SuperSoldier (SI-OC/MCU) ENG

37: Ancient One

37: Ancient One

Pietro was a simple man, born Italian and raised as a rancher. His life in the countryside was always straightforward and, in a sense, even a bit boring.

At some point, the monotony began to wear on him, and like any young man with desires greater than himself, leaving his home became tempting. He longed to be something more, to explore other options.

His father, of course, hadn't been too pleased when he told him. There were arguments, fights, and shouting.

"You need to learn to appreciate what you have here, Pietro! Many men would kill for this, don't you see?!" his father had said, pointing at their home. And like a fool, Pietro had laughed in his face.

It wasn't until later, when the war began, that he understood his father had always been right.

He wished he could apologize to him.

"Hey! It's your turn!" The words interrupted Pietro's thoughts, snapping him back to reality. He quickly pulled himself together and nodded toward his companion. The man returned the gesture, and soon Pietro assumed his duty as one of the base guards.

As he walked through the hive of activity that the place had become, Pietro couldn't help but tighten his grip on the weapon in his hand, his bloodshot eyes carefully scanning his surroundings.

Joining the Italian army had never been his desire, but, as with so many things in his life, the choice had been beyond his real control.

Even so, he couldn't complain too much. Unlike other, less fortunate bastards, one could say the cards had been dealt in his favor. Having a post as a guard, while not glamorous, was undoubtedly much safer than being sent to the front lines.

Or so it should have been.

"This should be good enough, right?" he muttered through clenched teeth, looking around to make sure the area was clear enough.

He had been told he needed to get as close as possible to the base where the team of the new international organization called Sword was stationed, but that wasn't as easy to accomplish as some might think.

The location, though close to the allied army base, had its own independent security measures. If he were caught getting too close, things would undoubtedly go badly for him.

"But it's not like I have another choice," he muttered to himself with a bitter laugh, letting out a long sigh.

Swallowing hard, Pietro rummaged through his clothes until he finally pulled out a piece of paper, unfolding it to reveal a very peculiar drawing.

He didn't know what it was or why "they" wanted him to do what he was about to do, but one thing he did know was that he couldn't refuse.

He had already lost enough thanks to this war. He didn't want to lose anything else.

"I'm sorry..." Somehow, he felt compelled to say it.

Then he unsheathed his knife and looked at the palm of his hand. He hesitated for a second but finally went through with it, letting the blade pierce his flesh, drawing a long line across his skin, and causing blood to drip out.

"Damn it!" he grimaced at the pain but didn't want to delay any longer. Kneeling down, he studied the strange drawing on the paper, analyzing its composition. Once he was confident he understood it well enough, he began creating a larger version on the ground using his blood.

"Damn lunatics," he cursed as his work slowly took shape.

It wasn't perfect, of course—Pietro was far from being anything like an artist—but his steady hand made the replica come remarkably close to the drawing on the paper.