1935. Somewhere in Siberia, USSR.
The wind howled with such ferocity that it shook the building and tore at the thin roof of the building. Sixteen cots lined the walls and each one held the shivering form of a girl. The thin blankets provided little warmth but they desperately bundled themselves up in them with the hopes that their toes wouldn't freeze in the night.
"Nastya?" a quiet voice asked into the pitch black night. The only light that appeared before them was the thin beams of moonlight that shone through the cracks in the ceiling.
"What, Sasha?" The cot shifted and the blanket moved down to reveal wide green eyes that shone in the light of the moon. The girl in the cot next to her moved so they were face to face, only a small gap between their cots being the chasm that separated them.
"What do you think is going to happen tomorrow?"
"Headmistress Marina said it's an exam," Nastya replied bluntly. "Most likely another performance exam."
"But the last one...Lyuba didn't come back."
"I know."
They fell into a quiet lull, their ears following the screaming of the wind outside. Nastya sighed and moved to pull her blanket back up when Sasha's voice stopped her.
"What do you think life is like after this? When we get out of here?"
"Warmer."
The two girls exchanged a look before descending into giggles. Sasha sighed, a dreamy smile crossing her lips. She turned to lay on her back, her dark eyes studying the cracks in the ceiling above her.
"I'm going to move to Moscow and get married," she declared. "To a man in the party. He will be big and strong and we will have little babies and bring honor to Comrade Stalin."
"Mhmm."
"What about you, Nastya? Will you get married?"
"Give me some time to think about it. I'll tell you tomorrow."
Sasha waited for a few minutes before looking over to her friend, intent on asking another question. Nastya was already fast asleep.
Nastya found herself shivering in her cot the next night as well, but not from the piercing, skin-shattering cold. Her jaw trembled and her teeth clacked together with such force that it ached, but she couldn't stop. She could only stare at the empty bed next to her and the dried crusted blood under her fingernails.
I will marry a big, strong man, she whispered in her mind. He will be so strong that he will take me from here and they can never hurt me again.
The thirteen year old bit back against the sob that threatened to rise in her throat. Crying was not permitted. Crying was punished.
I'm sorry, Sasha. I'm so sorry.
1943. Austria.
Other than the march of feet and the whirring of a Panzer over the forest floor, no sound stood out in the forest of Austria. The few stragglers of a joint Nazi and HYDRA division made their way back towards Germany to resupply, regroup, and hopefully gather more recruits. There was no fear of Allied soldiers following them but there was the fear of something else hanging in the air. Something more sinister.
Der Teufel. Die maskierte Frau. Spuckfeurer.
Stories haunted Nazi camps of a woman appearing from nowhere, killing stragglers, and then disappearing. No one knew who she worked for, how she worked so quickly and efficiently, who trained her. She appeared from the trees silently and left with a trail of bodies behind her.
Two soldiers flanked the marching troops but after losing many men in battle and general exhaustion made their focus wane. The Panzer led the group with two soldiers in front and two in the back on guard. Behind the tank was a horse drawn cart and the twelve remaining soldiers.
"Was ist das?" one young guard whispered to his partner. The veteran soldier shook his head at the boy's concern. Spitfire was only a rumor made up to scare them. He was not afraid.
"Nicht," came his short reply.
"Ich höre Bewegung."
"Ruhe!"
"Du solltest auf ihn hören. Gutes Ohr," a smooth voice spoke behind them. The veteran soldier swung his rifle up into position but a knife quickly found its way into his throat before he could move. The slim hand grasping his jaw drew the blade across his neck, letting hot blood gush from the gash. He dropped, exposing the woman standing behind him. Blood coated her hands and ran down the brown leather jacket she wore and stained some of her hair, but the gas mask on her face was untouched.
The boy raised his gun and she smoothly grabbed his wrist, snapping the gun out of his hands and to the ground. With one hand she launched a knife from her thigh holster into his neck while her other hand grabbed the rifle falling towards the ground.
Spinning on her heel, she fired four shots directly into the heads of the men in front of her. Before the others could scramble to grab their rifles or find hiding positions, she gunned down the rest and then hauled herself into the back of the wagon, effortlessly firing a bullet into the head of the driver. Reaching down, she nabbed the satchel that was slung over his neck and hung it over her shoulder.
The woman sliced the straps holding the horses off and hoisted herself up onto the back of one of the horses. With practiced ease, she pulled the bag off her back and ripped the strap off the top and launched it onto the Panzer.
Urging the horses to run, the woman disappeared into the forest just as the tank exploded. If anyone were to come by that road, all they would find is death and total destruction.
"Agent Kennedy!" Colonel Phillips bellowed in greeting. The masked woman silently tossed the satchel from her body and onto his desk and proceeded to stare him down. If the gas mask didn't intimidate people, the blood and rain coating every inch of exposed skin and hair had the finalizing effect.
"Report from the 107th," she ordered.
"You, agent, do not give me orders. I'll let it slide this time thanks to your success on your mission. Less than fifty men returned. Med tent is full."
"And instead you host some schmuck named Captain America rather than getting recon and surveillance on the base," she scoffed. "Who the hell even goes by Captain America?"
"You have another mission sending information to Resistance members. So no, you will not be doing recon."
She scowled beneath the mask and prepared to fight, not willing to back down from this. Usually she just sat back and accepted her orders but this was special. As she opened her mouth to argue, a figure strode into the tent and walked past her. Agent Carter was at his heels, a look of dread crossing her face at the sight of the infamous Spitfire.
"Colonel Phillips," the tall man greeted.
"Well, if it isn't the Star Spangled Man with a Plan. What is your plan today?" he drawled.
"I need the casualty list from Azzano."
"You don't get to give me orders, son."
"Did we not just have this discussion," Spitfire muttered.
"I just need one name. Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th."
Ada perked up at the name. The exact name and man she was searching for. She stepped closer, tilting her head to the side to try and study the taller man standing to her left. Between the rain on her mask, the blood staining the glass, and his height, she couldn't really see him all that well. Blond, broad shouldered, and cloaked in a huge trench coat. Based off of Phillips greeting, she assumed this was "Captain America".
"You two and I are gonna have a talk later that we won't enjoy," Phillips threatened Peggy and Ada.
"Just tell me if he's alive, sir. B-A-R-"
"I know how to spell." Phillips stood and turned to flip through a stack of letters. "I've signed more of these condolence letters today then I would care to count, but the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry."
"What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?" His voice sounds familiar. Like...no. It can't be. He's on the other side of an ocean.
"Yeah, it's called winning the war."
"But if you know where they are, why not-"
"They're thirty miles behind the lines. Through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save. I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl."
"I think I understand just fine, sir."
"Well then understand it somewhere else. If Spitfire can't rescue them, no one can and there's no way I'm risking my best agent for a suicide mission. If I read the posters correctly, you've got somewhere to be in thirty minutes."
Phillips began to walk out, Ada hot on his heels. The man glanced back, surprised at the sight of the bloody and masked figure. She followed Phillips into the rain shouting "Пиздец!" and ripping her mask off. Blonde hair tumbled down her shoulders and clung to her neck, reminding him of the time that he and Sunshine were caught in the rain.
He didn't have time to think about her. He needed to bring Bucky home. Then he had a letter to write.