Summary: "You do know this is a trap?" Victor coughs up blood all over the dirty air force uniform as soon as the three things stuck in his skull were removed.
Notes: I told you I would upload another chapter soon. This chapter will need some background information about the ANZACs. Here are some links to pages about them. "Pommies" are the British. It isn't insulting. It's like "Aussies."
[()]
I'd've to admit, having two people inside one body is very cool, and very popular; why do you think that Yu-Gi-Oh! is so famous? You have two sets of memories, personalities and (often) morals. Deciding that Amy was another person altogether split the line between us even deeper, and she was drawn to the back of my head, barely touched upon unless I wanted access her memories which was mostly through dreaming.
However, since Yvo and Mary had trapped me inside my head, several people have claimed that I've… loosened up. And had gotten severely more childish than anything else. Head specialists might say it was a coping technique. Well, with two actual people inside one body – don't you dare say I have multiple personality disorder, it's more like schizophrenia but the voice inside is real – I think they could defiantly make an exception.
But yeah, it all boils down to Amy; how she slides into everyday conversations with references to TV – which wouldn't be invented nor put into place until well after World War 1 – dirty jokes that fly straight over the prudish minds of the once-Victorians, and an absolute high-standard for technology that just frustrates the fuck out of the Stark family (who are always trying to be the best in technology and hates it when it doesn't impress everyone).
Not to mention the slang of being Australian and text talk. Sometimes Victor has to translate for me and the people around us, including when they try to talk to me.
There is literally a handful of people alive today who know about Amy, and one of them is about to die from old age soon anyway, and they don't actually know Amy; she's just a bunch of memories in my head – she doesn't have personality.
And, yeah, Amy does. Unlike me, Amy absolutely hates cashews and peanuts when for me the taste is okay. Amy winces whenever I take a drag of Victor's cig, shuddering when I feel the thick smoke infect my lungs. Amy couldn't stand granadilla, while I had a huge passion for it. Her voice whispers in the back of my head when I sleep, commenting on the day and large topics.
Yvo had created some kind of substance that shuffled us around from the steering wheel and the backseat and took advantage of a weaker, older person controlling the body and tortured Amy like she was me. Over the four years, I had gotten stronger, protecting Amy little by little until Yvo was basically torturing me and only me, and Amy was the one speaking and moving. With that protection and defence, she took the time to gather the broken pieces of herself and assemble them into something that vaguely looked like herself.
But it aftereffects of HYDRA didn't stop there. For some reason unknown to me – remember, Amy could separate her train of thought from mine – she stopped oozing the all-round wisdom older people seemed to emit every waking moment, and her actions and thoughts were more based off her childhood. Was it shell shock? A coping technique? Only a head specialist would know, and I certainly wasn't one.
There was an old saying that Amy keeps on thinking whenever I analyse my strange change in character; your personality is based off the five people you hang out with most. Sometimes I ignore it, hoping to avoid confessing to myself what's going on.
One way to do that is to sit silently, still for a while, commonly when I'm supposed to be asleep, and just stroll through the chambers of Amy's mind palace. I enquire about the future, analyse the technology of her time, and learn about so many life lessons and life hacks that probably won't be used until decades come.
My favourite past-time is to view the history of the world. Sometimes I hang around the ancient history stored in Amy's memories, sometimes the most recent events before Amy's death intrigues me. However, the 20th century features heavily.
I know I shouldn't. Changing the future is such a huge story plot device and anything dealing with time travel always at least touches on it.
I guess that's why it's so interesting in the end, to spot events in the newspaper and have spark of elation as you realise 'I knew that would happen.' There is something addictive of that feel; something one could find something synonymic with getting high.
And you know what year it is? 1914. Yeah, you got it. World War One, the birth of the legendary ANZACS (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps), the formation of America's high standing, the destruction of so many lives (and sometimes pause and think that there's another one lined up not long after).
Of all the museums, school assignments, self-research time spent towards WW1, I could understand that it was worse than the American Civil War and the Boer War, with the tanks tearing up land and huge, bulky machine guns vomiting up deadly bullets ready to rip a man dead.
They really, really tried to convey the horror, the bloodshed and the constant fear eroding away your courage.
But I'd say differently, standing in the soldier's shoes, the constant tingle of healing wounds, and the ignored sharp pain of a bullet ripping through my body.
