March 1941

Edith felt very little pain when she was shot with her first bullet, ripping through the skin of her waist, blood splattering the floor and ripping her uniform.

She had been stabbed twice, had her nose broken three times and her left knee cap shattered over the last six months. Schmidt sometimes trained her himself, alongside her immunising.

After the first session on the table, her coach had started to teach her hand-to-hand combat. It was not the clean kind where one would have a sense for mercy, to teach their opponent a lesson; it was dirty, bloody and torturous. Edith, having gained strength from her Physical Training, took to the combat skills very well, accordingly. She followed orders, executed each move precisely and accurately, more graceful than the demonstrations from her coaches. Each guard she came up against relished in giving the prisoner a bruise in the shape of their own fist, and yet they always came out the worst. The coach always let her do the first few practises on a sand filled bag, to get them perfect. Then the leather quickly turned to flesh and the quiet creaks of the suspension chain turned into grunts of pain. The first weeks were the basics; jabbing, punching and kicking. Then it turned into squeezing throats at just the right place, elbowing diaphragms, snapping spines and necks, dislocating knees and shoulders and hips; just enough to make the victim howl in pain. Of course, Schmidt had decided that she wasn't quite ready for first degree murder yet and so the training went on, though with not as much ruthlessness and strength.

But they were still turning her into a weapon.

"God Dammit," she whined, clutching the wound and falling to one knee,

"SUPRES IT SOLDIER!" Schmidt bellowed at her. She hadn't been quick enough, she was not able to throw herself out of the way when the guard had spontaneously started shooting at her, "Soldier, remember your training or we will be forced to immunise you twice a day if you can't handle a little bullet,"

Her lips tightened at his words, her eyes quickly calculating the smug way the guard was standing with one hip jutting out. Edith saw red and lunged, inhumanly fast and with an almighty roar; whipping her boot up and into the side of the guard's neck, letting him fall to the ground before cradling his head in her hands.

Edith held no hand to her waist, only small bruise showed where the bullet had grazed her. Her expression was bland, and Schmidt was doing nothing about it. The strength in her actions was infinite, ever so slowly squeezing and twisting the guard's head until he let out a piercing shriek, a spine-chilling crack echoed through the chamber.

The guard slumped forwards, his head at a ninety degree angle to his body. Edith looked down at her own hands, horrified when she had come to terms with what had done.

"Twice a day," Schmidt seethed, "You should be faster by now," he marched away, Edith jogged up next to him, "Heal should take no time at all,"

"It was my first bullet sir," she replied, wiping sweat from her temples. His eyes were black when he turned round to face her, a hysterical expression clouding his face and his smile was not something Edith had seen before.

February 1942

"Shoot it," Edith's coach demanded icily, "I've told you twice now, shoot it or I shoot you," The gun felt heavy in her hand and Edith realised that she was quivering slightly, a bead of sweat rolling down her right temple.

She wasn't nervous, she was excited. Edith had been anticipating this day for weeks, ever since she'd overheard Schmidt debriefing her coaches on her weaponry training. The first coach had cheekily promised her a box of ammunition if she ran her one hundred meter sprint in ten seconds; but that one had been led away the next day and shot for 'being sympathetic to the prisoner'. Edith had liked that one, even if the woman had been over six foot and had biceps the size of basketballs, she was sad to hear the news of her disposal; saddened but not distraught like she would have been six months ago. The coach she had now was nasty, strict and disciplinary like a proper trainer should be, pushing Edith to her absolute limits every day.

And so, following the orders like any other soldier would; she raised the gun and held it out, letting the coach correct her stance and lock her elbows in place. There was a target fifty meters or so away, a large piece of card with the outline of a man printed on with grey circles around the head, torso, thighs and shoulders. They were her targets but the coach only wanted to see if Edith could actually use a gun before they moved on to knowing where to shoot someone. The coach lengthened Edith's neck slightly and stood back, waiting for her to take the shot.

Edith had used a gun only twice in her life; one time in America to stop a wolf from eating her uncle's chickens and another to prevent two burglar's from stealing a jewellery store that she had been inconveniently in. The wolf had bled out after a few hours from a stomach wound and Edith had only managed to shatter the window of the shop because her hands had been shaking so badly. Her fingers grew pale around the weapon, letting out seven shots of which only four hit the target.

