Chapter 9: I don't do that now

Background color
Font
Font size
Line height

Late June - December, 1942
London, England

Night time in the hospital is peaceful.

Every bed is taken, housing occupants with injuries ranging from broken bones to missing limbs. During the day, a steady stream of chatter and cries of pain will fill every nook and cranny of the sterile hospital, but at night, silence reigns.

Beside a small metal table, she dumps out a basket full of clean clothes. Picking each individual strip, she stretches out the wrinkles, smooths them down, folds it in half, and rolls it into a tight ball. Each bundle goes carefully into the empty basket. Her fingers find a rhythm and the basket begins to fill.

Stretch. Smooth. Fold. Roll.

Out in the rows of sleeping soldiers, the occasional squeak of a bed spring pings as a patient shifts, trying to get comfortable. There's a disgruntled sigh of failure and the place grows quiet again.

On and on she works, until she hears it.

From the rows of broken men, comes a whimper. The sound of a child holding back tears. It is so lost, it cuts to the bone.

She knows that sound.

Slipping back into the ward, she walks silently through the rows of beds, passing men with shattered limbs, men drowning in plaster casts, men who's faces have been scorched away. There in the corner, she finds him. Locked in sleep, his head thrashes back and forth, terrified whimpers pushing past his lips. Bending over him, she sees tear tracks streaking down his cheeks, a sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead.

Tugging a clean cloth from the starched pocket of her pale blue dress, she runs it down his face, wiping away sweat and tears. Still, he makes those hurt noises, and she hears the words "no, please, no, sorry, sorry, sorry," in a panicked whisper.

Out of habit, she glances over her shoulder, but no matter. She is alone with nothing but the soldiers and their nightmares for company.

As she's done so many times before, she can help.

So, she does.

Placing perpetually cold hands on his face, she hums softly, hushing him. The broken whispers stop, but fat tears still leak from his closed eyes. Closing her eyes, she concentrates on what she finds, feeling the strangeness of warmth tickling her palms, no more than a mere second -

Instantly, the tears stop. Still fast asleep, the man sniffles and those hard lines carved into his face relax. In sleep, he looks so young, and really - isn't he? No more than eighteen. Cursed to live in a time when men his age are dying in bunkers and battlefields.

Navigating around the clean white beds, she goes back to work.

The tragedy, is that those dark memories will haunt him all his life, but at least tonight, thanks to her, he finds solace in a dreamless sleep.

Sometimes these small acts of mercy, they are enough.

*****

Late one night, she sits at the front desk filing patient reports. Absorbed in the task, she doesn't hear the man approach until he clears his throat.

"Excuse me, miss."

Looking up, she sees a tall, lanky soldier. Curly black hair frames a broad forehead and deep brown eyes. Dressed in a crisp military uniform, she sees the Lieutenant insignia on his shoulder. Clutched in his right hand, is a knobby cane, and with his left, he doffs his hat and tucks it under his arm.

"I'm sorry to startle you." His accent holds a hint of east London. "I'm here to retrieve yesterday's patient files. Would you know where I might find them?"

"Of course, Lieutenant," she says. Rising to her feet, she smooths the front of her dress and steps to the file cabinet.

At her words, she sees him touch the gold pin at his shoulder nervously. Leaning the polished wooden cane against the table, he tries to stand up straighter.

"Not much of a Lieutenant these days," he says wryly.

"An injury doesn't change that," she states. Locating the file, she hands it over.

"Perhaps," he agrees. "Pardon my poor manners. My name's Henry Lewis."

When he offers his hand, he gives her a shy smile and she accepts it. It feels warm, but then again doesn't everything feel warm to her?

*****

The next night, she recognizes the sound. Hears the click-tap of a cane, and the gentle shuffle of a slow gait. The door opens, and Henry steps through. He sweeps his hat from his head and tucks it neatly under his arm.

"Good evening," he says.

"Hello Lieutenant," she replies.

A routine is born.

Each night he stops by the hospital, collecting files to return back to his office. Each night they exchange a few words before he tips his hat and ambles slowly away. She finds herself looking forward to his visits, discovering she likes having someone know her, as friends are a luxury she often foregoes.

