Scarlett War

CHAPTER THREE - OPERATION COBRA

Wanda Maximoff - Private

It had been seven weeks since Normandy now.

My shoulder had made a full recovery. A small, circle-shaped, pink scar was tattooed onto my shoulder now, but I could live with that.

We all had scars, we just had to take some time to live with them.

I visited Zussman in the hospital as much as I could without getting caught by Pierson. He was getting better day by day, but I doubted he would be able to return for another week or so.

Pierson was beginning to get more strict on us. Turner was busier, with a whole camp of privates to mandate, and Pierson had more freedom than before.

He would snap orders to do something whilst we were doing something else, and then get mad when we weren't doing the first thing. I didn't know if I wanted to shoot myself or him more.

There was an instance that happened three weeks ago when the night was over us like a cold blanket.

I had a dream, but more like a nightmare. It was in Sokovia, the day we were invaded. My last moments of seeing Pietro replayed in my head.

Him reaching out for me, but being pushed back by the overwhelming crowd of civilians trying to escape. Gunfire ringing in our ears. I screamed for him, looking everywhere I could.

He was gone so quick, I thought he wouldn't be far.

Turns out he was since I haven't seen him since.

It had been a while since I dreamt about him, admittedly. I guessed that talking to Aiello about him reawakened that part of my mind.

I woke up screaming his name, shooting out of my blanket.

The boys were on night patrol, and Zussman was in the medic bay. I thankfully didn't wake any of them up for this reason, but someone did hear me.

Pierson burst through my tent, hearing my scream of the unfamiliar name, to see what was going on.

I, thankfully, was not in any night attire. I would never, seeing as I shared my tent with four boys.

"Maximoff, what the hell is going on?!"

His voice brought me to reality, and I snapped my neck to look at him.

I looked down, not wanting to face him head-on. "Nothing. I'm sorry, sir, it was just a . . . nightmare."

He looked somewhat convinced; I bet he'd seen every dream a soldier could have. But he seemed to have one more question.

"Who the hell is Pietro?"

His pronunciation of the name was a little off, but I fought back the smile that tugged on my lips. It was harder for Americans or non-natives to pronounce, but it was funny hearing them try.

"Uh, my brother, sir."

If I had not just woken up, I would have been more confident in my answer. Anxiety was making my heart beat abnormally, and I nervously pulled my hair over one shoulder.

I watched Pierson's eyes follow the fall of my hair, and I realized then he had never seen me with my hair all the way down.

There was an awkward silence afterward, both of us not knowing what to say. I couldn't see his facial expressions in the darkness, but I could feel the uncomfortable glare.

"Keep quiet next time, Private."

Today, the French sun was shining down on us, warming the back of our necks and promising a clear day. There was not a cloud in the baby blue sky.