Yeah, I could imagine World War One was terrifying. And of course history softened up the story to make it likeable to the public. But holy Jesus fuck, I had not thought of this.
Egypt was fine. As a woman that had fought in the war before and had achieved a very high standing (General, once again, in the Boer War, but everyone was dying all the time so it wasn't hard to gain high standing) the Australians and Kiwis listened to me, as I already had experience with winning over army men during the American Civil War and their respect developed far quicker because they had different views than the Victorian-Americans.
To no body's shock but mine the ANZACs were actually pretty disrespectful to anyone and disobeyed instructions with increasingly frequency. The men were completely, and utterly, full of themselves and always looked for a way out, even though they were the ones who signed up.
Like I had expected, several underage boys had signed up, thinking they'll do their mummy proud, goin' out and dying for their country. I – I – don't want to see their mother's face when the KIA note turns up on their veranda.
Training the ANZACs was hard. While I had their respect, it was only as big as any other superior above their command. It was shocking to feel the relief washing over me as a few men followed my command to the letter (I always gave them a little more privilege over the others).
Then the call came in – the ANZACs would be transported to Turk land immediately to fight the Ottoman Empire, hopefully delivering a harsh blow to the Germany's allies. I, of course, knew different, but nothing I could do would accomplish anything but stirring up dirt.
The sail there, to ANZAC cove, was pitch black. I couldn't tell Victor was standing next to me if I wasn't holding his hand. It was suddenly understandable that nobody knew that the ship sailed a little too much, followed the river's course a tad too long, the rough terrain before us a touch too steep.
From there – I don't want to talk about it.
I can tell you about the blood, the deaths, the mateship, how courageous some of the ANZACs were, and I've lost count of how many Victorian Crosses I've been awarded (the wonderful perks of not caring what happens to you). There weren't any mutants at the end but Victor and I. It was hard concealing your… extra parts… when everyone was shoulder to shoulder.
(I had discovered the journalist with the article that described the horror of Gallipoli and the fact we weren't gaining any – if at all – ground. The soldiers expected me to rip it up like the good captain I've been patrolling as the past 14 months, but I let the journalist go with blank eyes. Victor nearly cracked up when he saw the soldier's faces.)
Finally, the last order to evacuate ANZAC cove came in along with the genius idea of the automatic-gun.
Some ANZACs went home. Those who weren't sick of war or sick in the mind or body continued on to the Western Front, which wasn't much difference other than Australians spread across the individual countries stuffed in France. Because the pommies had a hard time understanding anyone who didn't sound like them, they used the ANZACS to basically interpret between the vast accents.
The difference between the Western Front and ANZAC Cove was so minuscule beyond the enemies and the trenches I don't bother analysing.
There wasn't much for me to do for the whole four to three years during the War other than shoot the people on the other side of my scope and score so many honourable awards they cover the front of my shirt. Some of them I deserve. Others I don't. There are countless of moments that weren't even spoken of once.
I suppose you would think I would go on some long-winded spiel of how much I hate war. I do, I guess. Mostly I just don't care. Being 85 years old and surrounded by boys under the voting age arguing over the smallest of things can really get on your nerves. So like most immortals, I slowly shut down my emotions, starting with my care factor.
But every so often, whenever I save a soldier's life, I -
I don't think I'm like other immortals (Victor kinda understands).
And yeah, there were nicknames. Lucky Lyall, Howler Duo, Vicious Victor, and even a cheesy name as Unkillable Lyall and Victor. But whaddya expect, it was war time, and people wanted something to distract them from the war just above their heads.
There were also other mutants with equally terrible names. Not a lot survived the war, but not a lot of humans survived the war too. Most powers weren't any use on the battlefront, some were just a little more muscle power, or a tiny amount of control over a specific element, or an insignificant ability to walk on liquids.
Nobody but Victor and I had the same level of a healing factor. Even mine was just a little more powerful than Victor's who, in turn, was just a little more animalistic and bloodthirsty than me.
There were mutants in every division, every nation, every direction. Several times I had to murder my own kind. Germany, Austria-Hungary, Ottoman Empire and Bulgaria had several powerful mutants that stayed alive along to achieve a name for themselves. Amy knew two that liked to reside in the sky and the ground: The Red Baron. Even Simpson and his Donkey were both mutants.
Victor always likes challenging these folk and defeating them with little effort, like they're little insects. He doesn't care that they're mutants too, but at the same time he doesn't care if it's war or not.