It is much easier to hide the past when there is no one to ask.

*****

After a month of conversation, brimming with awkward stops and starts, Henry asks her to dinner.

They find a cafe with a table by the front window. Over watery lagers and small bowls of salted potatoes, they talk. She learns he grew up poor on the east side of London; when war was declared, he signed up the same day. Rising quickly through the ranks, he was a clever soldier in the field, until an unexpected bomb drove a chunk of rusty shrapnel through his knee in Belgium. Several surgeries later, the doctors declared it the best they could do.

Now, he walks with a heavy limp. Working in one of the Westminster war departments, he's resigned himself to a stationary life.

Sitting across from her, his fingers draw patterns in the condensation of his pint glass. He speaks wistfully of war. Of being part of a team. Doing good in the world, fighting for what's right. It kills him, sitting here while his friends are still out there.

"After all," he says sadly. "Who needs another broken soldier?"

Shaking her head, she reaches for his hand and squeezes tight. His dark eyes light up at her touch.

"The world always needs good men," she says.

"Tell me about you," he answers instead.

She speaks of her life in London, of her work in the hospital. But those details of her past, her father, Berlin, her ability - she reveals nothing, offering only the black and white sketch of her life. There is no color she wants to provide.

Because, well. Being different is hard.

*****

The months are filled with a low simmering courtship. A drink in the pub after work, the occasional picnic in the park, dinner at the few restaurants still open in the midst of war.

Henry is an easy man to like. Gentle and unassuming, he has dimples in both cheeks that follow his shy smiles. When he gets excited, he talks with his hands and he stutters just a bit, and she finds herself charmed.

One night, he walks her home and quietly asks if he can kiss her goodnight. She hesitates for only a moment before saying yes, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders and presses warm lips to hers.

It feels nice, this closeness. She basks in it.

Time drifts along, and there, surrounded by the frantic pace of war-torn London, they fall in love.

There is no earth-shattering event, no wild racing of the heart; it's not that kind of love. Sometimes love comes barreling in, fierce and wild and full of fire, but other times it arrives slowly and without fanfare. It may not be what she expected, but love is love and she accepts it.

Having someone feels so nice.

*****

December 1942
London, England

Rain has been falling steadily for the past three days.

Inside the cafe, the radiator works over-time and the hot air coats the windows in a thick fog. At their customary table, she waits for him, cold fingers curled around a cup of tea. Milk is hard to find these days, so she drinks it black, stirring absently to cool the scalding liquid.

When they were walking home last night, Henry asked her a question.

"I'd like to marry you. If you would have me."

Perhaps she's been naive, but it took her by surprise.

Growing up, she remembers her father spinning a world of fairy tales, about a beautiful princess and a handsome prince, so in love they could overcome all odds. That was the love he knew, the love he had for her mother. It was what she hoped to find when she grew up, that wild, soul consuming love. The kind that could move mountains and bring you to your knees. The kind that always gives more than it takes.

The kind of love that never leaves, no matter what happens.

That was then. In this world, she long ago abandoned those sweet dreams; the nightmares of the present and the horrors of her past make everything so bleak.

But with his question, Henry's given her hope. She knows that while she may never have the powerful love her parents shared, she can still have this. A gentle life filled with contentment.

So, she said yes.

Maybe it's not true love, but it's a deep affection all the same.

Maybe that's enough.

After two hours of waiting in the bustling cafe, she decides to go home. Henry's been buried at work and likely lost track of time. Shrugging into her coat, she drops a few coins on the table and waves to the woman behind the counter. Stepping into the crisp December night, she glances down the empty street, fiddling with the clasp on her purse.

A black car turns the corner and she squints at the dim headlights.

"Waiting for someone miss? May I keep you company?"

The voice at her shoulder is polite, but something makes her flinch. Goosebumps prickle up the back of her neck, biting into her skin and she forces a tight smile as she looks up, intending to brush the man away.

"No thank you, I'm - "

Recognition comes like a fist to the face.

