On The Edge. | Steve Rogers.

one

Sokovia, 1999.

Issac didn't play like the other boys. He didn't laugh and fool around during meals, how could he? It was two weeks ago that his parents were killed mere feet away from his face. He didn't understand the other boys. Perhaps because they were younger, they had yet to understand that their parents were not coming back. None of their parents were. After the air raids had stopped, what was left of Sokovia's government began doing the sensible thing and moving the children into shelters. These shelters would later become orphanages, unknown to the boys and girls who were sent here. Even so, he also didn't cry. He didn't call out for his parents, he didn't wait by the windows to see if they would come to get him because he knew they wouldn't.

He was finishing his sorry excuse for dinner when they came. It was just two men at first, both dressed in clean suits and shiny shoes. Men who dressed like that mean trouble, Issac remembered his mother's words one morning while they were walking through the market. They passed a man wearing a suit just like that and his mother had uttered that phrase as she pulled him closer to her body. He picked up his plate, brushing the scraps off into the garbage before returning it to the kitchen. The children almost never went into the kitchen, not that the men knew that. They wouldn't bat an eye to a dutiful child simply taking his plates away to be cleaned.

He barely made it through the doors before he heard shouting coming from the dining hall. Children were shrieking and running for every exit while several other men barreled in, grabbing whoever was in reach and dragging them kicking and screaming out the door.

Issac bolted, weaving through countless stove tops and counters in the kitchen before skidding to a halt inside the pantry. He could hear yelling in a foreign language not too far behind him. He shut the door, knocking over one of the shelves to barricade it before grabbing a mason jar full of strawberry jam. He backed up against the door, winding up before throwing it at the window above. He wasn't the strongest child, but the weight of the jar was enough to shatter the glass. The yelling got louder as someone tried to open the door. When they realized something was blocking it, they began to roughly push their shoulder against it to try and break into the room by force. The makeshift barricade wouldn't hold long, especially not if two or three of them combined their strength. He quickly began climbing the shelves, knocking over various dried ingredients and canned goods to get to the window. He had to push through the shattered glass, rolling out just as the men broke into the pantry.

He landed hard on the dirt outside, shakily pushing himself to his feet and running. The orphanage was close to the center of the city, yet nobody even bothered to glance outside their window at the commotion. During times like these, it was either mind your own business, or get arrested or killed, possibly worse. Nobody wanted to step in unless they actually had to.

Suddenly there was a hand on his arm, yanking him back into the shadows of an alleyway. He opened his mouth to scream for help, despite knowing nobody would come. The man quickly clamped a hand over it to silence him, using his other arm to restrain him from breaking free of his grip. He dragged him out of view from the street, looking around before opening his mouth.

"Be quiet." He hissed in poor Sokovian. He carefully turned Issac around once he stopped squirming. He knelt in front of him, slowly removing his hand once he was sure the boy wouldn't start screaming again. "The bad men are still here. Follow me." He whispered, getting up and starting to walk away.

"I don't know who you are. How do I know you won't take me like they took everyone else?" He whispered, eyeing the man wearily. Issac wasn't stupid, there was no way he would just go with a stranger because they told him to.

The man turned to look at him. There was something strange in his eyes, intrigue almost, at the natural survival instincts and lack of naivety from a boy so young. Sighing softly as he pulled his coat off. The temperature had dropped drastically and Issac was wearing nothing but a short sleeved shirt and pants. The man carefully placed his jacket around his shoulders, making sure he was wrapped nicely in it.

"If I wanted to take you, I would have by now." He pointed out. "I promise I won't hurt you." He seemed sincere enough, but Issac had seen enough deception to be weary of kindness these days.

Suddenly there was a loud bang, followed by several others nearby. The man stood up, pulling a gun from his belt. Issac hadn't seen it in the darkness, and he was momentarily afraid that the man was going to put a bullet between his eyes. Much to his surprise, he held out his free hand instead of pointing the gun at him, giving Issac the option to go with him or choose not to.

There was another bang, and Issac quickly latched onto his hand before they were running again. The man led them through the streets and through the alleys to stay out of sight, only stopping once they reached a small, shabby house a few blocks away from the orphanage. He pulled out a set of keys before unlocking the door and quickly ushering the boy inside. He locked the door once they were in, guiding Issac to a door that looked like it led to a built in closet.

Instead of revealing a closet however, it revealed the inside of an old elevator with only a few buttons. 2nd floor, 1st, and ground level. The man stepped inside, pressing ground level before shutting the door. Issac gripped his hand tighter as they began descending into the lower levels of the house. Despite not knowing who this man was or where they were going, he felt oddly safe with him. Protected, even.

"What's your name?" The man asked, looking down at the boy.

Issac glanced up wearily.

"Issac." He mumbled, his voice raw from screaming so much.

"I am Mikhial, nice to meet you Issac." The man gave the barest hint of a smile, more to comfort him than to be polite. Now that they were in an illuminated area, Issac could get a good look at him. He was older, dark hair slicked back and graying at the roots. He had a beard, but it was neat and well kept. There was the end of a scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt that no doubt traveled deeper beneath the fabric. He wanted to ask, but it felt like overstepping boundaries. He had cold, steel blue eyes, almost silver, hardened by years of a country undergoing a war. He was tall, well built, and wore a soldier's uniform. That meant he either was a soldier, or he was playing the part of one.

"Where are we going?" Issac couldn't help but ask.

"Somewhere safe." Mikhail promised, giving his small hand a squeeze as the elevator came to a stop.

They stepped out into an industrial garage where several people were loading up about six trucks and two smaller vans with various equipment and supplies. He brought Issac over to a dark haired, young woman, speaking to her in a language he couldn't understand. The woman nodded and gently took Issac from the man, smiling at him and guiding him towards a truck near the front. She picked him up, handing him off to the man inside who led him towards the far end of the trailer. Issac was placed with several other children around his age, some a little older, some a little younger. They were all evident victims of the bombings. Some of them were still covered in soot and dirt and had flakes of debris in their hair and on their clothes. The man remained inside as they shut the door, and it was only a few minutes later that he could feel the truck starting to move.

He wasn't sure why, but for some reason he felt safe here. This was different from the people who took children and sold them on the black market, or from the people who ran orphanages in the city. Perhaps it was a false sense of security, but he would cherish this moment of calm while he had it. If he was going to die, at least he wouldn't die afraid or alone. As much as he tried to fight it, his head fell back against the wall of the trailer, and sleep eventually took over.