

Freedom.

The thought flitted across her mind like a wave, pulling at the thing, or preferably two things, she had long since forgotten.

Her brothers: Victor Creed; James Howlett.

It had been years since she'd seen her brothers since she'd met them across the battlefield instead of by their side. She had been tortured, strung up by the allies until she screamed, and they had watched. They had stood in the corner; head bowed, fists clenched, mutations bubbling and writhing until she fell unconscious. She suspected they were fighting in this war too, for, like her, War called to their innermost instincts, the hunger and taste of death something that none could ignore. Except for this time, she would not fight; not for him.

Would this be the war that would finally kill her?

The child's scream broke her musings, and Will rested her palm on his back, gently running her hand up and down his shoulders, trying her best to calm. But she was never one for children, and the boy shook her off, screaming for his mother, and Will breathed deeply, as he waited for an answer.

Apparently, Lady Luck was on his side, for a second later, a voice filled the cellar.

'Max! Max! Oh my boy, there you are!'

A woman rushed forward forwards, purple shawl hanging around her shoulders as she reached for her son. Turning, the boy spun towards his mother, throwing his shaking body into her arms, burying his head in her chest, as sobs ran down his spine.

His mother kissed his head, muttering calming things, before she looked at Will, giving her a wary look.

'Thank you, thank you,' the woman breathed, clutching the boy so tightly Will thought she might beak him. 'I'm Edie, Max's mother. How can I ever repay you…?'

Will shrugged and smiled.

'Will, and it was nothing. Why don't you sit,' she said, amber eyes drifting to the shaking ceiling, as the war grew. 'This city will still be standing tomorrow, and the next day after that, but it will burn before all this is over. So please, sit down, and pray, — pray for all of us, because when we finally leave, we are all going to need it.'

Edie nodded, and before anyone could stop her, she had untied the scarf that was wrapped tightly around her shoulders, setting her son on the ground beside her as she folded her legs underneath. Pausing, the woman stared at the fabric, cracked lips moistening as she fingered at the purple strands. She flinched as Will touched the back of her hand, callused fingers rough and painfully sore against Edie's soft.

'It's all right,' she breathed, squeezing hard as the roof shook. 'No one will judge you here. Your safe with me,'

A cold fire lit in the pits of Edie's eyes, and then she straightened, placing the tichel at the front of her hairline, covering her dark, thick hair, before passing the frayed ends over each other to form a tight fold at the base of her skull. A small smile lit Will's lips as the woman began to speak, her voice as loud and carefree as a songbird, and as Edie bowed her head, Will closed her eyes, and began to sing, the hymn passing her lips like water.

Yiddish and German mingled in the air, drowning out the banging and the clanging and the awful shrieking, and as the song and prayer reached its point, Edie gripped Will's arm tight. They respected each other, just as they were supposed to do, with acceptance and honor between their two religions, and the humble prayers to a G-d who meant absolutely everything.

Above, Düsseldorf burned.

Afghanistan - 2007

Afghanistan was hot, hot and dusty, and smelt like death, or at least, the cave did. Truthfully Mina would have welcomed Death with open arms if he'd have her, but considering that she was a couple of years shy of being two hundred, that didn't seem likely.

A warm light broke the darkness, cutting through the tiny thing that Mina might have called a window, if not for the bars. She smiled, biting her gum as she sat up. Dawn was breaking across Afghanistan, and not for the first or last time. Rising, her dog tags clinking, Mina crawled towards the window, her smile widening to a grin as the red sun hit her skin, igniting her freckled face like lightning.

It was heavenly.

The sound of men, and their clunking boots — all six of them — drew her away from the window, and she lunged for her cot, pulling her scarf over her head as the door opened. Sweat clung to her arms, and she winced as the door clanged and groaned, the sound making her mind wince, and her muscles and bones to twitch like a grasshopper.

She didn't dare draw up her mutation, didn't dare call upon its wants or needs, and although it called her name if there was one thing Mina had learned in all her one-hundred and eighty-eight years, that telling the enemy, your advantage was never a good thing.

The sand she had conspicuously swept into a pile, had spread over everything, coating her clothes, in a thin layer of dust. That dust dispersed as a man was pushed into the room, his glasses falling as he crashed. He began to crawl, trying to get away from Raza, but he was too weak. Mina's captor stepped on the man's foot, drawing a scream from his lips.

Mina stayed where she was, not moving an inch.

