The blare of sirens sliced through the air, a piercing scream that echoed across the army camp.
Amidst the chaos of shouts and running footsteps, a lone figure, a ranked soldier, sprinted for the airstrip.
Behind him, a wave of men in identical uniforms gave chase. He wove through the camp, a desperate dance of survival, dodging crates and supplies that crashed behind him, obstacles his pursuers couldn't avoid.
He reached the tarmac, a Fokker E1, looming large against the backdrop of the sky. With practiced haste, he climbed aboard, the roar of its engines a promise of freedom.
As the aircraft lifted off, he dropped a single bomb, a thunderous reply to the attacks coming onto him. The ground below erupted in a fiery bloom, engulfing the camp's arsenal in a cascade of explosions.
But the pursuit wasn't over. Guns from below tracked his every move, their bullets like accusatory fingers.
Then, a sharp jolt. An anti-aircraft shell found its mark. The plane shuddered, a mortal wound inflicted on its metallic body. It spiraled out of control, a wounded bird plummeting toward the foggy expanse of the sea.
Inside the cockpit, Steve fought to stay conscious, his mind reeling. He fumbled with his seatbelt, but the buckle was jammed, a cruel twist of fate in his final moments.
Water rushed in, a cold, suffocating embrace, as the plane nose-dived into the ocean. The pressure was immense, a crushing weight that sealed his fate.
He felt the darkness start to pull at him, but in that final moment, a lifetime flashed before his eyes as death laid it's claim for him.
STEVE POV
My father was a soldier, a ghost in my memories.
The fragments I have of him are few and far between.
I was four when they came, a group of shadowy men who had come for him. He fought back, a whirlwind of fists and fury, a desperate shield between me and them. But they were too many.
A bullet found him, and then another hit me. I remember a sharp pain in my chest and then nothing, only the cold, impenetrable dark.
It felt like I was in that void for an eternity. Then, a sudden push, a sensation of being born again, and I woke up. I was in a sterile military hospital bed.
They told me my father was a hero, a man who saved tens of thousands of lives. The words didn't sink in, couldn't be processed. Before I had the chance to truly understand, they moved me to a military orphanage.
I don't know if I can say I was sad about his death.
He was a distant figure in my life, and while I loved him, I wasn't attached in the way a child should be. Still, I missed the stories he told me, tales of valor and heroism that made me feel like anything was possible.
I was sharper than most kids my mind as asset. I was only six when the U.S. Army noticed my aptitude and offered me a scholarship to a military school.
I left without a second thought. I graduated early at sixteen with one of the highest grades on record. Two years later, my superiors selected me to work with British intelligence.
They honed my skills, molding me into something more than a soldier—an infiltrator, a spy. I spent two years learning to blend in, to listen in the shadows, and to take out German command.
My last mission was supposed to be easy. Just a quick reconnaissance of a secret German military installation. The intel said they had no resources worth a second look, but what I found could bring the world to its knees.
My father's words echoed in my head, a mantra I lived by: "If you see something wrong happening, don't expect gods or heroes to save you. In this world, you can either do nothing and hope for the best, or you can do something to change it."
And I couldn't stand by and do nothing. I was a watcher in the shadows, but something inside me wouldn't allow me to be a spectator to injustice. A different voice, an echo of a promise I had made to myself, whispered, "Watching an injustice you can stop makes you as much a sinner as the one perpetrating it."
And I knew I never wanted to be the villain in my own story.
So I stole their experimental logs and ran. And now here I was, drowning as a good guy.
The darkness consumed me completely this time, and yet, a familiar push—the same inexplicable force that had pulled me from the void of death so many years ago—pushed me back.
A surge of strength coursed through my body. I fumbled for the knife on my leg and, with a final burst of desperate energy, sliced through the seatbelt.
I kicked and pulled, fighting for the surface, but the heavy boots and soaked uniform dragged me down.
Just as my lungs burned and my vision began to fade, I felt a hand grab my collar from behind. A fierce pull, a violent struggle against the current, and then I was on the shore, coughing up saltwater.
I collapsed onto my back, gasping for air, the rough sand a welcome relief. My eyes, bleary and red, stared up at the bright blue sky.
I was alive. I was still alive! I thought a joyous surge ran through me as I laughed at the conquest. It was then, a figure stepped over me, silhouetted against the golden sunlight. And then I saw her for the very first time.