Speaking of Victor, he keeps on getting himself stuck inside POW camps, and it often takes us months to track him down far beyond the front lines and into Japanese territory. Sometimes he tracks us down after killing those who captured him and just randomly drops in.
Then, one time, he doesn't come back 12 months.
1918 was just around the corner, although every other soldier thought the war would go on forever. USA hadn't joined the war and a stalemate was just beginning to develop with everyday passing.
Victor should be back.
He never left more than 6 months.
But he wasn't.
Exactly 12 months since the last day I saw Victor, I gave up waiting and abandoned my post – and like all clichés, every man I passed told me I would die and it would be useless. I just spat in their faces and heaved myself over the edge of the trenches, waving the few women goodbye and started walking over to the enemies. Bullets zipped through the air, biting through my skin, and unlike the past few years were I pretended to get hit, I continued walking and walking and walking towards the German side. The closer I got, the more concentrated the bullets were. By the time I had gotten to the enemy side, the sun was high in the air when it was just starting to leave the faraway mountains.
My body was so chock-full of lead bullets that it was getting harder and harder to move easy around the dead bodies and all the other shit that had gathered at the top of the trenches.
The German soldiers stared in shock as I dropped into their trenches without a weapon in sight. Some backed away, thinking that I would start ripping apart their throats.
"Hello," I say, and is greeted in silence. "Have you seen my brother? About yay high, thick mangled blond hair and ridiculously sharp nails? Could've walked through bullets like I just did? No?" Nothing.
I repeat in German, then Ottoman Turkish and finally Bulgarian.
Zlich.
"Fine, I'll ask someone else," I sulk and shove past the stunned soldiers. I continued to stalk throughout the Central Powers side of the Western Front, finding myself in the oddest places and in the weirdest situations.
For example, I met a mutant who recognised me from a painting or photo – good ol' Stark, probably – and fangirled over me constantly when I showed my claws.
Another sergeant followed me around and kept his gun trained on me the whole time, shooting me every hour in varying limbs. Because his constant vigilance he refused to sleep and several people had to hit him on the head to knock him out.
It was a nice trip, but my true intention was not found; Victor was gone.
I did find one particular mutant who could help me – he could see a great distance, but not through most materials on earth. On one of his nightly searches through no-man's land looking for mines, he stumbled across a bunch of people forcing long poles of some substance through one man's arms and legs, and they'd finally captured him after 30 minutes of battle. The man who they were trying to capture reportedly had very long nails and could fight despite the things stuck in his limbs.
The mutant – who didn't even bother introducing himself – followed the struggle across the land for several nights for a pure form of entertainment and the last time he saw them before they gradually escaped his vision was 6 months ago.
Victor was going to Germany, supposedly.
Which was where I was going. But the long trek to the nation would take forever when it would be easier to call in Stark resources at the nearest town, no matter who 'owned' the land.
[x]
The planes of middle world war 1 were so different from the beginning of the decade it was so easy to think they were from different eras, not just over 5 years apart.
Rather than the enclosed quarters of the 21st century, the plane was limited to two mere seats with barely any protection against anything. The pilot steered clear of any notifiable air conflict and switched the painting on the side every time the plane entered to territory. That was mostly my job.
Germany had spread nearly all across Europe, with only Switzerland and a few pockets of land free from any war, although how much was actually infiltrated wasn't truly known. Which is why I met with the current head of the Stark family in the land of the neutral, barely three meters where the two-seater plane had landed on the tarmac.
"Hello Miss Howlett," Walter Stark, now all grown up and stern. He used to stare at me in such awe, back when his grandfather brought home two new people to play with and had strange abilities.
Now, he's the new head after his father died of sickness, his wife is probably cheating on him and to top it all he has a baby!
"Who's this one? Yours?" the boy sitting on Walter's hip reached towards me with bright curiousness.
"This is my son, Howard. I had him thoroughly checked that he was mine." (Ah. So the wife was cheating.) Howard leaned forward out of his father's arms towards me. Walter handed him over gladly, wincing as he shook out his arm several times. "Grandfather died a few months ago, in his sleep. I thought of contacting you but none in the Stark family knew where you were, apart from the medals that kept on showing up on the front step."