His brown hat is pulled low, but a tuft of white blond hair peaks beneath the brim. Time has carved tiny lines beside his pale eyes, but the cruel curve of his mouth is shockingly familiar.

Tonight, she sees it all up close, instead of from a hidden spot inside the wall of her living room.

A vicious smile curls his lips. Darting his hand out, he catches her wrist in an iron grip and she sucks in a breath as he leans close, his breath hot and sour, smelling faintly of whiskey.

"Hello little girl. I said I'd find you."

The black car rumbles to a stop. Panicked, she opens her mouth to scream, but her deep breath does nothing more than inhale the fumes wafting from the damp cloth he suddenly shoves against her face. Speckles of black dance across her vision and she feels herself thrown into the backseat.

The door slams shut with a sickening finality.

The world tilts and goes black.

*****

December 1942
Location Unknown

The bare cement walls are slick beneath her palm. She presses her hand against it, feeling the rough grit of crumbling mortar; it has a vaguely tomb-like smell and she can't stop shivering.

Rolling over, she pulls the flimsy wool blanket tighter, keeping her eyes locked on the door.

Where is she?

Her head aches and her mouth feels cottony dry, a lingering taste of the drug they used. Dammit. All those years of being cautious, of keeping her eyes open, and this is how it happens.

With a harsh, whining screech, the door bangs open.

Sitting up quickly, she recoils from the throbbing ache behind her eyes. Yellow light spills into her cell, before a bulky silhouette fills the frame. Dressed head-to-toe in black, from the tips of his boots to the thick black gloves to the high-necked collar of his shirt, every bare inch of skin is covered.

"Stand up," he orders brusquely, "back against the wall. Hands out front."

Defiance fills her, but exhaustion follows just as swift. Climbing painfully to her feet, she leans back against the cold stone and extends her arms. There's a clank of metal and heavy shackles clasp her wrists, binding her hands together. Lifting her hands above her head, he presses himself flush against her, pinning her to the wall. She turns away and his mouth is hot and wet against her ear.

"You're nothing but a fucking freak," he sneers. "If you try to touch me, I'll shoot you in the face."

With that threat, he jerks her from the wall and shoves her into the bright hallway. Leading her down a narrow corridor, they pass by an open room where there's a brief glimpse of shiny metal, and then she's climbing a winding staircase. Up and up she goes, circling until she's dizzy.

Finally, a wood door with a brass knocker appears. Three hard knocks and he shoves it open.

The room is small, with one wall made entirely of glass. It looks down upon a bustling laboratory filled with doctors in white coats, and through the window, she sees in full the glimpse of metal she passed moments ago.

It looks like a chair. Attached to the back, is a rudimentary hook, holding the thick metal halo hanging above; wide leather straps are affixed to the arms and legs, their silver buckles gleaming, while two round spotlights shine down, illuminating the entire contraption.

Even from behind the thick glass, the device pulses with a sinister aura. The chair emanates torture, destruction.

Death.

Seated at the table, is the man who grabbed her. Sipping coffee from a delicate china cup, he looks up at her entrance and bestows a congenial smile.

"Hello. Thank you for joining me."

Shoved unceremoniously into a chair, the guard who brought her departs without a word. Still smiling, the man leans back, folding his hands over his stomach.

"You have questions, I expect."

Looking around the room, she waits a full minute before she responds with the only thing she can think, her voice still husky from the drugs.

"Who the hell are you?"

At the question, a spasm of anger flits over his face. "My name is Colonel Wilhelm Richter. Someone you should have met a long time ago."

"I don't associate with Nazis," she spits out.

"Oh, come now," he chuckles. "Nazis? No." Fingering the pin on his lapel, he unhooks it and sets it on the table. She sees it clearly now, the silver skull with eight protruding tentacles. "Hitler and his thugs are welcome to whatever they want, but Hydra are interested in more."

"Hydra," she says slowly and the name tastes like acid on her tongue. "And what do Hydra want?"

