The Soldat, The Captain and The Asset

1.2: The Rescue

-September 1944-

STEVE'S LEGS RAN QUICKLY across the squelchy ground, bursting through the door. He sprints down the hallway. The walls were dark, lined with cells, close together, each packed with people in army uniform. He couldn't tell which unit each of these prisoners was from; their clothes were too dirty, too worn and ratty to tell; it was just a sea of dull blue and green. And red. Steve knew the red wasn't the clothes, but he wouldn't question it. At the end of the hall, patrolling around was a sea of black, and in a split second, Steve could tell these were the enemy. These people, these monsters, were Hydra. Only Hydra wore the colour of death; no other would wear death into war.

Steve quickly unlocks the cells, his eyes darting back and forth at all the people exiting the cells as soon as possible, looking at each distraught face for mere seconds, looking for a particular face in the crowd of ever-growing people around him. As he continues to scan the crowd, his face starts to fall, becoming distraught, but hiding the underlying fear, the underlying worry, behind a mask of hope and professionalism, trying to make the other soldiers, those who had been kept prisoner for who knows how long, to show them that they are now acceptable, that whatever horrors they had gone through are now over and they don't need to worry.

A tall man walks over to him; he has a bushy ginger beard. Steve automatically recognises him as being part of Bucky's unit. He looks him up and down quickly, motioning him to pass, but he doesn't move; he stands there. "Are there any others?" Steve asks carefully, silently praying that there are others. Inside, he is hopeful; on the outside, he remains near-emotionless, not wanting to break his brutal shell.

The man, Falsworth, replies softly. "They did take a number of the men to the isolation ward. I'm afraid we haven't seen them since." He informs Steve, almost sounding sorry for what he said.

Steve looks away from him, his eyes darting around the dark before refocusing on Falsworth. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, just handing the prisoners grenades and pistols, arming each of them quickly and effortlessly. "The tree line's northwest, about 80 yards from the gate. From there, follow the creek bed." He turns around slightly, ready to go deeper into the hydra base to find the others. He glances back at them, a more petite man, Jones, looking at him right in the eyes. "I'll meet you in the clearing with anybody I find inside."

Jones steps forward, placing a firm hand on Steve's arm, almost as if trying to hold him back. "Wait..." He says, his voice unsure, scared, but not for him. "You sure you know what you are doing?"

Steve gives a weak smile. "Sure. I've knocked out Adolph Hitler over 200 times." He replies, chuckling slightly, trying to reassure Jones.

Jones looks at him, his eyes thin, questioning him silently. He doesn't say anything, hesitantly lowering his hand and releasing Steve's arm from his grip. He nods slightly, stepping back and leading the other prisoners away from the base. Steve doesn't say a word, and as soon as the prisoners leave his line of sight, Steve hurriedly runs more profoundly into the base, not looking back, his mind operating on autopilot, only wanting to try and find Bucky. The name ran through his head over and over and over again like a broken record.

He runs like a cheetah, quickly finding himself in a more sterile room. The room itself was still damp, dark cells lining the walls. There were eight cells, each dark and dirty and had dark fluids covering the ground, unkempt. On the tops of the cells, they had a plaque with names on it and in a heartbeat, Steve found himself reading them and examining the person inside if there was one.

Subject 1: Fritz, Floyd Finlay. Steve glances down at the man; his head lays against the wall of the cell, damp and covered in blood. His hands are curled inwards, the muscles tight and clenched. His skin was ghostly pale like it was made of paper. His body was so thin that Steve could see his collar bone sticking out slightly from underneath his near-destroyed army fatigues. Steve leaned forward, getting a good look at the condition he was in and noticed that the man wasn't breathing. His chest was still, his eyes open but unlooking, unseeing, his body unfeeling.