Everything was silent, no one laughed or shouted or spat insults. Schmidt looked down at her from the glass room with scrutinising eyes however the rest of the spectators were speechless. Edith held out her hand for another cartridge, unloading all of the bullets into the chest of the target and creating one large tear in it. She then put the gun back in the holster on her thigh and stood to attention; hands behind her back, feet shoulder width apart and spine a straight as a ruler.

"Get out of my sight," his harsh words nearly made her flinch and Edith was grabbed underneath her arms, two guards hauling her out of the chamber, "Give her to Zola," the instructions came roughly and she was carted down a grey corridor, the guards squeezing her shoulders far too tight. She was thrown against a door, it falling open and crashing to the floor.

Immediately, the two guards started to kick her mercilessly. The bruises that were the result throbbed for ten seconds before healing themselves, fading away into her pale skin,

"Put her in the chair," Zola was speaking English and that worried her, for no one ever spoke her native language when she was around, "Strap her up," his Swiss accent was not comforting as Edith was manhandled into a metal chair with leather belts for her wrists, ankles and torso. They were tightened to the point where the welts began to bleed.

"It is still a little early to begin this," Zola explained, waltzing up to her and placing a rubber cap over her skull, adorned with small neurone-like digits that dug into her skin painfully, "But you are too dangerous in this state of mind," He inserted two tiny needles delicately into her temples before covering them with ice cold patches, "You are too independent, too mindful," Edith stared straight ahead at the grey tiled wall with her chest heaving. The guards were stood by the door, tensed as if they were expecting her to try and escape, their guns up by their chests and masks hanging off their hips. Their faces were menacing, observing every tiny move,

"Our leader wants you single minded, focused on one cause and your memories are leading you astray," Zola sat back up on his stool behind a control panel and flicked a switch, "This will wipe you," Edith's eyes widened momentarily and she struggled for half a second, the straps binding her chest and the needles embedded beneath her temples preventing her from doing so. Her thoughts were reeling, just as Zola wanted and the screen to the left of him started to bleep in time with her elevated heartbeat. He twisted a dial and Edith's body started to quake, her temples throbbing and her skin instantly dampening. She could not speak, even if she was ordered to because the muscles in her jaw had clamped together. Visions flashed before her open eyes, like a film was being shown just for a special occasion. A small girl ran across the room in a fit of tears, beating upon an imaginary door and shouting in muffed sentences. It was like someone had filled her ears with water because when the scene changed to an elderly woman in a silver dress singing, she could not hear the music playing. Edith watched helplessly as each of the visions faded into another as if the film reel had things added to it and had been edited rather badly. Things jumped, buzzed and blurred within each other, people's faces warping into one another before disappearing completely. It was an odd feeling, like her body had released a huge amount of adrenalin and she was just feeling the aftereffects of it. Edith's mind was weightless and her limbs felt like iron at the same time; causing her head to loll forwards on to her chest,

"Oh!" Zola was horrified as he watched Edith's body slump in faint and he quickly turned the machine off, rushing over to his soldier and removing the needles from her skin before gently shaking her shoulders, "Soldier," he sounded terrified and Edith could barely keep her eyes open, let alone respond to his desperate attempt to rouse her. She twitched once, just as the last scene in front of her disappeared; it was of a young woman in a navy dress, sitting in a hospital room with a frown on her face and a tube connected to the inside of her elbow.

Edith was in her bed when she woke, covered in a woollen blanket. She sat up immediately, scrubbing her eyes and running a hand through her short hair,

"Goddamn it," she mumbled to herself and rested her head between her knees, willing an oncoming headache away, feeling it bubble to the surface for a split second before disappearing completely. Edith stayed still and quiet for a total of twenty three seconds before the familiar sound of metal clanging signalled the unlocking of her door and it swung open.