"Fighting on the Western Front as an Aussie, and before that, at Gallipoli." Howard runs his hands over my fists as the claws slowly expand from between the knuckles. His tiny soft hands run over the rough edges of the exposed bone, pausing over the rugged edges and knobbly tip.
"I need to get to Germany," I start and Walter nods, turning to walk somewhere. Not far away there's a camera on stilts but no sign of an extra person to man it. "You still love taking photographs?"
"Yeah," there's a soft look on his face, one that probably hasn't passed by in ages. "I'd thought I'd get one of my baby son with the famous Lyall." As much as the Stark is rolling in money, Walter only takes two photos; a time-delayed photo with all three of us, and a waist-up portrait of Howard and I, both throwing up peace signs at the camera.
"I thought you would call me up for a trip to Germany," Walter says once he's finished packing the camera away. "I would've thought you'd call earlier because Nick's been gone for two weeks now-"
"Say that again?"
Walter pauses in pouring a beer for two and turns to stare at me. Howard giggled as the claws disappeared and the exit wounds sealed tight in 1 second flat.
"Nick's been gone for 10 days; I thought you would've known by now because you always seem to know everything."
Howard begins to pat my face with his soft baby hands, much like Nick used to before his aging finally caught up and he began to mature.
"I've been feeling a little off for a while now. Let me guess, taken to Germany?" Oh god, 10 days could mean so much.
"HYDRA," Walter nodded and I hung my head, resting my forehead on Howard's.
"Take me to Germany, now."
"ク-ク-クズリ!" Howard stumbles over the syllables, proudly smiling at the end. Walter immediately flushes as I glance up, amused.
"There's a plane that way," he grumbles as he takes his son out of my arms. "Goodbye, Lyall, and may God be with you."
[x]
Finding Nick was no easy job, but it wasn't too impossible. Just like we'd taught him, Nick left several signs all over Germany, from speaking only one word in one town, to drawing childish pictures all over another.
The path he was taken tracked a definite line through Germany, the end of the yellow brick road at Berlin. Whoever had captured Nick had obviously let him roam free a lot, probably not realising that there was a 57-year-old man inside the barely-double-digits body. Plus, Nick had perfected the 'speshul' act in his years with Gerrant and Queen Victoria.
Nick was sitting in a dirty, stinking jail like he was king, just waiting for his kick arse servant (coughblackbutlercough) to turn up and beat his captives. He didn't even move as the guards around him fell one by one screaming and kicking as they were brutally murdered by claws.
"11 days it took you." Nick even had the nerve to pretend to check a wrist watch as the iron bars holding him in were ripped from their places. "Let me guess, the Starks didn't know where you were."
"Gee, how'd you guess?"
"Victor's been captured by HYDRA for 12 months now, and they kind of didn't expect you not reacting until now. I think they've run out of patience and took me to prod you along."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I have to agree with all that. Let's get you to a bath; you smell absolutely revolting."
"Ugh, you have no idea."
[x]
"This is a trap you know,"
Nick sits in the side seat, not daring to lean his head on the window as the cobblestones give the car's tyres more than enough leverage to continuously throw us into the air. The clothes he's calmly taken from some lady's clothes lines are surprisingly neat and coloured a nice, deep black that spoke of money. His skin and his clothes almost make him blend into the background of grey Berlin.
"Oh, I know. But it's Victor, and he's my brother so what the fuck, let's do it."
"And me?"
"Gerrant's waiting for you at a building I'm about to drop you off at."
"Gerrant? Are we both thinking about the living skeleton?"
"He's found another illusionist."
"For someone's who doesn't talk to her own son for four fucking years, she sure does know a lot about other people."
The road's clear long enough that I can glance at Nick out of the corner of my eye before I have to throw the car into another gear. He's not looking out of the front window like before, but pointedly glaring out of the hole on his side (we might've taken this car for a joy ride).
I sigh.
"Look Nick, I asked you if you wanted me to go out to the war. I warned you that the possibly of me not contacting you for years is bloody high as hell. I've sent you so many letters despite the fact of the rules and the possibly people could be looking in on them."
A barely-there sigh.
"I know, ma, but -" Nick mumbles the next few words. I reach over to lie my hand on his and he automatically intertwines his fingers with mine, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the soft patches where the claws extend.
"I missed you too," I answer and slow the car to a stop.
