Soldat, Captain, Asset

–August 1944–

A LONE FIGURE moved swiftly down the streets, hair sticking to its head, damp and matted. Sweat coated their skin like a sparkly coat, glistening in the moonlight, cutting through the dark sky above them and the shadows behind them. Their breaths came out quick and rapid, scared as they ran, their feet barely touching the ground below them. Their movements were erratic, full of terror and fear, yet simultaneously moving gracefully across the ground, knowing the layout like the back of their hand, not once making a mistake as they outran whatever was behind them. 

Footsteps thundered behind them, getting quicker and louder and louder, overwhelming the senses and overpowering everything. They were fast, skilful, silent and deadly, their clothes blending into the night sky, their eyes piercing through, staring straight forward, cold and emotionless. Their clothes were form-fitting, with no loose ends to snag, no mistakes or misplacement, and a lone red circle on the shoulder. The shape of an octopus, in the colour of blood, sitting inside it, contrasting with the tactical gear and masks covering their face, hiding their intentions. 

The figure let out a low-cut scream, their body stumbling, grasping onto the wall, their legs going out from underneath them. Their breath hitches in their throat as they turn around, their dark skin shining from underneath the flickering street light, the yellow bulb sparking now and then, illuminating such a small area that its use was barely beneficial. The figure looks up at the black-clad men, pressing against the wall, weakly clutching a small can of pepper spray and a worn-down notebook, the leather-binding fraying at the edges and the once-white pages stained from coffee, tears and the occasional blood from when the paper used to snag the skin of their forefinger. 

The figure stumbles back, their eyes darting around, keeping a glance at anything that moves. They grab the pepper spray, ready to fire it at a moment's notice, getting more on edge as the men come closer and closer until they stand right by the figure, their cold breath touching the burning and sweating skin of the person, their eyes out and calculating, glancing them up and down, taking everything in. The figure lifts their arm and hurriedly sprays the pepper spray in the men's direction, affecting the two who were standing at the front, closer to where the figure had tripped.

The man at the front bends down slightly, looking into the dark and scared eyes of the young woman before him. His eyes were piercing, looking at the soft and trembling features, the dark and velvety skin, the damp curls framing her face, and the hands shaking, grasping her dirty and torn clothing like a lifeline. Her other hand held onto her notebook, keeping it close as if it meant everything to her as if she couldn't live without it. The man looks at her fragile hands, holding it and snatches it out of her hands with a quick motion, inflicting even more fear in the girl than he had ever seen on anyone.

"Lieutenant Johnson." He says, his voice low and foreboding, vibrating off the walls and cutting into her ears like a knife. "Always such a sorry soul." He kneels in front of her, taking her small hands in his, holding them tightly, enough so she can't escape but not enough that it would hurt her hands. "Innocent, pure, imperfect. Always wondered why the army would recruit someone as pathetic as you." He strokes the side of her cheek as though she was a child. He leans closer, looking into her eyes. "How about we change that, yes? Make you into the person you've always wanted to be. Into someone, the army will fear."

The woman looks at him, trembling. "I joined the army to save lives, not take them." She mumbles, her voice shaking and small, shy. "I'm a combat surgeon; I joined to get experience. So I can get into med school. I don't want to be feared." She tries to move back from him, only for her to be held fast by his strong hands. She glances at the symbol on his shoulder momentarily, her eyes widening, becoming more fearful. She mumbles, unable to form any words, frozen in fear, looking into the cold, hard eyes of the man.

The man leans back, letting go of her hands, letting Johnson scurry into the corner of the alley, making herself smaller as she looks at him, too scared to break eye contact. The man carefully brings something out of his pocket and taps the side, making a pinging sound, the object twinkling in the dull light. Johnson looks at it, her breath catching in her throat. "I won't help a man like you." She spits at him, her voice trying to sound angry but only sounding more broken. "Men- people like you never win." She pulls her hands to her chest, covering herself as much as possible.

The man chuckles, leaning closer until she's cornered against the wall. "You're right." He replies, placing the object against her neck, holding her head steady with his other hand, his grip firm. "Men like us… we don't win because we play by your rules, laws, and choices." He looks her right in the eyes. "When we play by our rules, we start to win." His voice becomes more vicious, more harsh. "And right now, we may be on your field, but we're playing by my rules."

Johnson doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. She stays there, her body filled with fear. She gulps, feeling the sharp needle-like object placed against her neck. "What on earth do you want with me? I can't help you. I know who you are. Hydra. You're Nazis, and I'll never help you. Whatever you do, whatever you try, I will never help you." She replied.

"That's what they all say." He replies, his voice as cold as the night. "Before they died. But you?" He strokes her neck, leaning forward and whispering in his ear. "You're different. We've been watching you, studying you. We need you… because of your innocence. Your heart. The kindness that you hide deep inside you." He touches her head, stroking her hair out of her face. "And because you're young, moulding and controlling is easier. You would never disobey an order, no matter what, would you?"

"I would never work with a man like you." She retorts, looking at him, confused. "But why would you want an innocent man if you plan to build a killer?" She asks, fearful. 

The man doesn't reply, he looks at her for a few seconds more; he tears the dog tags off her neck, placing them in a small bag with her notebook, putting it in his pocket, making sure she can't reach it. He thinks for a moment, looking to the right, hesitating; he holds her head again, making sure she can't move it away, his calloused hands feeling rough against her velvet skin, making her flinch slightly, breathing heavily. Then, in a swift motion, he pressed the plunger on the needle, injecting whatever was in it into Johnson's body without a second of remorse. He pulls her closer to him, stroking my hair.

"Oh, my sweet Yawa, you will find out." He whispers into her ear, watching as she struggles to keep her eyes open, watching as she becomes more panicked as she fights to stay awake, panicked. He strokes her hair, trying to keep her calm.

Johnson looks up at him, her eyes barely open, her breathing more evened out, her muscles lax, her body being supported by the man. The ground sways beneath her, everything spinning and blurring out of focus. She tries to take a step back, only for her body to betray her, falling to the ground in a heap, her eyes slipping closed as she passes out on the cold stone underneath her, unfazed and unmoving. 

The man nudges her with his foot, and when she doesn't react, he turns to the others, who roughly pick her up and place her in the back of their car, belting her in and making it look like she had just fallen asleep on a drive. The man chuckles slightly, wiping his hands and removing any trace of them having been there before getting behind the wheel, the others getting in after. He turns around slightly, looking at her. He moves a strand of hair out of her face in a delicate motion. "You will be proud, Lieutenant." He says, knowing that she can't hear him. "Just wait; everyone will know your name."

The light behind them flickers and dies, plunging the area into darkness as the car speeds off, leaving just a trail of dust and exhaust smoke.