"Name and number," someone barked and Edith jumped up to attention,

"The Crimson Soldier, project number eighteen," she recited automatically and the guard standing in the doorway nodded, clicking his heels together and saluting her. There was a pregnant pause,

"Aren't you supposed to return the salute?" he asked nervously and Edith raised an eyebrow, still standing straight,

"That will be all," Schmidt appeared behind the guard and gave Edith a stony look, "There is no need for her to salute,"

He waved a hand at her and two guards bound her wrists in metal cuffs, an obvious change in the way they usually restrained her. They knew she was getting stronger, and until her mind and memories were absent; she was a huge threat to the success of the programme,

"We will continue your training today soldier," Schmidt informed her icily, "Your coach has set up new targets to test out your aim," his words struck a slight nerve within Edith, her breath hitching a bit when they entered the chambered room she'd grown so used to over the months. The cuffs were removed and two guns were placed in her hands, along with several ammunition cartridges and then she was left alone. Edith sheathed the guns and peered around herself with the accuracy she was taught, zooming in on the flickering shadows and focusing on the black figures scuttling between the steel re-enforcers. Someone coughed and a breeze whistled past her right shoulder, the cool metal of a barrel pressing against her skin. The gun dragged up along her neck and steamed at her temple, as if it had already been fired.

The weapon felt heavy in her palm as she lifted it to shoot, letting out a shot before realising she had missed the assailant's head by about a meter. The backlash of the motion jolted her bones and her lips opened in a gasp, eyes widening in horror and in realisation; she'd forgotten how to shoot. Edith's eyes whipped up to the glass room where she knew Schmidt was watching her.

"Finish the mission soldier," his voice echoed around the room and Edith immediately responded, spinning around to face her previous assailant who was preparing to take aim at her heart. Bracing herself in a low squat, Edith suddenly leapt up in a swinging kick and let out a roar. Her right foot missed his head but at the very last second, Edith struck out with her left foot and he was out cold on the floor with a bleeding ear. Her only way out of this one was to fight with her strength and her wits.

Someone began running towards her, fast and very heavily, grunting with the effort and Edith let out a huff. She set out in a sprint, sliding down on to her knees just before they collided and she tackled him, spinning so she was behind him with her arms clasped tightly around the tops of his thighs. In a matter of milliseconds, Edith had completely lifted him up over her head, using her legs as leverage and throwing herself backwards so he landed right on the back of his neck. Her jaw squared at the sickening crack of her opponent's neck breaking and she threw herself to her feet, preparing for another attacker.

There were a few gunshots to her left as she ran forwards, catching the shooter with a carefully aimed swat to his throat, kneeing him in the ribs before bringing her elbow down between his shoulder blades. She immediately dodged another round of bullets, delivering a single kick into someone's chest; hard enough to break their ribs and puncture their lungs. Edith grimaced as a bullet tore through the skin of her forearm, still sprinting onwards to the last two shooters. The first man was pathetic at defending himself, raising his arms far too slowly to block the hand that thrust his head against a steel kneecap. The second man was rather well prepared with plenty of bullets to spit at her, forcing her to take cover behind a steel girder. A ricochet skimmed past Edith's ear and her eyes momentarily flickered up to the glass watch room, seeing the spectators eagerly jotting down notes and taking pictures of her; one of them even had a film camera. Her fingers traced the gun on her left thigh, slowly easing it out of the holster and weighing it in her hands.

Of all the things Doctor Zola had erased from her short term memory, he just had to get rid of her gun training. Of course, anyone knew how to hold a gun and how to shoot one, it was sort of a skill everyone had deep down or at the surface. HYDRA had brought this skill to the surface for her, and then buried it right back down again. Edith's skin was slick with sweat and her forefinger slipped on the trigger three times before she let a shot out, with closed eyes and quivering lips. There was a shriek of pain and she opened her eyes just in time to see the last man launch himself at her, neck and hands covered in blood. Her blind bullet had ripped through his left shoulder and the victim was enraged. His blood splattered in a trail as he scrambled towards her, baring his teeth menacingly. Edith felt adrenalin fill her veins suddenly, her mind dimming and lowering to the standard Schmidt wanted her at, and the edges of her vision began to turn a strange red colour. She stepped out from behind the girder and grasped the man by the wounded shoulder, depositing three bullets into his forehead; all with a tight smile on her lips.