Gerrant looks just a touch too much like an art work to really pass a test. With a few coats and wide-brimmed hats, he might be able to pass people in the streets, but not initiate conversation with someone. There's a few people flanking him, also Immorals, some disgustingly winkled from old age and others in their perfect 20s. Nick bounds up to greet them all warmly, knowing them all well.
The illusionist almost seemed to be peeing her pants when she spots us walking in and recognises me from passing photos. She seemed to be torn between just staying awe struck or greeting me with a bunch of babble, so Nick steps up to make that decision and introduces the two of us.
"You're my hero!" she shouts and squeaks when she realises what she just did. Gerrant's body flickers as her face flushes in shame. "Uh! I mean, I love the fact you made the idea of making a home for all mutants, uh, and that LYALL basically exists, and uh, Nick, I like you too – I mean,"
Nick smirks and everyone knows he's going to flirt with the poor girl, despite being nearly 30 years older than her and physically 10 years younger. By the time I leave Nick in Gerrant's safe, bony hands, the girl's face is a bright, flushing red.
[x]
Actively knowing that one was going to walk into a trap takes more courage than movie heroes care to admit. It's different than the usual 'I think it's a trap' feeling, because there's always the possibility – no matter how small – that it isn't a trap, that there isn't something big, mean and nasty just around the corner.
Yvo's been dead for some time now. His body was found strung up outside an abandoned building in a ghost town sometime between the Boer War and World War Two. There've been several bodies found in similar ways, with the HYDRA octopus branded somewhere on their chest, and they're always places somewhere that would take ages to find. Some are where we're not sure if we'll ever find.
To find Victor is slightly easier than to find Nick; however he was transported allowed him to drag his fingers – nails – along the ground, gorging deep scars into the cobblestone. Sometimes they were tiny valleys and at other times one could barely see the scratches on the road.
Victor wasn't Berlin – he was in near Enschede, Netherlands, close enough to the border that it counts. The building was just as fortified as the one Mary chose to keep me captured, which is to say, bare as a bone dry desert. This time, instead of keeping Victor in a simple iron bar cell, they'd drilled him to a solid metal wall with god-knows-many poles sticking out of everywhere, including his mouth.
"𝓨𝑜𝓊 𝒹𝑜 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝒶 𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓅?" Victor coughs up blood all over the dirty air force uniform as soon as the three things stuck in his skull were removed.
"𝓝𝑜 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓉 𝓢 𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀. 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝓑 𝓇𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 12 𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓉𝒽𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓌. 𝓝𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝑒𝒻𝓉 𝑒𝓎𝑒. 𝓘'𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓅𝒾𝒹." It takes roughly 10 minutes to free Victor from the wall, and another minute for him to completely heal.
"𝓨𝑜𝓊 𝑜𝓀𝒶𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈? 𝓨𝑜𝓊'𝓁𝓁 𝒷𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝓌𝒽𝒾𝓁𝑒. 𝓣𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓂𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝒾𝓉 𝒸𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉 10 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈." Victor mumbles into my ear as we rest on the floor, enjoying the moment that one of us probably wouldn't see for years.
"𝓝 𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌." Victor huffs in amusement. "𝓘 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝓌𝑒'𝓇𝑒 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈, 𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃'𝓉 𝓌𝑒?"
"𝓛eaving 𝑒𝒶𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓗𝓨𝓓𝓡𝓐' 𝓈 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒷𝒶𝒷𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒶𝓁𝓁."
"𝓓 𝓇𝑜𝓅𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓙ö𝓇𝑔 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓂𝓊𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒽𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃'𝓉 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝓊𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔."
I sigh and move to stand up. There was a soft crunching sound of people quietly walking over dirt and gravel echoing although the once-empty building.
"𝓛𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓥𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇, 𝓘 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊."
"𝓛𝑒𝓉'𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜𝑜𝓁."
Victor grunts out a laugh, pretending to lean on me heavily as I begin to shuffle our way from the wall with a thick coat of Victor's blood.
"I woulz stop right zere, Mizz Rai-ral."
"When you pronounce my name properly, that's when I'll start talkin' to ya."
Multiple dull shines of a muzzle peaks from the surrounding area. There had been a cave in just above where Victor recently hung, so while the area around our feet was lit up, anything beyond 2 metres from my feet was drenched in black because of the lighting.
Some man in a freshly pressed suit, stops just barely from the edge of the circle. By the dying light it's hard to tell much of his features, but there's two noticeable details: he's incredibly short, and his greasy-yet-meticulously-groomed hair curling around his hips and elbows. Even in the absence of light the little grooves of raised flesh that spoke of a branding peak out from his cuffs; this, evidently, was the current leader of HYDRA.
