January, 1944. - Early morning, somewhere in the Alps.
The sky is a steel gray bruised with violet, the air thinner than breath should allow. Snow sweeps across the cliffs like ash, biting every inch of exposed skin. The HYDRA freight train is thundering through the mountains, a fortress on rails, with the wind howling loud enough to swallow bullets. The mission had begun like so many others—with cold breath and cold nerves. The Howling Commandos stood silently at the ridge as Steve clipped the Zipline to the cable stretching toward the roaring freight train in the valley below.
STEVE - glancing at Bucky.
“Ready?”
BUCKY - grinning faintly.
“You first, Cap. That way I can catch you if you screw up.”
One by one, they zipped across. The wind tore at them, snow flurrying in sideways gusts, but they landed as planned—on top of the speeding train. The guards weren’t prepared for a full assault, not like this.
The first few HYDRA soldiers were dispatched quickly—Steve’s shield rang out like thunder, and Dum Dum’s rifle cracked with surgical precision. They move like one—muscle memory, trust, and war-born rhythm.
BUCKY - panting.
“Door’s welded shut— got a charge?”
STEVE
“Give me five seconds.”
They burst through the second freight car, into the guts of the train. Gunfire lit up the corridor, echoing in steel.
Then it happens.
A blast from one of the cannons tears into the train car. The explosion sends Bucky staggering, gripping the side rail. Steve shouts, lunging for him, reaching with every fiber of his being—
STEVE - yelling.
“BUCKY!”
But the cold metal rips from Bucky’s grip. His eyes lock with Steve’s one last time—shocked, afraid, resigned. Then he’s gone.
He falls.
Silence.
Down. Down into the abyss, the wind stealing Steve’s scream before it even left his lungs.
———
Hours later — The base.
The gates opened, soldiers rushing to unload. The Howling Commandos return with Zola in custody, battered, bruised, and missing a piece of themselves. Snow clings to their uniforms like ghosts refusing to let go. They barely step off the truck before Vincent appears—coat half-buttoned, boots still laced loose from rushing out. He spots Steve instantly, his expression twisted with worry that’s already tilting into panic.
VINCENT - grabbing Steve’s shoulders, fierce.
“Where’s James? Where the hell is he?!”
Steve doesn’t answer right away.
Because he can’t.
His face says everything—his jaw clenched so tightly it's shaking, eyes rimmed red, barely holding it together.
Steve stepped down. His uniform was soaked with melted snow and blood. His face was pale, lips cracked, eyes bloodshot and puffy. His shield was still on his back.
STEVE - voice hollow.
“Vincent…”
VINCENT - panicked, shaking him.
“No. No, don’t—don’t you dare. Where is he?!”
YOU ARE READING
,,NOT BY BLOOD, BUT BY EVERYTHING ELSE THAT MATTERS."
Historical Fiction!! THE MAIN CHARACTER (AND HIS FAMILY) IN THIS STORY IS A PERSON MADE UP BY ME, THE REST HAPPENS AND ARE PRESENT IN THE MARVEL UNIVERSE!! the story of a young Russian boy, who moved to the states during the time of war. as education went through, he...