"The best for everyone," he breathes. "Order and control. In the future, these wars will be unnecessary. We simply need people to follow our path, it's so easy. But to get there, we need soldiers. That's why we're here," he gestures to lab below. "Creating a new breed of super soldier. Strong and obedient. A fist to destroy what we command."

Considering his words, she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood.

She knows what's coming.

"Why am I here?"

Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on the table.

"Years ago, I knew a young woman. Beautiful. Indescribably talented. When I discovered what she could do, I wanted her. More than anything. Hydra was just starting, we could have had such a bright future together, but no," he sneers, lip curling in disgust. "Instead, she ran off and married some worthless piece of trash, and a few years later, she went and had you. I knew you'd be just like her. Able to wipe a man's brain clean with the touch of your fingers."

Piece of trash. The words send her blind with rage.

She thinks of her handsome father, his dark eyes sparkling as he watched her mother shuffling a deck of cards. It was late at night and they sat across from each other at the kitchen table, trading warm smiles and sweet words. They never knew she was hiding behind the armchair in the living room, hugging her baby blanket, a sleepy smile on her face as she listened to the sounds of love. It was one of the last nights they had, before a fever stole her mother like a thief in the night.

If she could summon up the saliva, she'd spit in Richter's face.

"Don't you ever talk about my father that way," she snarls. Her fingers flex rapidly in the shackles and he watches her fury with amusement.

"I'll say any god damn thing I want. He took her and then hid you from me for years. He was a thorn in my side until the day I killed him," he says, and a fervent gleam lights up his eyes. "That night I came, you did it to him, didn't you? Wiped him?"

All these years, and the wound is still fresh.

A dark November night. The smell of snow in the air and a dark apartment. The touch of childish hands on a gray stubbled face. Removing every last memory from her father's head. Knowing he would go to his grave without remembering he had a daughter he loved beyond anything in the world.

"Yes," she says through clenched teeth.

"You know," Richter says confidentially, "he was so confused at the end. Had no idea why we took him. Every time we sliced off a finger he just screamed. I finally figured it out though, knew you'd taken it all and we weren't getting a fucking thing from him. Should've just killed him straight away, but I was angry."

Testing the restraints, she glares at him. "He asked me to do it and I did. But I don't do that now. Not anymore."

"That's where we disagree," he replies. "Because you certainly will do it again. For as long as I require."

Laughing hollowly, she slumps in her chair. "There's no way I'll ever help you."

"I thought you might say that." Rising elegantly, he walks over and pulls her to her feet. "I've brought motivation. Let's have a look."

Dragging her to the large glass window, they look down at the lab. Richter pushes a red button on the wall and speaks.

"Soldier Lewis, please."

A door bangs open and two guards march forward, a tall, dark haired man between them. At the sight, her knees buckle.

"No," she whispers. "Oh my god, no."

"You will notice we fixed him," Richter says clinically. "With just a few experiments, we solved what his previous doctors were unable to fix."

She sees the truth in his words. Henry walks confidently, his limp disappeared. He seems taller now, broader even. Something about him is different.

"What did you do to him?" she chokes out.

"Nothing he did not request. He wanted to serve again, and we gave him the opportunity. We need a perfect soldier, and he is a prime test subject. Natural talent on the battlefield, eager to please. Exactly what we need. There's just one small problem."

When Henry sees the chair, he stops short.

"Jesus, no. Please, no. I can't do it again, please!"

Even through the plate glass window, she hears the fear in his voice. The guards ignore his plea and motion toward the chair. Henry shakes his head vehemently, trying to back away.

"They all resist the chair," Richter sighs.

Backpedaling now, Henry bumps into two more guards, who grip his arms and drag him forward. He struggles briefly, before sagging in their hands and letting himself be manhandled into the chair. Reluctantly opening his mouth, a gag is thrust between his teeth.

"What is this?" she demands. Her fingers are splayed on the glass, as though she can touch through the window.

"It's called a memory suppression machine. Our first prototype. Electric currents are used to scrub their minds." The whirring hum of electricity begins and the halo above the chair twitches to life. "Unfortunately, the effects don't seem to

You are reading the story above: TeenFic.Net