"𝓓 𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀 𝒽𝑒'𝓈 𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇?" Victor snorted, finally standing on his own two feet, drawing up on his full height. The man's eyes – barely little silvers of white – track him going up and up and up, eventually tilting his head back to take in Victor's complete form. "𝓣𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓈 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒, 𝒹𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝒹."
"Vat ayre ve talkink?!" The man demands, a little shakily. He's not a very good leader, although the past pack-runners haven't been very healthy in the mind. Was it because of all the interbreeding?
"What do you want," The man pauses, probably to create a dramatic moment or to wrap his head around the fact that I can speak German.
"We can let your brother go if you come with us." Wow, what a piss poor technique. "If you don't, we'll shoot you so full of bullets you won't be able to move. And, in the end, we'll have both of you."
"𝓓𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝑒'𝓋𝑒 𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒶 𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝒷𝓊𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝓈𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝓃? 𝓦𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒶 𝒻𝓊𝒸𝓀𝒾𝓃' 𝒾𝒹𝒾𝑜𝓉." Victor crouches down into a fighting stance, nails growing longer by the second.
"𝓥𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇, 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉." I sigh and he stops, looking up at me in confusion.
"𝓢𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜?"
"𝓨𝑒𝒶𝒽, 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓋𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉."
A lot of stuff immortals do is basically boils down to will it waste time? Will I be occupied by this for so long that I'm not reminded of the fact that I will live forever?
And, yes, that's why Victor and I have fought in 10 wars so far, including several revolutions and god-knows how many civil wars. It would be great to run around when the Prohibition was making everyone going crazy, even in the depression would be a little fun, but –
In the past, when Mary had stolen 4 years or when the Tunguska explosion buried me for 4 weeks in the dirt, time had been 'stolen' from me. Back then, we didn't know how much of a blessing that was. 4 years? Gone. Thank god. No need to slug around and wait for that time to pass.
There was a difference between gladly handing over 'time' and having it stolen from you.
I was tired; to sleep a 100 years would be a dream, to just skip 1,000 would be better. Sometimes, the future prospect of memory loss was so inviting.
Whatever HYDRA did, they'd better take at least the 10 years they said they would.
"𝓗𝑜𝓅𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓘'𝓁𝓁 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒾𝓃 𝒶𝓉 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓉 10 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈."
"𝓦𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓘 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓎."
"𝓝𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝒹𝑜𝑒𝓈 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝑒𝓁𝓈𝑒 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓖𝑒𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉."
"How do I know that you'll let Victor go?" The man seems to swell in pride and ego; after all, he thought he'd persuaded the クズリ to come with him.
"Oh, he'll just be able to walk free of this building with no one with him. You, on the other hand, you're coming back home with us."
"Fine, but how do you think you'll keep me down?"
Something glinted in the dark, behind the leader, and a pole shot out of the darkness. It buried itself into my stomach, forcing me to stumble back to the wall still coated in my brother's blood.
Gurgling, blood forced its way up my throat as my hands were forced into the wall much like Victor was. Said brother was standing in shock not a metre away, hands clenched to his sides.
"𝓐𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝑔𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒, 𝓥𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇? 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎, 𝓘 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓘 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝑒𝒶𝓀-𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝓁."
Victor cast a glance at the smirking shiny shoes, and back to me.
"𝓘 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒸𝒶𝓃. 𝓘'𝓂 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝓀𝓊𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓅𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇."
"𝓘 𝑔𝑜𝓉𝒸𝒽𝒶."
"Get out of my way," Victor stalks towards the edge of the circle and the gun muzzles part. While the soldiers were distracted with watching Victor go, the leader creeps towards me.
"You're mine," He hisses and I laugh, despite the three iron bars gouging into my guts.
Another pole struck in between my open teeth, and the last thing I see is one speeding towards my eye.
[()]
End notes: Thanks bruh for reading. I busted my gut writing this, because it had been months since I updated and I felt really bad. Anyway this was going to be my tribute for the ANZACs, in time for ANZAC day – which is the 26th of April. It's the 23rd of May. I think I missed it.
BUT GUYS – I was reading my story again, as in chapter 8 and 9, and HOLY – I can't believe how bad I was! IT'S HAPPENING, I'M GETTING BETTER GUYS!
It's a little longer than normal! 5300 words, guys. So proud of myself.