His Mission
All characters belong to Marvel Comics and Disney
I do not own anything
{All edits were done by LeDbrite}
The amber rays of sunlight gleamed over his face, sloppy dark chestnut strands of hair sticking to his bruises and bloody jaw; he struggles against the pain— numbness ripples in his veins, cold and condemning.
He clamps his eyes shut, blocking out the glistening pools of water as he breathes out a shaky exhale— he feels his lungs drain—smudges of blood encase over the curved edges of his full lips, it feels like ice drips over his chin. He reopens his eyes-allowing the depth of darkened malice to melt, as crescents of light become entrapped in wells of hazy, feral steel-azure blue-the color mixtures of a winter sky.
He scans with a piercing glare over the disturbed waters of the Potomac River, searching for something his heart is pressing his mortality to find-he pauses momentary and stares firmly at the discolored water— it's unmistakably blood of a fallen soldier.
Suddenly, he finds himself caught in a division between controlled order and humanity, the murky shades of his tormented soul churn as he bites hard on his lips— he tastes the metallic flavor of blood trickle down the walls of his raw throat— he is immune to the taste of death.
The Soldier narrows his eyes, head down, staring intensely at the ripples—small circular patterns— his fierce instinct directs him deeper into the river, his feet carrying him until he reaches the spot. His metal hand slowly lowers into the water, grabbing a piece of a familiar blue material and he lifts it up to his chest with a tight fist.
"He's my mission," his strained voice reminds his soul in a low pitch. He clenches his jaw as the voice of his true self-the noble and loyal spirit that became a prisoner in a hollow shell of a demon carved in ice- guides his metal hand down into the water.
He parts his lips slowly, heaving out an unsteady breath and bends his leather armored knees until he feels the water soak through the layers of his skin.
He grimaces; the dull ache in his broken arm constricts the fractured bones. "He's a soldier—like me. He doesn't deserve to die… Not this way." he murmurs in a scarce whisper. He seethes out his aggression and clasps his metal fingers on a broad shoulder before the limp, unconscious body falls into a watery grave.
"Come on, don't quit on me," he says in a distant, strange voice, unfamiliar to his ears. He feels his lungs press against his rib cage. He hoists the body of Captain America out of the water, holding onto the first avenger with his hand- light blue eyes widened with bewilderment as he stares down at Steve's battered face —he fights against the pulsing, tormenting waves of Hydra in the deep recesses of his mind —he fights to grasp redemption in his soul.
"Don't quit on me..." he growls out, a brusque cadence in his low voice. He turns his head, looking for a clear spot and slowly begins to drag the weight of Steve Roger's muscular frame out of the water. He struggles to gain balance against the pounding throbs in his muscles and carries Steve to a safe place at the edge of the river.
His tactical boots slosh in the water as he finally touches the shore, slowly he eases Steve on the earth —he lets out a heavy breath, his body is drenched and exhausted, but his ice-like eyes remain clear and firm on white star in the middle of Steve's uniform.
Withdrawing a step away from Steve, he shifts and stares passively at the thick, black smoke in the distance, touching the afternoon sky as sirens wail in the humid breeze. His eyes fill with smoldering tears, he feels confused, lost and vindictive. He becomes a victim of liberating fury. The good man beyond the dark semblance of the Soviet assassin slowly begins to seep out as steady tears create tracks down his broad and chiseled features.
A muffled sound wafts behind him, it lulls his eyes to drift back to Steve's face—he stares down deeply with the remorse cast over his ruddy cheeks.
He rakes his steady and menacing eyes over the stains of blood, bruises, and cuts etched on the blonde haired man's commanding features and lips.
Steve slowly stirs, his head moves against the dirt as water leaks from the corners of his mouth. The Soldier's shadow towers over him in those still moments—sincere and protective blue eyes of a lost friend narrow down at him.
"I don't know who you claim yourself to be, to the people who believe in your choices," His voice cuts against the light breeze- it slashes over his soaked skin; his breath labored as coldness sears into his bones.
"You're a good—" his voice hesitates, he feels a pull on his heartstrings. "A great man who fights for their freedom. Your mission is to save them—You're not the enemy."
The Soldier stares intently at Steve with a dismal gleam in his haunted eyes, he squints, studying the colors on the tattered uniform-red, white and blue.
The American flag.
He allows his mind to recollect those images for a moment, and then he pulls away, chin lowering and eyes latched onto Steve's face.
"You're no longer my mission..." he lets out, a forceful exhale, placing his shaky bionic hand on his broken arm. He clenches his metal fingers into a fist —feeling nothing— no bones cracking or warm blood- just unforgiving ice.
He nods with the tiniest bob of his head; looks around the forest-like area with sharp and alert blue eyes. Long, damp strands of hair lash against his ashen cheeks-he slips slowly away -limping and straggling, leaving Steve alone and waiting to become rescued by— his friends.
The Soldier disappears into the shadows of the trees, he knows surviving to live is all he has left -but he also feels a brush of hope on his face-he knows that his existence is now Steve Rogers' mission.
He feels the sharp edges of his full, swollen lips slack into a weak smirk as he whispers—allowing the warm air to carry his voice back to an awakening Steve Rogers.
"Until the end of the line... My friend."