'So,' Raza said, still holding the man down, 'you're up,'

In the beginning, her Arabic was useless, never once as good as her Polish, but over the last couple of months, Mina had learned. She could understand everything anyone said, from what Raza was having for dinner, to who they wanted her to kill. She nodded, drawing her arms up to her chest as a guard came forward

She let him touch her, to run a hand over her lips, to crack open her jaw, inspecting the set of vicious incisors that grew from her gums. Mina didn't even flinch as his hands roamed over her body, his fingers tapping her hips as he passed. But that didn't mean she was on edge.

Her eyes followed his movements with piercing anger, and as the guard stepped back shaking his head, Raza sighed.

'You still won't reveal yourself,' he muttered, shaking his head. 'Fine, be that way. My employers will break you soon enough.'

She never knew who Raza's employers were, and as the men left, and the door closed, she released a breath. In an instant, Mina had jumped over her cot and collapsed beside the fallen man, her hands searching his pockets for anything Raza might have left.

But like everyone else, there was nothing: except his glasses.

A low groan escaped the man's lips as he sat up, touching his skull. He winced when he felt blood and drew back when he saw her. Mina smiled, through her lips, trying to hide her teeth. She didn't need him to scream.

He was older than her in appearance, then again, nearly everyone was. His goatee was greying, the edges of his temples speckled with strands of almost white hair — his eyes, dark as they were studied her with a confused, fearful look as if waiting for her to pounce.

Mina sighed and gently handed him back his glasses.

'Are you all right?' She asked, Arabic lining her lips. 'You took quite a fall.'

The man nodded, putting the glasses back on his nose.

'Yes,' he said, curtly. 'I'm fine.'

Mina cocked her head and held out her hand.

'I'm Mina Lehnsherr.' Mina said, the alias drifting to her lips far too quick. 'And you?'

The man adjusted his glasses, smiling softly as he excepted her hand.

'Please to meet you. I'm Dr. Ho Yinsen,'

Mina grinned.

'Welcome to the Cave of Ten Rings!' Mina cried, wiping away the blood that ran down that man's neck with her thumb. 'A place where all their kidnapped civilians live in dusty harmony,'

Yinsen cracked a smile.

Wakanda - 2018

He'd won; just like he'd boasted.

Wildcat licked her lips, drawing the sick, churning feeling from her stomach as she stared at the giant. He, in all his purple monstrosity, was victorious, but his golden glove was smoking and burning in the light like a sick joke. She breathed tight, suddenly finding it hard to breathe as something grew.

'WHAT DID YOU DO?'

Thor's eyes widened as he drew away, Thanos' disappearing in a tunnel of teleportation. The ax fell to the ground.

And then it happened.

At first, Wildcat didn't notice it, for she was far too wrapped up in her thoughts, that was until it began to happen to her. Her eyes flickered to Sabertooth, his mouth open wide. A small gasp left her lips as her toes turn to dust, and somewhere in the back on her mind, she was laughing. Apparently, Death did come to her after all: albeit several centuries too late.

She heard her name being called, felt her brother fall her side, his fingers digging into her wrist. Looking up, Wildcat stared into Sabertooth's eyes, her yellow meeting his grey. He gripped her hands, pressing them close as she fell against his chest, her knees disappearing as she fell.

The two were old, centuries now, and still, Sabertooth, no matter what side they were on, always came running back to her: his big sister. She grinned, twisting a strand of his hair between her thumb and forefinger. He'd let himself go. With his sharp teeth, and pointed claws he resembled her the most.

Wolverine - Not so much.

Closing her eyes, Wildcat breathed in her brother's scent, smelling the blood and dirt that marred his clothes, trying to remember him one last time. Would he miss her? Probably not. A small cry left Sabertooth's lips her as the dust traveled up to her hips, his fingers clutching into her back as his fear rose.

'Hey,' Wildcat breathed, patting his back with her gloved hands. 'Hey, brother. Everything will be all right.'

Sabertooth shook his head, long hair falling down her back as he leaned over her, stuffing him into her chest as tightly as he could as if he'd be able to keep her: as if he were able to stop Death.

'No,' Sabertooth cried, tears reaching his eyes. 'No, not now! Not ever. Please don't leave me,'

Wildcat smiled, pulling away, her fingers trailing down his jaw, studying him as if she were a mother gazing at her child. She leaned forward, lips pressing to his jaw, her eyes screwing uptight as she struggled not to cry.

'I love you - both of you.'

Wildcat drew back, clutching at his shoulders, her eyes meeting his for once last time, as her back went, the wind carrying her away.

'Auf Wiedersehen,'

And then she was gone.

Translations:

German:

Auf Wiedersehen: Goodbye

Dear Readers,

I am redoing this story so that Wilhemina will be the only OC.

From

Lily.